Archangel's Blade

29

In the end, the decision wasn’t so difficult after all, because when it came to Dmitri, she had no sense of self-preservation. And that, too, was a madness, as relentless as the need she had to touch him, hold him . . . love him. “Stay,” she said, and felt the shudder in the powerful body of the man who’d offered her freedom.

It broke her a little.

Sliding down to her knees, she wrapped her arms tight around his neck and buried her face against the heated warmth of his skin. His own arms came around her an instant later. Fear, that insidious intruder, that silent shadow, she waited for it . . . but it didn’t come, as if the raw brutality of their fight had purged it out of her system, leaving her bruised and battered but whole.

“Never again,” Dmitri whispered into her hair, his voice naked, his shields stripped to nothing. “I swear to you.”

Cupping his neck at the nape, she caressed him with tender strokes, and it was an act of gentling for both of them. For this harsh, dangerous man who was her own, and for the ragged, lonely girl within her. “Tell me why.” She needed to understand, to see into the shadows of his heart.

One of his hands fisted in her hair. “It’s a memorial,” he said, his voice so rough, it was difficult to understand. “No one other than Raphael knows of its existence.”

Her heart thudded, a huge wave of knowing pushing at her mind, but it slithered out of her grasp to fade away like so much mist when she tried to reach for it, to hold it. Letting it go for the moment, she thought of the wildflowers, so many colors, so many shades, all of them bobbing their heads in welcome as she parked her vehicle far off in the distance to avoid crushing them. She’d walked, slow but certain, through the riot of color, drawn to the invisible ruin—as if her body were a compass and the ruin true north.

The melancholy of the place had weighed down her limbs, but she’d been certain she heard the echo of laughter, too . . . of a child’s delight. “It’s a place with memory,” she whispered. “There isn’t only sadness, Dmitri. You must remember.” The words weren’t her own, and yet they were. “You must.”

“I remember everything.” A laugh created of jagged metal and broken glass. “Sometimes I wish I didn’t. But those memories, they’re set in stone, never to be forgotten.”

Honor thought of what it must be like to carry such sorrow through the ages, to mourn for nearly a thousand years, and felt an ache so vast it had no end. “She wouldn’t have wanted this for you,” she said, so certain that she didn’t stop to question it. “You know that.”

Honor was right, Dmitri thought. Ingrede would have been horrified to see who—what—he had become, how he’d let the loss of her and the children twist him. But he also knew another thing. “Some things, no man can resist. Some losses, no husband”—no father—“can ever forget.”

“Dmitri—”

“I don’t know what I can give you, Honor,” he said because she deserved honesty, “but I know I’ve felt nothing like this since the moment she died.”

Honor cupped his face. “It’s all right.” The gentlest of kisses.

He didn’t know how she’d become the one to offer comfort when he’d caused the harm, but his soul, cold for so long, basked in the warmth of her.

“I once fed Elena,” he told her a long time later, as her lips closed over the forkful of rice he’d lifted to her mouth, as she allowed him to take care of her in a way he hadn’t earlier.

Curiosity turned the deep green of her gaze to sparkling gemstones. “Were there knives involved?”

“No, but she was tied up at the time.” It seemed an eon ago that he’d taunted Elena while she remained restrained for her own safety. “She’d shot Raphael.” The others in the Seven had been ready for blood, Dmitri bound by a vow to keep her safe.

Honor leaned forward, brows lowering. “I heard rumors . . . she really did?”

So he told her the story, and managed to get most of the food into her at the same time, wondering if she’d noticed the fruit and honey he’d added to the table.

“I do have hands, husband.”

Lifting a slice of fruit up to those beautiful lips as she sat on his lap, one arm around his neck. “You can use those hands to thank me for taking such good care of you.”

Small white teeth biting into the fruit, slender throat swallowing the juicy flesh. “Dmitri?”

“Yes?” He ran the fruit down that throat, licked up the juice.

She shivered. “I hope I’m sitting in your lap when I’m a toothless crone and you a wrinkled old man.”

Putting down her wineglass, Honor rose to slide into his lap and memory and reality collided in a kaleidoscope that made his head spin. Her lips touching his only escalated the fracture of time, the taste of her hot and sweet and painfully familiar even as it was not. Stroking his hand up to the back of her neck, he forced himself to hold her with conscious gentleness as she opened her mouth over his and explored him with slow, sinful decadence.

The tenderness of the moment destroyed him, singing to parts of him he’d thought long dead. The scent of her, wildflowers in bloom, the feel of her under his hands, the way she laughed, it all fit him like a key into a lock. Ingrede had been so very different on the surface—a woman who loved home and hearth, who wouldn’t know how to use a blade except in the kitchen, but she’d had the heart of a lion, his wife.

So did Honor.

“Yes,” he said to her when she broke the kiss on a soft suck of sound.

Honor angled her head in a silent question.

Locking his eyes with those the shade of mist-laden forests, he very deliberately ran his hand down to close it over her breast. “Now, Honor.”

Her heartbeat thudded against his hand, her voice raspy with the storm that had just passed . . . and with a passion that flushed her full lips until he wanted to use his teeth on her. “The windows,” she whispered.

This high up, there was no chance of being overlooked . . . except, of course, by immortals with wings. “Close the blinds.” The quiet command slipped out.

Honor’s lips tugged upward at the corners. “As you wish.”

Knowing he was being teased and quite content with the state of affairs, he watched her rise and walk to shut the blinds, enclosing them in the soft intimacy created by the quiet shield of rain beyond the glass. “What do you need?” he asked when she turned back to face him.

It was the first time in centuries upon centuries that he’d put a lover’s needs above his own. Oh, he’d never left a bedmate unsatisfied, even if the pleasure he’d been inclined to give had been a razor-edged thing almost brutal in its intensity, but care . . . no, he hadn’t taken care of a lover since the day he left his wife with a promise to return.

If Honor asked him to temper himself, he’d find a way to do it. But what she said was, “I won’t break,” and it was a solemn statement.

He thought of how she’d gone mad in his arms, her mind trapped in a nightmare. Fractures existed inside of her, and tonight, bastard that he was, he’d helped widen them. But they would heal—because Honor had come out swinging. Raising his hand to his jaw, he rubbed the tender bruise. “You almost broke me.”

A smile, slow and heartbreaking in its beauty. “You deserved it.”

He felt his own lips curve. “I did.” Scanning his eyes up and down her body, he said, “I still intend to have my wicked way with you,” in a deliberate attempt to gauge how far she’d allow him to go.

“No kinky stuff till later.”

Surprised she’d even entertain the thought after what he’d done, he lifted his gaze to her own—and saw an understanding that stunned him. She knew she had power over him, this mortal who was so much weaker and yet who had brought him to his knees. Honor wasn’t like him, hadn’t been turned cynical by an experience that would’ve twisted many only toward bitterness and hate, would never use that power in a malicious way. But the knowledge, it allowed her to play these games with him.

Good.

Pushing back his chair just a fraction, he crooked a finger.

She kicked off her boots before crossing the carpet to straddle him. Her hands lifted to the buttons of his shirt. “I love the color of your skin,” she murmured, leaning forward to press a kiss on the bared skin of his breastbone.

It was the sweetest of caresses, and it made him weave his fingers into her hair and insist on another. Laughing, she peppered his chest with kisses, the shirt gaping to his waist now. “Such beautiful, pretty skin. Does the shade change over your body?”

He tugged at the bottom of her top, waited until she raised her arms to pull it off over her head. “I told you. You’ll have to”—clenching his abdomen against the impact of her—“wait and see.” It was his turn to lean forward, press his lips to the sun-kissed honey of her skin, his hands possessive on her hips.

“I have scars.”

Those responsible for creating those scars would pay for decades to come, because Dmitri had no mercy or forgiveness in him. Not for this crime. “I see only you.” Another lingering kiss before he drew back. “And you’re my own personal addiction.”

Cupped in black lace, her breasts were lush curves that made his mouth water, his fangs aching to sink into that sweet flesh. He wouldn’t do it, not until she issued the invitation, but that made no difference to his cock. It was as rigid as rock, blood pulsing hot and thick. And that was before he allowed himself to think of the tight, wet sheath of her core.

“I want to be inside you.” He sucked on the upper slope of her breast, licked the red mark. “So deep you feel branded.”

Honor’s fingernails dug into his nape, her voice a husky whisper. “You make me want to do things no good girl would ever do.”

Her words relaxed the final relics of the twisted knot inside him. “I’m never going to stop you.” Raising his head, he claimed her, stroking his hands along the dip of her waist and over her rib cage to cup both breasts at the same time. The generous mounds were teasingly covered by the fine lace of her bra, a small red bow in the center. “I thought a hunter would be more practical.” He ran his thumbs across nipples pebbled and tempting.

“Complaining?”

Squeezing her taut flesh, he took her lips in an openmouthed kiss in answer.

Her head fell back when he released her mouth, the position exposing the slope of her neck. His blood hummed, his gaze locking on the pulse in her throat. Teeth gritted, he distracted himself by focusing on her breasts. It worked. They were luscious, a little too large for a hunter’s active life, and perfect for Dmitri’s hands.

Sliding his hands to just below the exquisite curves, he was bending his head to indulge himself with her when Honor tugged on his hair. “Kiss my throat.” A whisper as soft as the air itself.

His hands spasmed on her rib cage. “That might not be the best of ideas.” He was starving for her, his entire body one big pulse.

“You’re old enough to control it.” A sensual challenge. “I’m sensitive there.” Raising her hand, she ran her fingers down the arch of her throat.

His cock jerked, his mind full of a thousand debauched images of what he wanted those strong fingers to do to him.

“I hate that I’ve lost that pleasure because of what they did,” she said. “I want it back.”

Instead of obeying the order, he filled his hands with her breasts once more, her nipples hard points against his palms, glorying in the escalation of her heartbeat, the jerking cadence of her breath. “Sensitive here, too, aren’t you, Honor?” Plumping her up for his delectation, he lowered his head to grip one of her nipples with his teeth, knowing the lace would rasp against her flesh, an exquisite pain.

A hotly feminine sound of frustration. “That whip of yours”—breathy words—“ever felt it on your own body?”

Releasing her nipple with a flick of his tongue, dampening the lace and increasing the friction, he looked up. “No.” He was always in control. That was who he was. But—“Maybe we could trade.”

Narrowed eyes. “I know you’re getting something over me, but I can’t figure out what.”

That was when he shifted forward to press a hot, wet kiss to the side of her neck, high up near her jaw. She froze in his arms, but he kept his mouth where it was—even as he stroked the line of her body from breast to hip, hip to breast, over and over again with one hand, spreading the other on her lower back. “Feel the wetness,” he whispered, then blew against her damp skin.

When she shivered, he licked at her. “Choose, Honor. Tell me what you like.” It was taking all of his experience to keep himself in check with this woman who destroyed him. “Tell me,” he said again, locking down his instincts to take, to possess. “You hold the reins.”

Fingers sliding over his nape and into his hair, she said, “Long, wet kisses.”

It was no hardship to indulge her—he could feast on every inch of her and start all over again within seconds. Her body remained stiff for a long time, but the fingers on his nape, they dug in a little, her pulse accelerating until his own sang with the erotic beat of it. And then she said, “Harder, Dmitri.”

He liked his name on her lips when she was half naked on top of him, her body so lush and open. He’d like it even better when he was driving his cock into her. Blowing on the skin he’d just kissed, he drank in her responding shiver before giving her what she’d asked for—long, hard kisses that left her with dark red marks on her neck—at the same time that he used one of his hands to squeeze and mold the heavy warmth of her breasts. He had every intention of marking those, too.

When he finally lifted his head from her throat, her eyes were hazy with pleasure, her body relaxed. It wasn’t a “fix,” but the experience would give her a weapon against the nightmares—he was more than willing to suck on her sweet body anytime she needed a refresher. “I want,” he murmured, “to put my mouth here.” He rocked up against her, pressing into the heated vee of her thighs. “Is that going to be a problem?”

Wide eyes, languorous with a healthy, decadent lust. “No. They—Nobody seemed interested in that. But no bites on the inner thighs. I . . . it hurt.”

Rage roared through him, so savage and brutal he had to dip his head for a second in case she saw it. But then Honor rolled her hips over him, sliding her fingers under the loose fabric of his collar to caress his back, and he was in the moment again, with a beautiful, sexy woman who had been misused and who was now his to pleasure. “Do the panties match?” he asked, tracing the scalloped edge of her bra.

“Yes.” Her chest rose and fell in a ragged rhythm. “They’re red with a black bow.”

“Witch.”

She laughed, confirming his supposition that she was teasing him again. No one had done that for an eon. “Take off this shirt, Dmitri”—a nibbling kiss on the sensitive curve of his earlobe—“or I’ll tear it to pieces.”

Hissing at the caress, he made quick work of the shirt, throwing it to the side and shoving his hands between their bodies to rid himself of his belt at the same time. His cock was a steel rod in his pants, pressing in urgent demand against the fabric—he undid the top button for relief, but resisted the urge to release his turgid flesh. If he did, this would end far too fast.

And he wanted to savor.

It had been so long.

The thought whispering out of reach before he truly heard it, he traced the strap of Honor’s bra to the cup, nudged it down to bare the swollen pout of her nipple. Leaving the lace tucked just under it, he repeated the process with her other breast. Then he leaned back and drank in the sight of her displayed for him like an erotic feast.