“Show me.” She pleaded and the murky Nile waters bubbled, then cleared and showed a night-shrouded field. At one end, an animal, a hybrid creation, something hatched from the pit of Anubis’ soul, stalked a couple. She ignored the woman and fixated on the male. The height, the broad expanse of his muscled back tapering to his waist and hips, his ass and thighs—covered in loose blue cloth humans preferred—all seemed . . . familiar. Then he pivoted and she glimpsed his face—and those eyes. She almost gripped the bowl and disturbed the sacred waters.
“My love?” The beast already stalked her lover. How could this be?
Nephythys ran to her alcove and found her lover hanging where she left him, still embedded in the rock wall, chin touching his chest. As his head rose, she stepped back before he saw her and sagged with relief against the wall.
If he was here, whom did she observe?
The forgotten twin! It had to be. She hadn’t cursed one man, but two was the only explanation for the twin’s survival. But the beast stalks the wrong man.
A devious grin spread like warm honey across her. All was not lost. The advantage belonged to her and she would use it. With a flick of her wrist, she refreshed her appearance. From goddess to seductress, gone was the demur flowing robes befit her station. In its place, two gossamer strips. One banded around her plump breasts, pushing them up until they almost spilled over. The other, knotted across her hips. Her coral nipples and hairless sex were clearly defined through the delicate fabric. Unadorned, except for Kohl enhancing her eyes, her sky colored hair cascaded on her bare shoulders. He loved her like this, simple and plain, not a goddess, just a woman. If only he would love her again.
She entered the alcove. Head downcast, Reign refused to meet her gaze. Bare-footed, she padded across the alcove and stopped short of a pool with his cooling blood. Standing in front of him, she scanned the flawless new skin covering his perfect physique. Everything about him called to her, demanded her attention with a power no human should have over a god.
A filmy, translucent copy of herself separated from her body and touched him, gently stroked down his pecs, scrapping sharp fingernails along his rippled abdomen and into the dark thatch of hair between his thighs. Long ago, they played this game differently. Through this shade, they enjoyed all the carnal pleasures their imaginations conjured, eons of fantasy and flames of passion. Through her essence, they loved, and laughed, explored each other in a way that Nephythys, wife of SET, could never do. Reign loved her, and accepted their . . . limitations. Now, she had to bind him to the rock wall to ensure he never faltered, never forgot the rules of their pleasure.
No human or god could touch her. Only SET. That was his price and though steep, she gladly paid it to keep him away from her body. Their pact kept him from her bed for millennia. Tonight, her reprieve ended. She must appear in his chambers and willingly submit, placing her body into his husbandly care. But not her soul. He would never touch her soul.
Her eyes burned into Reign, furiously willing him to respond to the passion burning inside her, give her one sweet memory before SET defiled her. She stroked from his knees to his cock, soft strokes with ghostly fingertips down the shaft before she cupped his twin sacks. Being near him made her passage slick with desire. She instructed her shade to do what she never would. Kneel, and take him into its mouth.
A kiss, a lick around his head and she swallowed him. Every technique in her vast arsenal she applied and all she received was a grimace. His impressive sex hung flaccid between his muscular legs. Not even a twinge of life appeared. She glanced into his eyes and a placid well of blue stared back at her.
Disgusted, she cast her shade away, and then slipped on the bloody floor when she turned to leave. Brought to her knees, she couldn’t tell whether the pain came from her wounded pride or bruised body.
“Have you injured yourself?” Deep and strong, his voice resonated inside of her. “Release me and I will help you.”
“Never.” Gracefully, Nephythys rose to her feet. Blood marred her skin and robes. With a single thought, all traces vanished. She pivoted and faced him. “You will never be free. You, Reign, are mine.”
Briefly, his eyes narrowed to slits and darkened to black pits. Only to return to that placid, dull façade he carried when she was near. She released him. He dropped to the ground and wobbled on unsteady feet. Then stalked away.
“Your brother is in danger,” she called after him.
“My brother . . . is dead. Not even dust remains.” His stride didn’t falter.
She admired his back and ass, all corded with muscles. “Your twin is alive, for the moment.” He stopped, but still would not please her with a caress from his beautiful eyes.
“You lie.” His voice vibrated with anger. His body followed suit. Anger or passion, she’d take either from her slave.
“You know I cannot lie.” Finally, his gaze landed on—not her body—only her face. He wouldn’t look, even now. She couldn’t bring herself to look at his sex for judgment.
“I will show you.”
He followed behind. His heavy footsteps matching her lighter tread. Did he appreciate the graceful lines of her bare back and watched the sway of her hips?
“After all this time I am allowed to see what lies on the other side of the alcove?”
She spun and found him staring at the hieroglyphs on the ceiling and walls. He scanned everything and still didn’t spare her a glance. She stopped in front of the dais and gestured to the bowl. “Gaze into the waters of The Nile. Think of your brother.”
“How do I know it is not a memory you have stolen from my mind to show me?”
“You will know it’s not a memory, and it is recent.” She recited the incantation. Again, murky waters swirled, a vortex in a golden bowl. Reign’s face appeared on another man’s body.
“Roman.” Relief and sorrow equally mingled in Reign’s deep voice as he gazed upon his brother for the first time in two millennia.
CHAPTER TWENTY- NINE
Four days had ground by since Stella saw Roman and every day was a little worse than the last. Memories of her past lives tormented her. Stella as a brown haired girl in a Victorian gown, then a stooped old woman with hair the color of steel, or a curly headed flapper in a beaded dress downing watered whiskey in a Chicago nightclub, in the middle of the night, these images came to her. Different women, different periods, all with one constant. . . . Roman. In the background, beside her, lifting her up, standing behind her, holding her hand, Roman was there. Almost always.
Hungry for his presence, she second-guessed every decision she’d made and regretted some of the harsh, hasty words she said. Regretted the day she met him, but prayed for his safety every night.
Was he still in jail? He couldn’t be. Wealthy men didn’t stay in jail and if he wasn’t in jail, why hadn’t he come for her? That was an easy question to answer. With Daniel dead, she no longer needed a bodyguard. With her out of the way, Bianca could return.
She should be glad it was over. And she was. Her life would return to normal. Yeah, normal. Pre-Roman normal. She refused to question whether that was a life at all.
“Stella! Stop dragging your ass and pick up.” Joe slapped a plate down in the window and rang the bell. Whether he took pity on her or he wanted to cash in on her infamy, Joe rehired her when she walked into the diner and asked for her old job back. Before the attack, her daily schedule didn’t cause her to fall asleep dead to the world. Now, after two days of work, she wanted nothing more than to sleep and never wake up. If she could do that, maybe her misery would be over.
“Sorry, Joe.” Balancing the tray of plates in her unsteady hands, she dragged her tired ass to her tables.
Cathy lingered at the counter eyeballing a guy with dark brown buzz-cut hair and a wicked tribal tat that extended from his impressive bicep and disappeared under his muscle tee before reappearing on his other bicep. A metal cuff clung to the side of his left ear. No other visible jewelry decorated his body. She gu
essed the tats were enough. On the way back to the kitchen, she caught him staring in the mirror behind the counter. No lust in the gaze as he assessed her. Only speculative curiosity crossed his features.
Her heart beat faster. She spun to confront him and touched her uniform pocket. The cool metal knife she recently sharpened boosted her confidence. Along with the coffee pot she grabbed to offer him a refill, she was invincible. If necessary, she’d douse him with the hot coffee, whip the knife out, and stab him in the eye. Go for the vulnerable spots, Roman said.
Use what’s around you and pick vulnerable areas. His voice echoed in her head, but as she approached, she noticed the tats weren’t smooth and orderly. The skin beneath the elaborate design was gathered, puckered, and scarred. Sometime in the distant past, he was burned, very badly, but survived. The coffee pot wavered in her hand.
“Here, let me get that for you.” He leaned over the counter and took the pot from her. Once he refilled his mug, he set the metal container more than an arm’s length away from both of them.
Up close, he was bigger than she first thought but still compact. No excess of anything enhanced his frame. Lean whipcord muscles covered by burned, tattooed skin. For some reason, he reminded her of a rogue lion, proving himself by simply surviving.
“What do you want?” Her hand drifted to her pocket. His eyes flicked there and returned to her face. He wouldn’t give her a chance to remove the knife and wound him before he disarmed, or worse, killed her.
“I’m here for the coffee.” He lifted the java to his lips. Muscles and tendons bunched and stretched, pulling his skin too tight not to be painful. Two seats down, a chair scraped along the floor, dragging her attention away.
Roman slid into a seat.
Shades covered his eyes, but her skin flushed as if caressed by his stare. Dressed in black, he sucked in all the light around him. Cut from the same cloth of the night, he embodied everything dangerous. A man to avoid. So why did her heart lurch, her mouth dry and every joint in her treacherous body loosen? Joy flourished where anger should, while she feasted on the man. His once clean-shaven face had days of growth. He was leaner, meaner.
Damn, he looked good enough to tie his ass to the chair and ride.
Vaguely, she heard buzz-cut’s cup clink against the saucer, then change hit the counter and the familiar rustle of bills. She spared a glance and noticed the empty space and the retreating back of the man disappearing into the night. A second later Cathy came rushing out of the back.
“Fuck! Where’d he go?” Cathy’s hands landed angrily on her hips. She saw Roman and her gaze swiveled between the two of them. “Oh—okay.” She backpedaled, grabbed her food off the window and left.
“Stella.”
Guttural and deep, his voice touched intimate places, making her ache. She panted slowly.
“Coffee, please.” Velvety smooth, he purred or did she hear what she desired?
Seconds ago, she barely had the energy to place one foot in front of the other. Now, her hips swayed with purposeful intention as she walked away. She glanced over her shoulder and swore the corner of his sensual mouth curled. Yep.
“Black coffee, the way you like it.” The steaming cup danced slightly in her hand.
“The way I like it? What do you know about what I like?” Gruff-voiced, he considered her from his seated position.
“Days ago I knew what you liked.” The words tripped off her tongue. Days ago, he spent the night locked between her thighs. The memory tightened her nipples and hollowed her.
He drew a sharp breath before his jaw clenched and his hands grabbed the edge of the table. Stella knew he relived their night together. He stood quickly. Towering over her, he leaned in slightly. She couldn’t stop herself from swaying toward him, seeking his touch, but instead of a caress, Roman tossed money on the table and exited, melting into the night.
A buck-fifty cup of coffee, he left a hundred dollar bill.
Tears clouded her vision. She didn’t expect his rejection to hurt so much. And she refused to answer the unspoken ‘why’.
Stella couldn’t take any more. When he walked out the door, what joy she had, left with him. If she were going to cry, she’d do it alone. Without an audience. She ripped off her apron and told Joe she was leaving. In the small locker room, she changed into street clothes. No Converse. Now, a pair of Volatile combat boots covered her feet and calves, leaving enough room to slip her knife inside. Not trusting she wouldn’t shoot herself, she left the gun at home. With mace stuck in her jean pocket and her keys threaded through her knuckles, fear retreated to a dark corner.
No longer stupid, she used her ninety-eight fifty tip and called a cab. She gathered her things to wait in the doorway of the diner. She didn’t wait long. The cab pulled to a stop in front of her. Once she checked the driver, she got in and told him her address. Ten blocks later, she locked herself in her apartment.
A cool shower to wash the day off her skin and a cold beer to quench the anxious fire in her belly is what she needed to end this shitty day. She unloaded her makeshift weapons onto her storage chest and stripped out of her clothing.
Beer first. The initial sip of a cold Sam Adams made her taste buds sing. Naked, she downed half the bottle then perched it on the lip of the bathroom sink while she showered.
Her soapy hands slid across her skin, touching places that needed a stronger touch. A man’s touch. She leaned against the wall and tipped her face into the pathetic spray. The tears still came, along with wrenching sobs she couldn’t control.
“That’s the last time I’ll ever see him . . . most likely. People like me don’t have happy endings, but I did have a happy moment. I had a few hours where everything was perfect,” she mumbled into the cascading water.
Those few moments would have to last her a lifetime. Her soul screamed at the outrageous thought of finally having him and everything that had conspired to keep them apart.
“Get over it, Stella. He’s just a man,” she whispered, sad she couldn’t drown herself in the shower.
He’s not just a man. He’s Roman.
Half an hour later, she pulled herself together, peeled the curtain back, and stepped from the tub. She wrapped a towel around her wet hair but nixed the idea of a drying herself. Her wet skin felt too good drying slowly in the warm air and she didn’t have the energy to spare. All she needed now was sleep. An image of Roman flickered through her tired mind followed by the memory of his chest pressed against her back as he curled his body around hers.
“Stop dwelling.” She ordered and stepped into the living room.
Hunched over, elbows braced on his knees, Roman sat twirling her half-downed beer. His head tilted toward her, in one long pull, he drained the bottle. Then stood.
Stella didn’t breathe as he approached, radiating hostility. She tilted her chin up and tried to meet his shaded eyes, but couldn’t. Inches from her, he halted, not touching. Her heart lurched, yet that didn’t stop her from reaching up and pulling the shades from his chiseled face. The blue eyes she’d come to love, glared frostily at her. She didn’t give a damn. Her hand skimmed down his hard cheek. He sucked air through his teeth, and briefly, heat replaced the ice in his gaze.
Roman un-wrapped the towel from her hair, drew it around her body, and then returned to his seat on the futon.
“I see you’ve assembled an arsenal.” He pointed to her weapons.
The sound of his voice hummed along her senses. “How did you get in here?”
“Your locks aren’t elaborate. The same way I got in, anyone with a modicum of skill could.”
“Yet I survived an entire ninety-six hours without you.” She goaded and fumed. How dare he break-in and belittle her attempts to keep herself safe.
His brow lowered and his lips soften, but he didn’t reply.
Not quite opposite him, she sat on the storage chest near the knife . . . just in case. “I don’t need you anymore.” Her gut twisted at the lie. She needed him more than e
ver. “Daniel’s dead. I’m free.”
Silence stretched between them, but she refused to look away. The angry darkness in his cold eyes softened to a sad regret. Her heart hiccupped.
“You’re . . . different,” he murmured.
Yes, she was. The past few weeks had altered her mental DNA. She would never be the same, on any level. He pointed to her knife.
“Kitchen appliance?”
“I swiped it from the diner.” She hated stealing from Joe, but it was the perfect size to slip into her boot.
“Pack, we’re leaving the city,” he said calmly.
Her jaw dropped open about to launch ‘No’, but faster than a blink, Roman had the dull edge of her knife to her throat.
“Don’t,” he gritted through lips that barely moved. “Don’t—,” he repeated for her stupid mind to understand “think that your sudden affinity for sharp objects means you have a fucking chance protecting yourself. I’m not asking you to go with me. In two minutes, you and I will leave through your front door, wrapped in that towel, or fully dressed will be your only decision tonight.”
He excited her. She couldn’t help it. And he would never hurt her. Whether her higher reason believed that, without a doubt, her soul did.
Running a finger along the sharp edge of the blade, Stella drew blood.
Cursing, Roman flung the knife away. It embedded in the floor. He grabbed her hand. A quivering red bead danced on her fingertip. Deliberately, he guided her finger to his lips.
Fascinated, Stella watched her finger disappear into the depth of his mouth. Tight and hot, the muscles of her groin pulled taunt. Sweet wetness slicked her core. His eyes closed and a second of bliss crossed his face. When he opened them, they were harder than before. Her finger slid off his tongue.
“One minute. Tick, tick.” He released her and lounged on the futon. His smoldering gaze never left her face.
It was a slow ten count before she could answer. “If Daniel’s dead—”
“I have other enemies or have you forgotten the animal attack?”
Eternity (Descendants of Ra: Book 1) Page 22