by Alyssa Day
He caught his breath. His prim, proper Fiona was turning a little kinky for him. He liked it. His entire body tightened, and he thought he might go insane if he didn’t get her under him in the next few seconds.
“Go lie on the bed,” she commanded. “On your back, arms out.”
“If you—”
“Now,” she said sternly. “Don’t make me punish you.”
“Oh, by all the gods, I’m going to make you pay for this,” he warned. “I’m going to make you come so hard and so long that you’re screaming for a week.”
He heard her quick, indrawn breath, but she quickly masked it.
“Big talk, big man,” she taunted from near the bed. “Are you afraid of little old me?”
A silk scarlet ribbon waved in the air and then floated to the bed. Another quickly followed it.
“Tie your left hand to the bedpost, then lie back and I’ll tie your right hand,” she ordered. “If you move, you lose points. If you touch me first, you lose points.”
“And what do these points gain me?”
She laughed a sultry, sexy laugh that shivered its way from his head to his toes by way of his cock. “Silly man. They gain you me.”
He flew to the bed and did what she’d asked, although it took every ounce of determination to lie still when he felt her delicate fingers tying his wrist with the ribbon and tightening it.
“Can you be good or do I need to tie your feet, too?” she teased.
“I’ll be good,” he gritted out the words through clenched teeth, hoping that he wouldn’t spurt out of control and come all over himself at her first touch. He’d never been as aroused as he was with this woman. Never, in all the centuries of his existence.
“Have your wicked way with me,” he invited. “Please.”
Silence. For a moment, the thought crossed his mind that it had been an elaborate trick and now she’d gone off to shower and laugh at his foolishness. But then her mouth closed around the head of his cock and his entire body arched off the bed.
“How’s that?” She gave him a long, slow lick.
He moaned and his hips bucked involuntarily. He still couldn’t see her, though now he could once again distinguish the shadows that bent to hide her. It was like making love in a dream, almost unbearably erotic but still not enough.
“I need to see you. I need to know it’s you touching me,” he said roughly. “Nobody else but you, ever again. Let me see you.”
Slowly she appeared before him, curled around his hips. First she released the shadows, so she seemed to be made of pure light. Then she released the light and she was back. Fiona. Just Fiona. A miracle made into a woman, created especially for him.
“I need you. Now. Please.”
Fiona’s teasing response faded on her lips, as the intensity in Christophe’s face and voice captured her. She nodded.
“Yes. I need you, too.” She rose above him and lowered herself on his erection, then slowly slid down its length until she rested against his body. “I need you now.”
She leaned forward and released the silk ties so he could hold her. He pulled her down into a desperate kiss, devouring her mouth as if kissing her was the only thing keeping him sane. Her hands were trapped between them, resting on his powerful chest, and then he flipped her over and yanked her legs up.
“Need you now,” he said roughly, thrusting into her over and over and over. “Now. Always.”
She couldn’t talk, speech was impossible, nothing was left to her but pure sensation. She was the flame to his candle, and together they were incandescent. She climbed so high she knew the fall might kill her, but she didn’t care, she only knew she wanted him. Now and forever. Just like this, inside her body and inside her heart.
He cried out and she came apart around him, and together they fell off the side of the world and into each other’s soul.
Christophe knew exactly what was happening to him, and the terror he’d expected was nowhere to be found. It was the soul-meld, and he’d told himself he’d never, ever allow it to happen to him.
Now he welcomed it.
Her soul was warmth and light and color, it was a landscape painted by a true master. He saw her childhood and the dark grays and shades of black for the terror and sadness she’d experienced with her grandfather and father. He swam through the blues and greens as she grew older, began to move on, cared for and loved her brother, was cared for and loved in return by both Declan and Hopkins. He saw the scarlet of excitement and adventure as she took on the persona of the Scarlet Ninja. Watched her go on her first heist.
Cried with her when she was finally able to help people the vampires had harmed.
Her soul was as beautiful as she was and the same glorious contradiction; neat, orderly, and organized in certain parts, and wild, flowing, and free in others. She was a woman made up of so many different and contrasting colors that she absolutely took his breath away, and the realization smashed into him as he reveled in the fire of her stubborn and courageous heart: he was hopelessly, irrevocably in love with her.
Fiona clutched Christophe’s shoulders, almost feeling as if she actually were falling off the edge of an impossibly high cliff into a terrifying abyss below. Somehow, she didn’t understand how or why or if it were even real, but she was falling into Christophe’s memories.
Darkness surrounded her, and fear and pain swallowed her up until she screamed. She was so young, no, he was, it was Christophe who was the child, this was his memory, and his poor, broken and battered body lay curled up in the corner of a rough wooden box. The darkness stank of urine and terror, and Fiona wanted to kill the woman who had done this to him. Even the rational realization that the woman was long dead, that all the townspeople who’d turned his parents over to the Fae were long dead, did nothing to reduce her need for vengeance.
They deserved to hurt and suffer for what they’d done to him. They deserved—but then she fell again. Fell into warmth and confusion. His grandparents had loved him, but he’d been closed off, terrified, angry.
Why hadn’t anyone saved him? Why hadn’t they saved his parents? Why were they lying to him? His young mind couldn’t understand it, couldn’t find a way to ask, so he reached the only decision he could. He quit trusting. Anyone, ever.
She fell again. Warrior training. Finally the belief that what he was doing was right. He could avenge his parents. Only to learn that his duty was to protect the very humanity who had caused his family’s murder. Doing his duty, year after year, while the anger, pain, and futility ate at him.
Falling again and again. The magic in him. So powerful. Alaric’s edict that he join the priesthood, learn to train and channel the power. Christophe’s refusal. Again feeling like an outsider. As though he weren’t good enough.
She fell again, this time into a pool of golden warmth. Felt bathed in hope and reassurance; a sense of belonging. A feeling of home after so many long centuries without. She looked into the light, the source of this wonderful, soul-renewing hope.
And she saw her own face smiling back at her.
Chapter 33
Christophe held Fiona as tightly as he dared, rocking her back and forth as she cried in his arms.
“How did you stand it?” she finally said, her sobs slowing. “So alone for so long. How could you bear it?”
He considered the question and realized he didn’t know how to answer it. “I didn’t know any different.”
“What was that? What happened to me?” She wiped her wet face on her pillow and then sat up, taking deep breaths. “How did I see your memories?”
“What you saw was actually my soul.” He sat up, too, pulling her close to him. He needed to be touching her. “That was an ancient Atlantean . . . ritual? Experience? I don’t even know what to call it. A blessing, perhaps. It’s called the soul-meld and what you experienced—no, what we experienced—was a journey through each other’s soul.”
“But how is that even possible?” She trembled against him. “You sa
w my childhood, too? Lived through my pain? I don’t know what to say.”
“I did, mi amara, and your soul is beautiful beyond the fantasies of the gods. You are courage and goodness made into light and formed especially for me. You must know that you are mine.” He pulled her into a tight embrace, wishing he could hold her there forever, just like that, with no vampires or Fae or missions to ever come between them.
“What does that mean, that I am yours?” she asked, her voice muffled against his chest.
He loosened his arms, but she didn’t pull away.
“Is that some kind of magic binding? Do you—what does it mean? Can it be broken?”
He fought against the terror biting into him with sharp metal teeth. He’d finally found her and she wanted to find a way to escape him. He wanted to shout and rage against the injustice, but that would frighten her, and he found that he cared more about her feelings than his own. He almost laughed.
Love, then, was a fool’s game.
“Yes, it can be broken. Or at least, it can be ignored,” he said. “The most precious tenet of Atlantean life is free will. The soul-meld, though it comes but rarely and offers a gift beyond price to a relationship, can be turned down. Refused.”
He inhaled a shuddering breath and said the hardest words he’d ever had to speak. “Tell me to go, and I will.”
She put her hand up to his cheek and stared up at him, her blue eyes drowning with some emotion he couldn’t translate. “Christophe.”
“Don’t,” he said, throwing himself away from her and out of the bed. “Don’t try to be kind. Don’t try to let me down easily. Just tell me to get out, and I’ll go.”
He stopped, realizing he still asked too much. “No. You don’t even need to say the words. I’ll leave now.”
He reached for the sheaths with his daggers and knocked over a vase of flowers. Instead of righting it, he hurled it against the wall and howled out the anguish that bubbled out of his chest until he thought it would consume him in its scarlet flame.
“Christophe. Christophe, listen to me.” Fiona knelt beside him, though he didn’t know how or when she’d gotten there. She shook his shoulders again. “Christophe! Don’t make me smack your bottom again.”
Tears ran down her face, silvery tracks not marring her incredible beauty but merely changing it, transforming it to something bittersweet. “I don’t want you to go. I love you.”
He raised his head and stared at her. He thought she’d said . . .
“What?”
“You can’t go. Don’t leave me. We can figure this out. I love you, you crazy Atlantean madman,” she said, laughing and crying at the same time. “I’m not sure why you’d want a cat burglar, but you’re mine, too, so let’s make this work, okay? No more talk of leaving me. Not ever.”
He couldn’t make a sound. He took her in his arms, swept her up off the floor and back into the bed, and made his clothes vanish with a thought. Before he could speak, or think, or even offer up a prayer of thankfulness to all the gods who might be listening, he was inside of her again.
“Mine,” he said. “I love you, too. This is where I belong. For always, my princess, my ninja, mi amara.”
She traced her fingertips down his spine and smiled. “What does that mean? Mi amara?”
“My beloved. It means my beloved, and you are.”
Then he made love to her, gently and sweetly, for a very long time.
His. She was his. He would never let her go.
* * *
Fiona woke up gradually, swimming through sleep to consciousness in stages. First she realized her body was slightly sore, and she smiled at the memory of the lovemaking that had caused it. Then she remembered the rest of it, and her heart rate felt like it doubled as her eyes popped open.
Christophe came walking out of the bathroom, hair wet and a towel slung low on his hips, and strolled over to the window to look out. She took a few moments to enjoy the view before she let him know she was awake. His broad chest tapered down into sharply defined abdominal muscles, which veed down between his hips. He was a purely perfect specimen of masculine form, and he was hers.
“Good morning,” she said, and enjoyed seeing that she’d surprised him.
“I thought you’d sleep for quite a while.” He crossed to the bed and leaned down to kiss her.
She enjoyed the kiss, but decided to table any further discussion of soul-melding and forever until her emotions were on more solid ground, so she took refuge in practicality. “What’s on the agenda for today?”
“Change of plans. You’ve got a lot of friends who might be Fae, whether you realize it or not, and I think we can kill two barnacles with one shell.”
She started to laugh. “It’s kill two birds with one stone.”
He grimaced. “Why would I want to kill birds with stones? Anyway, the only ones slow enough for that trick would be the palace peacocks, and even I think they’re too pretty to kill.”
“I feel a little like I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole again,” she moaned, still smiling at him so he knew she was teasing.
“Look, forget birds. We’re going Fae hunting. I think the Fae may be pulling a double-cross, here, urging both shifters and vamps to believe it’s the other who stole the sword and the Siren. Also, we can ask about Denal. Are you with me, partner?”
She jumped out of bed. “I know just the place to start. One of my contacts, the first to give me the tip about the man who wanted Vanquish, actually. He owns a pub, and he’s Maeve’s cousin.”
“Which means he’s Fairsby’s cousin, too,” Christophe said. “I knew that damned Unseelie Fae was involved in this somehow.”
She headed for the bathroom. “Give me twenty minutes to shower.”
His eyes flared hot, and he followed her and tossed his towel on the rack. “We’re not in that big of a hurry. I think you need me to wash your back.”
It took far longer than twenty minutes.
* * *
The Prancing Pony pub
It had taken a while to get Hopkins and Declan caught up, and even Sean had eaten breakfast with them. Hopkins had already called Fiona’s assistant, Madeleine, and given her the week off and done the same for the rest of the staff, so there would be no interruptions or distractions. By the time she and Christophe managed to escape, it was nearly lunchtime. Sean had dropped them off, darkly muttering something about errands, and promised to be back in two hours unless Fiona needed him sooner.
She had never spent so much time in pubs in her life. A lady didn’t frequent pubs, of course. She defiantly took another sip of her ale, sending a mental piss off to her grandfather.
“I’ve never liked ale before, but it’s really quite perfect with the fish and chips, isn’t it?” She chose another chip and blissfully poured vinegar on it and doused it with more salt. “I could quite get used to this pub food.”
Christophe grinned and shook his head. “I’m corrupting you. Today ale and pub food, tomorrow who knows? Reality TV?”
“You know about reality TV? In Atlantis?”
“Riley told us about it. Another sign of the decline of humanity, if you ask me.” He nodded toward the bar. “There he is.”
She turned. It was him. “How could you know which one is Maeve’s cousin?”
He was right, though. “Yes, that’s Paul.”
“Not exactly a brilliant deduction. He’s the only Fae who walked behind the bar like he owned it.” He leaned forward. “You’ve got a little salt right there.”
Instead of wiping the corner of her mouth, he kissed it, and then he kissed her some more, and soon she was necking in a pub like a proper ninny.
“Stop,” she said, pulling away. “I have a reputation to uphold.”
“I look at it more like I have a reputation to destroy. Namely, yours.” A slow, wicked smile spread across his face. “Sex on a balcony in broad daylight, kissing in a pub—what’s next? The fall of the British aristocracy, I bet.”
“Shh!�
� She looked around, but nobody was paying them any attention, except for Paul, and he was too far away to have heard. “You’re too bad.”
“Nope. I’m just bad enough, and you love me.”
She sighed. “Yes, and you’re going to hold that against me, aren’t you?”
“Every chance I get.” He tilted his head toward the bar. “Why don’t you go find out what Paul knows, soften him up before I come over? I’ll stay here and rescue any of my chips you didn’t manage to steal.”
“I am a cat burglar,” she whispered.
She stole another chip and waved it just out of his reach before she slid out of the booth and headed for the bar.
“Hello, Lady Fiona,” Paul said, wiping down the already spotless bar. “Surprised to see you here.”
“Yes, I’m sorry I haven’t made it over more often. Dead-lines and such. You know how it is.” She smiled, inviting him to agree.
He didn’t.
He didn’t smile, either.
“I know you know about us now, Fiona,” he said, his formerly warm voice gone cold and hard. “What do you want?”
She allowed a little of his wintry coldness to seep into her own voice. “I want to talk to Maeve, Paul. She took a friend of mine when she poofed out of my house, and I want to be sure he’s all right.”
He turned to aim his stare at Christophe. “Your friend from Atlantis is fine. You can tell him that, and get out of my pub. Both of you. I’m in danger just from your presence.”
She glanced back at Christophe, and quicker than thought, he was standing next to her. She’d wanted him and he was there. Warmth spread through her veins, as though he superheated her blood simply with his presence. The soul-meld? Perhaps. A topic to be tabled until later, certainly.
“Where is she?”
“She’s in the Summer Lands, fool. You know that and you have no recourse.” Paul picked up a wickedly sharp knife and started slicing through limes like they were butter. “I like cutting things, Atlantean. How well can you bleed?”