Becoming Red (The Becoming Novels)

by Black, Paula

  It was a lie she kept telling herself. That she could easily go in there, risk death and dignity to save a child because what did she have to live for? Ice maiden just wasn’t a good description of her nowadays. He’d got inside her, like flames in a Redwood, lighting her up from within with a violent emotion. Ash couldn’t imagine never seeing him again without her heart constricting like she had a python in her chest. He’d become the air in her lungs and the blood in her veins in mere days. She’d wither, become frozen again without his surly ass to infuriate her.

  Fuck, Ashling, you are not thinking that word. We can’t have that, not now. We latch on, and it will hurt so much more when we are cut off. As much as she knew that, the word still floated, drifting around, looking for a good place to land while other parts of her mind turned over a plan to get him to bite her. She couldn’t not try, when all the outcomes could save Josh. It was just getting to the biting that was problematic.

  Leading her blind tumult of decisions around the room through touch, her fingers played over lightly dusted figurines and thick tomes of old. Every item was known, had come to belong to a place she was starting to call home. A blanket lay haphazard, hanging seemingly in mid-air, tossed after one of her late night movie sessions, when dreams prevented sleep. She reached to fold it without a second thought. Touching corner to corner, the quilted blanket revealed cold stone under its warm colours as it slipped from its perch.

  ‘Oh wow, I’d forgotten about you ...’ Whispered words but Connal was suddenly a radiator of heat behind her, large palms spread out on her hips to hold her when she would have startled at his silent approach. Ash let her weight rest into him, nuzzled the bristle of his jaw, fingertips carefully moving into the carved grooves of the ancient sculpture. She’d thought it exquisite when she’d first seen it, but on second look, it was more than that. It was flawless, an ethereal sculpture of a woman, round and heavy with twin babies that had been etched into her stone womb. Ash’s nail scratched gently at the lighter coloured babe, its body impressed with fragments of Mother of Pearl, surrounded by the darkness of a precious Obsidian embrace. Its twin was also its opposite, a small body of Obsidian in a pool of Mother of Pearl. The style of the mother’s knotwork-patterned skin was strikingly familiar.

  Her head tipped back as his hand slipped from her hip to splay possessively over her stomach, dragging her back against the rigid pulse of his erection. Her voice kissed words to the underside of his chin. ‘Did you make this, Big Bad? It’s beautiful ...’

  ‘No, this isn’t one of mine. It’s from before the ...’

  He hesitated ... massacre ... genocide ... words ricocheted inside his brain like rounds from a firing squad, ‘before the war that wiped out the female population.’ He buried his face in the silken fall of her raven curls, letting the pain of self-reproach get lost in the drugging scent that enveloped his senses.

  ‘What does it mean? Are they twins?’

  Stubble grazed the sensitive skin of her neck and the depth of his voice tickled the shell of her ear as he spoke. ‘It’s a fertility symbol, a representation of a Fomor female carrying offspring sired by two different fathers.’ His free hand moved with hers, tracing the curves of the elegant sculpture where the foetuses formed a primitive yin-yang of shadow and light. 'Hence the symbolism of the black and the white.'

  ‘Is that even possible?’ She breathed, arching back into him, the curves of her ass circling a slow, provocative grind against the hard ridge of his arousal.

  ‘Absolutely. It’s quite common in canine species. Back then, males outnumbered females by as many as ten to one,’ his words were roughened by the hunger her proximity roused in him, ‘the taking of multiple mates evolved as a biological adaptation, in order to maintain genetic diversity.’

  Her brow furrowed. ‘Are you saying they gang-raped their women? That’s barbaric.’

  ‘No, not at all. Sure, they favoured rough sex and the biting, the chemical exchange of eitr is an extension of that, but the Fomori were once a highly matriarchal society. Multiple male sexual partners were the norm, but the female always held the power to choose her mates, even if fighting amongst rival males was commonplace.’

  She snickered softly. ‘Yeah, I’ve seen the macho pissing contests. Wouldn’t they just tear each other to pieces?’ She was about ready to tear him to pieces, if he’d just let her touch. Ash curled her nails into the back of his hands, up on her tiptoes to press the soft lines of her spine to the wall of his chest, nudging for more contact as her brain looped, following threads of desire and conversation.

  ‘At first, in the dark days, mating and birthing rituals were vicious. A male would rip a challenger’s throat out rather than share a female.’ She felt his teeth graze her neck and her heart rate spiked, the soft growl escaping his throat proof-positive that those same, ancient instincts lurked just below the civilised outer surface of her man. ‘They were even known to eat the young they did not sire themselves.’

  She drew breath on a gasp, could feel the animal at her throat, desire surging in heady anticipation of his bite. In that moment, she knew she wanted to feel his teeth in her skin and knew instinctively that on some primal level, despite his stubborn denials, Connal wanted it too. You need only push him over the edge. Tilting her throat in invitation, her hands reached back to grasp the solid columns of his thighs, riding up with the intention of grabbing his ass through the worn denim of his jeans. He got there first, diverting her hands from their path to wrap their linked arms tightly around her waist. She stifled a groan of frustration as he turned his attention from her thudding pulse and back to the carved figure before them.

  ‘In order to ensure the survival of their young, the females established the rites of Blood Brotherhood, whereby male littermates born of different fathers were raised to share a unique bond. They lived together as siblings, trained to fight side by side, and when they reached maturity, they would fight a contest to establish dominance. Then they were branded and sworn into sacred vows of loyalty, félagi, brothers one to the other, until death. And when it came to mating, they would share the same female, willingly, and accept all offspring as their own. It was ingenious, really, a way of turning the natural mating bond between male and female into a stronger knot of three.’ One hand broke free to touch the patterns etched on the female form’s body. ‘These symbols, of the triskelion, represent the sacredness of the three.’

  He dropped a kiss to the curve of her shoulder, where the oversized neck of his shirt exposed the inked symbol in her skin. A stylized triskelion of ravens, it was a pattern she’d been drawn to, without ever understanding why. The connection with the carving sent a shiver down her spine.

  ‘You say these blood brothers were branded? The wolf on your chest Connal. Were you ... do you ...?’ The words were there but they wouldn’t come out, lust knotted in her throat and stormed at her centre, harassing her to choose between knowledge and the carnal craving in her veins for only him. Hell, she couldn’t imagine how any female survived being the filling to a brother-wolf sandwich. If she had two Connal’s ... Her knees threatened to abandon her at the mere thought and they weren’t too stable when he was around anyway. She’d die, she was certain. And it wouldn’t be a little death.

  It didn’t escape her notice that he chose that moment to tip her small train of questioning off its tracks with a nip to her pulse that made her head spin. No words, only rabid, sharp kisses blushing her throat the colour of passion and marking her with bruises she couldn’t hide. He took control of the grind of her hips, their motion never ceasing as conversation had kept on, a constant need pressing them ever closer. His response was an animal growl of hunger, and she purred an answer as her hand slipped back to stroke the iron length of his denim-caged erection where it nestled to the softness of her ass. Two could play that game, a distraction that earned her a snarl of potent possession.

  ‘No more talk of ancient history, Ashling. We have four hours ‘til midnight and I want to live eve
ry minute in the present, with you.’

  Her beast was done talking. Nerves leapt in a coil of heat to pool in her core with electric anticipation, tightening her body as a little thrill of fear touched her spine. This could be the last time they were together and that scared the living hell out of her. She’d only just found her fire, and it could be extinguished. Arching her spine, Ash curled her arms back, looping his neck as they danced to primal beats. No, she would not go out in a puff of smoke. She’d melt and blaze and she’d burn herself into his world. More than a scorch mark or a frostbitten limb, Ash wanted him to still feel the heat of her ... emotion ... for him, long after she was gone. Her kisses rasped her desire to his lips. ‘Fuck, I need you, Big Bad ...’ She craved him.

  ‘You have me, Little Red. But not here,’ he growled.

  A hum in her throat hinted at a protest before her brain kicked in over the rush of hunger and a blush hit her cheeks, head dipping. ‘No, not here, of course ... Liath.’ Then where? His apartment? Um nooooo. Surviving that long without combusting was impossible. ‘My room?’ Breathy, it was all invitation. Where better to get lost in the heaven of him than in the solace of the place she called hers.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Breathless, they stumble-tripped up the staircase, needy hands tearing at fabric in a fevered hunt for skin. He ravaged her mouth with growled demands and her nails clawed up his ribs in answer. Screw slow, tender seduction. The sands were running out for them and they both felt the urgency, like a wire in the blood, pulsing a current through their veins. He needed her fast and furious, craved that deep, primal connection one last time, before the clock ran down. They reached the landing and she tackled him back against the wall, dragging her teeth over his lower lip with growled purrs, fisting his shirt and hauling him across the threshold into her bedroom. She wanted it too. It was in every syllable of her starved body language.

  Ash couldn’t even begin to make herself slow down, she was on the tracks and her desire was barrelling her hell for leather into the oblivion of her lust. She needed to touch him. Teeth, tongue, lips, hands, nails. Every bit of her tasted and marked, tearing skin and fabric in her ravenous attempt to get closer, right up until the cool air of her room skipped over the fire under her skin and she felt a frisson of tension radiating beneath her fingertips. Panting softly, her breasts heaved against his chest, crushed to the mass of his masculine body as it dominated the room she’d taken as her own.

  Connal stiffened under her touch, a moment’s hesitation, a small voice piping up, reminding him that he was going to have to betray her, and this would only make it harder. The thought twisted in his gut like poison, but he could see no other way to save her from her own infuriatingly overdeveloped sense of responsibility.

  Sapphire eyes filled with flames, waiting, watching for the rejection, poised for the tension across his chest to snap and break this whole thing apart. Ash was sure she’d shatter if he pulled away from her now. Silently, she willed him to stay, fighting the urge to claw him back from the hesitation warring with the desire in his eyes. He had to stay, she needed him to stay. She was going to make him stay.

  Seizing the moment, she slammed the door behind them, jolting him back into the room. Planting her palms on his chest, she cracked his spine back against the closed door, burying her hands in his dreads and dragging his mouth onto her kiss-swollen lips.

  ‘Fuck me, Big Bad,’ she breathed, ragged with lust. Love me, her heart clenched.

  That was it. Game over for Connal, desire trampling over logic in the stampede of her carnal demands. Fabric bunched over her head, his callused fingertips sparked off her skin, every touch igniting flames. His hands were rampant, everywhere at once, knotted in her hair, stroking her jaw, weighing the spill of her perfect breasts into his palms, riding down the base of her spine and under her sweats to cup the full rounds of her ass. He dominated her senses with rough demands, crushed his thighs to hers, the iron girth of his erection pressed into her lower belly as he marched her backwards to the end of the four-poster and tossed her onto the downy covers.

  He seemed bigger somehow, in the sparse furnished space, too male to be amongst the little feminine things littered on her nightstand and draped over chairs. A primal force amidst makeup and soft materials, massive compared to the delicate wood posts of her bed. He was a storm in her haven and she clung to him while her body raged a hurricane of lust, off balance with the ferocity of her want and grappling for him. Her anchor.

  He was the authority that controlled the quickening of her blood, the pulsing at her centre linked direct to the possessive grip of his hands. She’d dreamt of this, the sheer masculinity of him unleashed on her in the sanctuary of her room, but it was different, somehow. More intimate. Though he’d explored every inch of her body, her soul was in this place, parts of herself, of her memories, in the items strewn in organised chaos across the surfaces. He touched her skin in this room and his fingertips brushed her soul. His hands guided her movements, dictated her pleasure, forced her up against the thick steel press of his arousal and sprawled her out on the cool black of her sheets until she mewled with want, throbbing, molten and aching.

  Stood between her thighs, his dark gaze was heavy with erotic threat, devouring her naked curves while his hands got to work, hooking the waistband of her sweats and dragging them down her legs. Roughened palms rode the sensitive skin of her inner thighs until his fingertips grazed the delicate folds of her sex, jolting her hips up off the mattress. With a growl of male satisfaction, he dropped to his knees at the end of the bed and, bracing her wide, his stubbled mouth retraced the path of his hands with rasping contacts that seared his breath to her skin in a hungry brand. Dark lashes flicked up to catch her flushed gaze a moment before he claimed her in the most intimate of kisses, a moan escaping into the sucking seal of his mouth on her lips. She was sweet and lusciously wet, the seam of her cleft parting for the stroking, velvet invasion of his tongue. He coaxed her open, delving into her swollen inner petals, boldly exploring the exquisitely sensitive pearl concealed within. She cried out, fisting handfuls of the dark silk, and when she bucked again, a strong hand shot out to span her lower belly, pinning her for the merciless onslaught of his wickedly talented mouth.

  He was rabid and she was infected with the strain of lust driving electric spikes through her nerves. She vibrated with tension, her bones liquid, her spine stringing her like a bow as he arrowed bolts of ravaging ecstasy into her every cell. His tongue was a wet-velvet rasp of excruciating sensation, stroking sweeps of euphoria to her core and lapping delicate, highly sensitised flesh to agonising quivers of bliss. God, he was ... her brain spat up senseless whimpers. There were no words ... Master of her every erogenous zone, Ash was a writhing mess tangled in silk, a grinding reaction pinned and held wide for his carnal torture. She was breaking apart, fracturing at the seams. His tongue touched the bead of her pleasure and she tripped a little closer to the edge. His teeth grazed, sucking a sharp kiss on delicate folds, and she was violently arching, hips jolting, rolling, riding his mouth, working herself hard against the scruff of his jaw as he tormented her with flicking wet curls of his tongue.

  Ash was dying, she was sure of it. Floating, the tension wound in her core, a corkscrew that had her tearing her fingers into his dreads and reining him in closer, crying his name loud with every wind of her hips. She was desperate for deeper, for the little bit of edge she needed to hurtle her into the abyss.

  And he gave it to her. When the sharp point of a canine snagged on the hood of her clit and his tongue drove into her molten sex, she was gone. Lifted from her body, the core of her being untangled in waves of spasming ecstasy, she came undone on his lips, broken by a kiss and detonating into wildfire tremors. He was heaven and she was lost in him, flowing her release to the sound of her own screams. ‘Connal!!!’

  Relentless, he rode her through the crest of that first climax with his tongue, and her hips kicked up to rasp the bristled line of his jaw on
her inner thighs. Jeans shucked down to half mast while she jerked and shivered, he reared up between her legs to feed the iron girth of his erection into the spasming liquid silk of her body. Sheathed to the hilt, his thighs smacked up to the bumper of her ass and she whimpered. A growl tore free from his throat as she gripped his thick shaft in the rhythmic contractions of her release and he started to pump.

  Her vision sparked fireworks behind her lids and the universe unravelled in her eyes, piercing him with brutal emotion as their gazes locked and she canted her hips to kick him deeper, accepting every thick, penetrating inch into the well of her heat. This is where he belonged, heavy and hard between her thighs, pistoning powerful hips to strike into the heart of her, inciting her to claw, her nails rough, gouging into the skin of his back, raking the tight, flexing muscles of his ass in a spur until he snarled, punishing her with a single restraint.

  Large hands laced her fingers, dragging her arms above her head to pin her for the brutal, deep-thrusting collision of his hips. Dreads snaked across her bared breasts as his mouth and teeth closed a sucking kiss to one tight nipple. The heat of his growled breath evaporated the glistening strokes of his tongue from her flushed skin. Stretched out beneath him on the altar of his lust, he worshipped her body with rough possession.

  Strung taut on the crackling lines of erotic tension, the pressure mounted inexorably. His control was hanging on a tripwire, but all the while, his sex-fogged mind was battling a tug-of-war. She was perfectly positioned, pinioned beneath him and distracted to the point of recklessness, her wrists so close to the bedposts that snapping the cuffs to shackle her to the bed would be the easiest thing in the world, a simple reach and shift manoeuvre. So why weren’t his hands obeying him? The betrayal tore at him from the inside. She would hate him, but she would live, and that was all that mattered. With steeled conviction, his hips kicked a powerful thrust, kissing her depths, drilling her to the edge of the precipice. Jaw set rigid, the pain in his expression was hidden from her eyes as his lips found her ear to whisper his ragged admission.