Bitten by Ecstasy: 2 (Dark Judgment)

by Naima Simone

  “Sinéad,” he snarled. Exasperated and more than a little annoyed, he slowly straightened to his full height. Shit, after hours on that damn torture rack she called a sofa, he’d just fallen off to sleep a couple of hours earlier only to have the hot as hell dream about her. “What the hell—”

  “You’re naked!”

  The scandalized rasp penetrated his irritation. And for the first time, he noticed the wide silver eyes, the lovely slackened features and the sensual curve of her bottom lip that had fallen away from its full, bowed mate. Her shocked gaze was centered on the lower half of his body—more specifically, his cock. Which chose that moment to lengthen and flex against his thigh as if preening under her dismayed fascination.

  Her gasp echoed in the silence an instant before she wheeled around, giving him her back. The hem of her black over-sized t-shirt brushed against the backs of her knees, the dark tail of her hair grazing the swell of her ass. The rumble in his chest emanated from a different source than his earlier snarl. Desire, still running high and demanding from the remnants of his dream-turned-nightmare, tore through him like the destructive whip of a wild funnel cloud. The onslaught yanked at the moorings of his control, ripped at the constraints tethering man and beast. The fury of it converged in his stomach, poured into his cock and pounded with an insistence Bastien gritted his teeth against.

  All from the smooth backs of her pretty knees and the barely discernible thrust of her ass under a mannish shirt. Shit. He curled his fingers into his palms, didn’t flinch at the pinch of talons into flesh. What would happen if he actually viewed—touched—the slender body of deceptive fragility and honed steel? What if he dipped his hand between those pretty thighs and cupped her? Like in his dream, would she be drenched and tighter than Scrooge’s penny-pinching fist?

  “Put. Clothes. On,” she ordered, the mixture of primness and outrage doing nothing to douse the throbbing in his dick. Because even under her indignation, he caught the delicate scent of her arousal. The aroma was slightly thicker than her natural Irish morning dew, as if the essence of her was more concentrated, richer…

  His chin snapped back as if clipped by an unseen fist. Even his beast quieted, momentarily bewildered by this new sensory revelation. The previous evening in the kitchen, he’d thought he’d sensed the faintest trace of desire. But he’d relegated it to a mistake. Both man and hippogryph, so wounded and embittered, had doubted a female could want them, want the disfigured thing they’d become. Especially not this woman who had so coldly rejected the man’s touch and the hippogryph’s affection after the attack. Sinéad had rebuffed him, even abandoned him in disgust after he’d been foolish enough to reach out for her with his ravaged body and scarred face. As painful as Alesia’s cowardice had been in the face of her father’s demand to marry another man—a noble man—Sinéad’s rejection had been worse. At the time, he’d been weak, hurting, insecure.

  And they’d replayed the scene when he’d touched her arm the previous evening. She’d struggled against his hold, finally demanding he let her go. He didn’t need cue cards to get the message. Sinéad didn’t want his touch…didn’t want him. Yet her scent…

  Confused, Bastien summoned his magic. It danced over his skin like a playful tune, covering him in jeans and a t-shirt. He’d been tempted to leave his chest bare, just to spy her reaction, but at the last instant he’d remembered the roadwork of ridges and folds puckering his skin. Sinéad’s gaze had been glued to his package and had apparently missed his torso. He crossed his arms as if the barrier provided additional coverage against her stare. Everything in him roared an objection at the possibility of losing the faint perfume of her arousal to the acrid stench of disgust or, worse, pity if she was exposed to the mangled grid map that had once been his chest.

  “I’m dressed,” he said and, as she pivoted with the caution of a lion tamer eyeing one of the big cats, he snorted. “I’d just like to point out you were the one who busted in on me.”

  Her quick inspection took him in, glancing from his head to his bare toes. Apparently satisfied he hadn’t left any important areas uncovered, she scowled up at him. “How was I supposed to know you were naked?”

  He lifted a shoulder in a careless half-shrug. “I went out after you went up to bed.” A persistent restlessness had drawn him out into the night, to the sky. “I’m not used to worrying about someone else’s sensibilities when I return.”

  A shadow whispered in her eyes. The flicker was there and gone, blinked away fast, but he recognized it. Yearning—when he mentioned going out, deep yearning had been in those quicksilver depths.

  “Be that as it may, could you please recall you are in my house? And I would prefer you keep your…” she wriggled a couple of fingers in the direction of his cock, her brow furrowed, “male bits covered.”

  In spite of the turmoil of confusion and arousal tumbling through him head-over-ass, amusement spurted inside his chest. Warm. Surprising. “Yes, ma’am,” he said with an incline of his head. “Me and my,” he lowered an arm and mimicked her gesture in front of his zipper, “male bits will stay under wraps.” Her frown deepened and her lips parted, but before she could deliver a scathing retort, he held up a hand, palm out. “So what was so important it brought you down here like the hounds of hell were after you?”

  In the next instant, the displeasure cleared from her features, leaving an excitement that lit her eyes with an incandescent glow.

  “I figured it out. I know how to change you back.”

  Shock careened through him, leaving him numb. It didn’t last long. Hope—insidious, cruel hope—sidled in, melting the deep freeze her announcement had cast over his brain. A part of him tried to battle the anticipation and excitement back, eject it from his pounding heart. But the effort proved useless—it always did.

  He stumbled back several steps until his spine hit the cold, damp window. He fumbled behind him, his fingers scrabbling against the window seat and frame. His knees weakened as he lowered to the edge. Chilled condensation seeped through his t-shirt, wetting his skin. He relegated the slight discomfort to the back of his mind, every cell in him centered on her words. I know how to change you back.

  The two months immediately following Evander’s attack, Bastien had worked to find a cure, to relieve himself of the terrible, gnawing hunger that dogged his every waking breath. He’d drawn his own blood, studied it, compared it to other samples. When the scientific research failed, he’d searched down leads, tracking down any whispers or tales no matter how farfetched. The despair, the hopelessness had finally driven him to Nicolai, to the comfort of the familiar. Yet the cravings didn’t abate. And the monstrous reality of what he’d become—the soul-stripping shame of what he’d become—had prevented him from confiding in his best friend.

  So he’d left his sanctuary, taking along his addiction to the cruxim blood that saved and doomed him.

  Now here he sat, so close to the cure he’d been desperately hunting and afraid to reach out for it. Another disappointment…shit. He didn’t know if he could bear another disappointment.

  “Tell me,” he said, the order hoarse and, to his ears, frightened.

  “The Blood Cross.”

  Bastien stared at her. Snorted. Fucking hope. Got him every time.

  “The Blood Cross,” he repeated, disbelief heavy in each syllable.

  Her brow crinkled as if she was perplexed why he wasn’t turning cartwheels in the living room. “You know of the Cross?”

  “Yes,” he answered, still mentally kicking his ass for daring to believe again. Most immortal races had their own mythology or religion. The cruxim worshipped Nef, a pagan goddess of light, wisdom and armor. Often depicted as a regal, winged female adorned in an ornate circlet, gleaming cuirass and sandals carrying a curved sword, Nef was the cruxim’s patron goddess. She had also been attributed with forging the Blood Cross, a relic of supposedly immense power.

  It was a myth, a lore not unlike other ancient legends. He’d heard of the
Cross, but had chalked the thing up there with the Holy Grail, Thor’s Hammer and fat-free potato chips. Stories, traditions, but not fact. And definitely not the solution to his problem.

  “I have to admit I expected you to be more enthusiastic than this.” She held her hands out, palms up. The gesture clearly stated, what the fuck?

  “Be more enthusiastic about what? A mythical artifact with legendary powers?”

  “It’s not mythical. The Cross is real,” she insisted, her fists balling next to her thighs. He cocked an eyebrow. She snarled and would have undoubtedly flashed a pointed canine at him if she’d still had fangs. “Why do I bother,” she muttered then pinned him with a hot glare. “Listen, hippogryph, it exists and if you stand one chance at going back to what and who you were the Cross is your only option.”

  She turned, stalked to the couch and plopped down on the cushion. Bastien wasn’t sure, but he could’ve sworn he heard dunderhead before she turned a baleful stare on him.

  “Eons ago there was a great war among the gods. Several holy relics were forged. Dar created the Righteous Bow—its arrow never fails to hit a target. Dehb fashioned the Shofar of Standard. One blast from her trumpet and mountains fall, oceans swell, lands split and are demolished. Other objects were created—the Chariot of Fire, the Dagus Sword. These sacred weapons wielded in the hands of the gods could cause catastrophes, destroy the earth and the heavens above. So the immortal races chose sides. The sidhe supported Dar, the shadowhunters sided with Greer and the Dagus Sword.” Her voice took on the lyrical tone of a storyteller, her husky brogue adding music to the epic tale. He’d heard the legend before but never in her lovely voice. “The world hovered on the brink of disaster. Seeing the existence of god, immortal and man nearing annihilation, Nef created a relic of her own. She forged an urn and collected blood from every race—some willing donors, some unwilling—and contained it in a vessel she fashioned in the form of a cross. The Blood Cross.”

  If they had been watching a film, the screen would have been packed with clashing, golden figures and creatures of all dimensions and origins. Fire, wind and water would have been erupting and exploding in a spectacular display of destruction. Roars and battle yells would have filled the room along with the screams of the dying. It would have been one helluva blockbuster.

  “Blood binds us. No matter the race, blood ties us together. It’s the source of life and death. The goddess Nef understood this. And this relic, saturated with the life force of all the immortals, became the most powerful and most invincible of them all. At any given time, she could control and command one immortal race, no matter who they’d sworn their allegiance to. With the Blood Cross, the goddess won the great war and restored order to the heavens and earth. Realizing the destruction the Cross could cause if it fell into the wrong hands, she entrusted her creation’s keeping into the care of the Black Angels who worshipped her. We became known as the cruxim, the Guardians of the Cross.”

  He hadn’t been aware of that part of the legend—how their goddess had christened them cruxim. Fascinating, but the obscure knowledge still didn’t clear up how this bedtime story was supposed to heal him.

  “Have you ever seen the Blood Cross?” he asked, fingertips drumming against the window ledge.

  She tossed him another look rife with questions regarding his intelligence. “Of course,” she snapped. Paused. On the tail end of a heavy sigh, she shoved to her feet and paced around the sofa. Her palms rubbed her t-shirt-covered thighs and Bastien tracked her movements, wondering at her agitation. As she neared him on her second circuit, her head whipped in his direction and she stabbed him with her iridescent gaze. “The knowledge I’m about to tell you will self-destruct ten seconds after you receive it.”

  “Oh hell,” he muttered, rolling his eyes at the Mission Impossible reference. “You really have to cut back on the late-night television.”

  She halted in front of him, her slim legs spread wide, arms crossed under her breasts, a petite, lovely Napoleon demanding his agreement.

  “Fine,” Bastien conceded with a soft bark of incredulous laughter. He lifted an arm and held a palm facing outward. “I promise not to repeat anything you tell me.” He gave her a solemn nod. “Scout’s honor.”

  Sinéad studied his face for a long moment then nodded. “At the conclusion of every cruxim’s training we are assigned a territory. We pledge our fealty to the Lady Nef and our sisters in a ceremony.” Twin lines briefly bracketed her lush mouth as if her lips wanted to prohibit the guarded information she prepared to spill. “During the ritual, we bind our vow with blood—blood sacrificed and captured in the Blood Cross.”

  “Holy shit.” He straightened, slowly rising to his feet. Every ounce of blood in his body seemed to pool in his size fourteens, rooting him to the floor.

  She nodded. “It’s to our advantage to encourage the myth of the Cross’ existence. If more immortals actually believed a holy relic of immense power was real, they would never stop hunting it down, determined to obtain it for their personal gain and power. And in the wrong hands…”

  Yes, he got it. In the possession of someone with no conscience and dreams of grandeur, the relic would be an unparalleled weapon.

  “How have the cruxim managed to keep it hidden this long?”

  A beat of silence passed and her wrinkled brow and firmed lips reflected an internal struggle. “Every fifty years the Cross rotates to another territory, guarded by another cruxim. That way it can never be pinpointed by an enemy searching for it because it doesn’t stay in one place for long.”

  “Brilliant.” His mind still raced with Sinéad’s revelations. The least of them being an artifact on the mythical level of King Arthur’s Excalibur existed and had the ability to end the nightmare he’d been living for months. No more relentless hunger. No more self-imposed exile. Damn. Could he—his heart stuttered—could he have his life back?

  Wait a second… What about her? What about her life? He stepped toward Sinéad, a suspicion whispering to him. “If this is true, why haven’t you used the Blood Cross’ power to restore your immortality?”

  “The cruxim are the Blood Cross’ guardians—we receive strength and protection in return. But we cannot use it for personal gain. Since my blood is contained in the cross, it would recognize my touch and forbid me use of its power. Sort of a checks and balances.” A small, humorless smile twisted her lips. “Keeps us honest. Besides, accessing the Cross’ power is like a coupon—only one per customer and good for one transaction.”

  Bastien snorted. “That fucking sucks if you ask me. You offer your life in service but when the shit hits the fan you can’t count on it for help?” He stared at her, his gaze touching on the sleek dark hair, the t-shirt swallowing her petite frame and the toned, slender legs that tapered down to narrow feet and unpainted toes. Regret and anger simmered in his chest, clutched his throat. “Yeah, it fucking sucks,” he repeated, voice gruff.

  Sinéad ducked her chin, breaking their contact. “Yes, well,” she stammered, pacing toward the couch, which seemed to be her point of reference in the room. Like a port of safety from emotion. From him.

  Again his eyes fell on the dark-brown tail of hair swinging against the small of her back. He narrowed his eyes, following the seductive sway.

  “What happened to your hair?” he asked abruptly.

  She lowered her arms and cocked her head at the brusque tone. Yeah, the question bordered on rude, but curiosity had nagged him since coming upon her in the alley. Her eyes of stars and lightning remained the same, but the bark-colored hair seemed…wrong on her. Not unattractive. Nothing could accomplish such an impossible feat. The coloring was just…off. Bastien had stolen her immortality and freedom. It wasn’t fair she lost the moonbeam hair that declared her heritage too. As if being stripped of her magic and identity hadn’t been enough.

  “I dyed it,” she said, running a palm over her head. “To blend in. Silver hair tends to stick out when you’re trying to be incognito,”
she finished drily.

  “Shit,” Bastien scoffed. “Sweetheart, you could wear a habit in an abbey full of nuns and you wouldn’t blend in.”

  “You’re not making sense. Of course I would—” She frowned, tilted her head farther to the side. “That was a compliment, wasn’t it? Are you wooing me?”

  A sharp blast of laughter exploded from his lips. Wooing? Damn. She was so fucking adorable.

  He stalked forward, his legs eating up the small distance separating them. Her eyes rounded as he neared, but he didn’t stop until he plastered his much longer, larger length against her body. Even as he asked himself what the hell he was doing, he pressed his hips to her abdomen, imprisoned her legs with his spread thighs. Her hands wedged between their chests and her palms flattened over his pectorals. Bastien sensed her muscles tense, preparing to shove him away and out of her space, but he preempted her strike. Calling himself all kinds of an idiot, he lifted a hand to her hip while the other grasped the nape of her neck and squeezed. Hard. A shudder rippled through her body and a primal, possessive instinct as old as the creation of the heavens rose within him. His beast snarled, prowled in a tight circle deep inside him. He’d never experienced this urge, had never known the fierce impulse to dominate, control—cover.

  He was a healer—his tools of the trade were compassion, empathy, gentleness. This male who grabbed a woman, handled her, snapped at her…this male was as alien and primitive to Bastien as the urge demanding he take this woman and fuck her into submission. Maybe the blame could be placed on the blood hunger that rode him hard and hung him up wet. Maybe the blame could be placed on her scent filling his nostrils and teasing his palate. Maybe it could be the dichotomy of delicacy and strength urging him to protect even as he admired her tenacity. Whether the fault could be laid at the feet of one of those reasons or a combustible combination of all three, the animalistic need shook him.