Possessed by An Immortal

by Sharon Ashwood

  The place wasn’t overly big or small, but it was nice enough for the short-term and there was a yard. Despite the centuries, some things didn’t change: kids and dogs and the need for young things to burn energy before their elders collapsed with exhaustion.

  And in-laws. They were still a special experience.

  Bree’s dad was getting out of the Jaguar parked at the curb, a big smile on his face. This was his default setting. Every day for Hank was a new story to tell, a wonder unfolding before his lens. He was hard not to like, really, and Jonathan adored him. After all, in many, many ways, they were both kids excited to be alive.

  “Grandpa!” Jonathan squealed, zooming out of the house at top speed, Custard galloping in his wake. Mark was sure socks and paws barely hit the sidewalk.

  Mark narrowed his eyes, watching. Obviously, the boy was much better. He’d designed the treatment himself, along with Schiller and the brain trust the Company had assembled. Recovery had been swift and steady. It was nearly Christmas, and Jonathan was talking, running and playing like a healthy boy.

  His physical reflexes were still above average. In fact, he’s lost none of the advantages Ferrel’s virus had given him, with the exception of telepathy. Mark had never seen evidence of it again. Only time would tell, but in his professional opinion, he’d have to say Jonathan was cured.

  Hank knelt to hug his grandson and ended up embracing Custard, too, as the dog barged in for a major face-licking. The multimillionaire movie king laughed with delight. Boy, dog and granddad collapsed in a tangle on the lawn.

  As Bree had put it, Hank was a delightful grandparent though he didn’t exactly qualify as a responsible adult. But, at least she was getting along with her folks, more or less, and that was a big step.

  Mark felt Bree come up behind him and slip her arms around his waist. “Watching the show?”

  “Best ticket in town.” He shifted so that she could stand beside him. “Are you okay with going to Marcari so soon after getting back together with your parents?”

  She shrugged. “It’s only for a while, and they’ll be over there for the wedding anyway. It’s the pinnacle of this year’s social calendar. My mom won’t miss that.”

  They walked down the porch steps, still arm in arm. Hank was disentangling himself from his giggling grandson and getting to his feet. “Reporting for babysitting duty!”

  It would be the first time Jonathan had been away from Bree overnight. Mark intended to make use of every moment.

  “You have all our numbers, right?” Bree asked.

  “Programmed into my phone.”

  “Not too much sugar, or he won’t sleep.”

  “Got it.”

  “Don’t let him watch anything scary.”

  Mark squeezed Bree closer. “Have a good time, Hank.”

  “I’ve got something for you,” Hank said, handing them a disk. “It’s a first cut of the new film.”

  Mark took it. “We’re honored.”

  It was a costumed extravaganza of War and Peace to be released in two long films. It was a brilliant book, if you liked long, dark and complex, but this was a whole night of precious grown-up time. He wanted short and mindless.

  Hank winked as he got child and dog into the Jaguar. “Good date-night movie.”

  Mark remembered Napoleon’s march through the Russian snows, all the starvation and the corpses cold and stiff with frost, and wondered about the man’s idea of fun. “Women do like uniforms.”

  Bree clung tightly to his hand as her father whisked away their boy, honking as the car turned the corner and left their sight. She chewed her lip, but didn’t say a word.

  “Can we watch a comedy?” Mark asked as soon as they got inside. The living room was big, but the Christmas tree was enormous, occupying one end of the room like a miniature forest. They’d had to push the other furniture forward, making the TV viewing area half its usual size.

  Bree already had popcorn and sodas on the coffee table. “We’ll watch ten minutes just to say we did, and then we do whatever you like.”

  Mark sat, trying to be gracious as the opening credits rolled, but was soon distracted by a stack of papers behind the popcorn. “What’s this?”

  He picked up the top folder and opened it. The letterhead inside read MeadowLark Designs. He understood the reference at once: Brianna Meadows and Jessica Lark.

  She blushed. “Princess Amelie wants her wedding clothes. I thought I’d take the designs from the book and make them a reality. It’ll be Jessica’s work and mine, so we’ll both take some of the credit. What do you think?”

  “I think it’s great!” He closed the folder. “It’s time you got back in the game.”

  She turned off the TV, silencing the dolorous sound track. “We’re going to Marcari anyway. I can make sure everything is done right. I contacted some of Jessica’s old employees and they were happy to work on the collection. With their help, it seems doable.”

  She sounded cautious, but Mark knew why. “If you’re not comfortable with how much time it takes away from Jonathan, speak up and we’ll figure something out.”

  She nodded. “You don’t think I’m taking on too much?”

  “I’m behind you 100 percent. We’ll adjust however much it takes to find the balance you need.”

  She kissed him. And that was the simple beauty of their relationship. All she wanted was someone in her corner, someone to watch her back and let her catch her breath now and then. He could do that, and he loved her like mad.

  What she gave back—well, it was enough sunshine and rainbows to melt a thousand Russian winters. Take that, Tolstoy.

  He deepened the kiss, drinking in her sweetness and feeling it go straight to his zipper. Then his hands were exploring the hem of her T-shirt, seeking the hot, smooth skin beneath. A ball of pleasure and hope burned in his chest, so intense it hurt.

  “Marry me,” he whispered, and then nearly gulped. Nine hells, he hadn’t meant to say that. It might be too soon. She’d seen him at his worst. He had to get her past that, let her see most days he didn’t leave a lake of carnage in his path. He was a doctor, after all, and maybe even a nice guy. Sometimes, anyway.

  She caught her breath, moving her lips so that they tickled his ear. “Okay.”

  He pulled away, a little shocked. “Okay?”

  Bree furrowed her brow. “Was I supposed to say no?”

  “No. Yes is good. Yes is very good.”

  “You’re surprised.” Then she laughed and pushed him back on the couch, straddling him as best she could on the narrow cushions. “A gypsy fortune-teller foretold your coming.”

  “Tall, dark and handsome?”

  “She called you a blade. You’re kind of like a sword, but you’re a surgeon’s scalpel, too. She said you were my future.”

  A blade. He supposed that was better than a blunt object. “I like being your future.”

  “Always.”

  And they kissed again, letting lust burn away doubt and worry and the shadows of the past. It would burn through them, clearing the path for more tender feelings to grow. That was how it healed. At least, it had Mark’s medical approval. “Movie time is over.”

  “Did it ever start?” Bree was pulling down his zipper one tooth at a time, making him wait. She was leaning forward, her long, tawny mane sweeping across his chest.

  He pulled off his shirt to take advantage of her hair’s silky feel. She bent and nipped his flesh, leaving dainty teeth marks in her path. It was oddly arousing, especially as she worked her way south. Or maybe it was the scent of her desire, that musk of peaches, that had his beast flat on its back and purring.

  She took his arousal between her teeth, gently biting and sucking. Nine hells of Abydia.

  “I want all of you,” she murmured.

 
She had it, however she liked it, but all he could do was groan. He was hard and throbbing and she had far too many clothes on. He resolved the issue of her T-shirt with a ripping sound. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Oh, yeah. Her breasts were free, round and peaked, and ready.

  His mouth found them, his fangs descending with his arousal. He had to be careful.

  Bree writhed against him as he slid his tongue over a nipple. He shifted so that they were sitting up, the remote falling to the pine floor with a clatter. Then she was in his arms, half-naked, and then they were on the soft sheepskin rug in front of the Christmas tree. Santa could keep the other presents clustered under the branches. His was right there before him, and he unwrapped her the rest of the way.

  He began his assault at her anklebone, licking along the gentle curve of her heel and calf. Bree had the strong legs of a runner, the muscles long and defined. The act of possession, of marking each inch of her, took time. It was well worth it. He had discovered many sensitive spots only dedicated lovers added to their repertoire. Mark didn’t miss one. He used his fangs to tease and his breath to tickle, lighting on every sensitive point inside the knee, up the insides of her thighs. By the time he reached their apex, Bree was completely his.

  “Now,” she murmured.

  A gentleman never kept a lady waiting. The welcoming heat of her electrified every nerve. The hunger rose in Mark, the need for this one woman who was his mate.

  He was her future. She was his. They were one.

  He thrust, feeling her clench around him. He worked the sensation, making her rise to meet him, to cry out his name. He kissed her breasts, and her collarbone, and the long arc of her neck. And then her blood was in his mouth. The double-edged sword of his venom swamped them both, predator and prey, driving them both to the shattering pleasure of their release. Mark growled with the triumph of his possession.

  She was his. His woman. His family. Everything in his world.

  Later, much later, Bree lay beside him, naked on the sheepskin like some pagan goddess. The glow from the Christmas lights painted her flesh with soft licks of red and green and yellow. Mark ran a finger down the side of her breast, over the dip in her waist, up the flare of her hip. So beautiful. He felt himself getting hard again, but she looked too lovely to disturb, languid and rosy from loving.

  She had other ideas. Bree rolled close enough that she was half on top of him, one knee thrust between his legs. “So, Santa, have I been a good girl?”

  Mark laughed, a soft fire of happiness in his chest. He held her gaze, feeling the strength of the connection between them. They saw each other clearly and liked the view.

  His hand strayed to her hip, caressing the silky skin. “I have a whole sleighful of toys for you. No assembly required and the batteries never die.”

  “I’m counting on it.” Her grin was wicked, but it was more than that.

  It was for him, her husband.

  * * * * *

  Keep Reading for an excerpt from DEMON WOLF By Bonnie Vanak.

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  Chapter 1

  If he discovered her true identity, the powerful Mage would kill her.

  From across the bar, Keira Solomon studied her quarry. The glass of white wine gripped in her trembling hand rattled against the polished wood counter. She ignored the flirting drunk to her right and riveted her gaze to Lt. Commander Dale Curtis.

  The navy SEAL commander of Team 21 sat by himself, his expression as lonely as she felt. Keira’s heart went out to him, knowing she was the reason for his turmoil.

  Careful, she warned herself. If you let him get under your skin, you’re a dead woman. She concentrated on the man instead of her feelings, gauging how to approach him.

  Though he looked no more than thirty-eight, the Mage was hundreds of years old. The commander had taut, angular cheekbones, a chin carved from granite, tempered by a full, wide mouth. His thick black hair, silvered at the temples, did not touch his starched collar. He looked like a powerful man of strong character, unaccustomed to compromise. But his most striking feature was his piercing gray eyes, shaded by thick, dark brows. Those eyes could become hard and unyielding, coaxing a confession out of the most tight-lipped prisoner, or turn seductive with promise, charming a woman into his bed.

  She’d discovered all this about the man from listening to gossip in public haunts like this bar.

  A severe khaki uniform hid a body firm with muscle that was now layered with deep scars. Keira knew the depth and width of each mark, knew how he’d endured, tight-lipped, as each one lashed his skin. And she knew the depth of his screams when the agony she inflicted became too much to bear when the Centurion demons forced her to hurt him.

  No other man had survived such torture. Past victims had died from the force of her claws. Centurion demons had enslaved her to torture others. Now she had a rare chance to break free, because the man she’d tortured was strong enough to vanquish the demons for eternity.

  “Hey, sweetie.” Obviously determined to get her attention, the big, barrel-chested drunk put a paw on her arm. “Lemme buy you another drink.”

  Giving him a look of utter disdain, she pushed her glass aside. “No, thanks. I don’t accept favors from gorillas.”

  The man narrowed his eyes as his companions chortled with laughter. “Ain’t no ape.”

  “Okay, then. Chimp shifter.” She gave him a singularly sweet smile. “I can’t quite tell, but you all smell the same.”

  “Bitch.” The shifter scowled. “I should drag you out to the parking lot, show you the meaning of respect. Flat on your back, your legs spread.”

  Demon blood surged. Keira held up a hand. Like flicking a switchblade, her claws emerged, each a razor-sharp talon. Ape Boy’s eyes widened as she gouged the bar’s surface. “Care to try?”

  The men pushed away from the bar and fled. She sighed.

  “I hate having to do that,” she muttered to no one.

  One day, she wouldn’t have to worry about the demon blood inside her. The key to her freedom lingered temptingly close, but it wouldn’t be easy to fool him. Curtis’s piercing gray eyes could see straight inside her, and discover who she really was.

  And if that happened, no point fearing the demons capturing and enslaving her once more.

  Because Curtis would have at her first.

  * * *

  Ladies’ night at the paranormal Dive Bar.

  Once a month, Tom dropped the magick shield blinding humans to the bar’s presence. He announced two-for-one drinks and the human women streamed inside as if he’d offered marriage proposals to millionaires.

  The custom was for regulars, who liked human women warming their beds once in a while. Tom’s bar was a short distance from Little Creek, home to SEAL Team 21’s elite Phoenix Force in Virginia. When in town, the secret force of paranormal SEALs crowded the seats.

  Dale ignored the chatter around him. He sipped his beer, waited for his burger.

  Scar tissue pulled and stretched uncomfortably, reminding him of a body no woman wanted to see naked. While in the hospital, his sometime girlfriend had visited. Melissa had taken one look at the blood and bandages and left.

  No Mage female wanted him. No human, either, even if sh
e didn’t sense he was a powerful Primary Elemental Mage who could fry her to ashes with a single flick of his finger.

  Dale knew he was better off alone.

  “You okay, Commander?”

  Tom always called him by his title. Dale nodded. It had been the ultimate bitch of a day, back at work only ten days after two long months of mandatory medical leave. Paperwork piled to his nose, submerged in long meetings, most of his team deployed to dispatch a last-minute threat overseas. Only Ensign Grant “Sully” Sullivan remained at base. Chief Petty Officer Sam “Shay” Shaymore was in North Carolina, training in close-quarters combat with SEAL norms—human navy SEALs. He’d taken his new wife with him.

  Dale relaxed into a smile as he thought of the much younger Shay. Last month the SEAL had married his girlfriend. Dale had proudly escorted the fatherless Kelly down the aisle. A wedding he’d never forget, as he was glad to see the two Mages declare their love in a lifelong bond. Those two had rescued him from the dark, dank basement where he had only memories of pain and blood.

  And the scent of a woman…he could never forget.

  Across the bar, Sully flirted with a pretty, slightly tipsy blonde. The woman rested her hand on the SEAL’s arm, giving him a suggestive look. Someone was getting something-­something tonight.

  Dale hoped Sully remembered to glove before love. A half-human bastard faced a lot of hardship in the real world.

  Children. Setting down his beer, he closed his eyes. One regret he’d had in his eleven-year marriage. Kathy hadn’t wanted any. The Mage had used one excuse after another and finally, she just left, but not before admitting she’d been sleeping in another man’s bed.

  You’re a good man, Dale. But you’re never around, not when I really need you.

  Deep inside, he still craved a home life, a wife and a family. But what woman would want him now, his body looking like a road map to hell?