“How can you forgive me so easily?”
Her voice was barely audible. Christan felt his heart clench so hard it hurt his chest. His wild warrior girl, who had run from him to save him. This woman who did not yet realize she was no longer mortal. Who had faced Six, and then Three, staunch in the face of power and refusing to let them control her life. Never had he experienced the terror he felt when he couldn’t find her. And yet it had been worse, when he stood in the forest, watching and knowing she didn’t want him there because of a grief and guilt she shouldn’t feel. She was not Gemma, could never be Gemma, and when he’d shifted, walked to her side, laid down, his lion’s body had been trembling. When he placed his head in her lap and waited, he’d thought his heart might stop, it was beating so hard. Until she did what she’d done once before, reached out with her hand and saved him.
He wanted to touch her now. To feel the heat build, see the need in her eyes as she reached for him. He wanted to watch as she burned until she knew no other need than the one he aroused.
He lifted her, and the light from the fireplace gilded her skin as he placed her on the bed draped in white linen. He had loved this woman—shared lifetimes with her over centuries—and still she was a mystery, an enigma just beyond his reach. He laid his heavy body beside her, claimed her mouth, felt her lips part for his invasion. His gentle hands found the sensitive areas of her body. He knew what she liked. She told him in so many ways, the soft sounds in her throat, the sensual movement of her back as she lifted herself to him. The words she whispered in the dark. He could hear her in his mind, though, hear her voice as clearly as if she spoke naturally. He would have to tell her that, but not yet, not when what she felt and needed had him throbbing and on his knees.
He left her lips to explore the erotic places that excited her, felt her immediate tense of pleasure before she shuddered into the sensations. He loved the way she draped her arms around his neck, played with a curl of his hair while her hips slid in wicked temptation. The way she would drag one soft foot languidly up his leg, then press her knee against his thigh. He explored the soft secrets she revealed until her breathing hitched and he put his mouth where his fingers had been. Loved the catch in her throat when he brought her to the edge where her muscles seized. His erection was so hard he felt the pain deep in his spine, his balls pulled up tight and throbbing. One touch from that feminine hand, even the briefest skimming of her thigh as she moved, and he would spill like an adolescent boy with his first love.
Never, in his very long life had he ever loved like this, as if there were no other sun in the sky except her sun and he would willingly burn up in the heat.
But he was at his core a warrior. An Enforcer. A fierceness drove him and he wanted her to know. Her eyes were heavy-lidded and he read the need, so hotly feminine his body clenched with anticipation. He rose up, slid his hands down her thighs and pushed her legs wide.
“Lo scelgo te,” he whispered as he entered her. “Solo tu.”
“What does that mean?” She gripped his arms as he slowly withdrew.
“It means I choose you. Only you,” he said as he pushed in again. “You are my heart.”
“And you,” she whispered, “are my soul.”
His body grew heavy and fierce, wanting her to feel the hunger in his penetration, lifting her hips higher with his large hands. Her fingers were taut against his arms and her amber eyes locked to his. She understood what this was as well as he did, a vow, a meeting of souls, a fever that would burn for an eternity. He felt every inch of her moist heat, the way her inner muscles clenched and for an instant the intensity was so profound neither of them could breathe.
“Tesoro, ti amo.” His voice was raw, and she met him as he sharpened the dance, lifting her knees and taking him in until there was no breath for talking. Only the claiming, the offering, the slick, hot joining while fireflies winked in a silver shimmer that drifted down in the room like midnight snow.
CHAPTER 41
A week later, a late season storm swept in over the mountains, dumping several inches of snow. Then the sun came out and the sky was so blue it hurt the eyes. Christan stood at the top of the ridge, wearing a thick white sweater and black jeans. The cold didn’t affect him. He liked it when the world was fresh enough for new beginnings.
Below, the cabins were arranged along the path that was visible only because of the different depths of the snow. Christan watched the cabin directly in his line of sight. A figure—dressed in a thick coat and red scarf—came out to stand on the porch, then clomp down the wooden steps, wearing those awful Wellington boots Robbie found in the back of the shed. They were three sizes too large for her and she nearly tripped as she stepped off into the snow.
But she was smiling, her face so beautifully alive he could see it from where he stood. She began to run with a lumbering stride. Her arms were stretched wide as she zig-zagged through the deep snow on a path only she could see. She reminded him so much of five-year-old Gemma, Christan almost whispered the name. And she was singing, a silly little song from childhood.
At the sound of her voice, Marge came out, stood on the porch to watch her. Robbie came too, and Christan could hear the laughter, hers, theirs. Then Marge was in the snow and together they danced around like pagan goddesses until Lexi charged up to a tree and wrapped her arms around the gray bark.
“What is she doing?” Phillipe asked from beside him. He was bundled in a thick jacket and a black scarf, with his thin hands thrust deep into the pockets.
Christan shrugged. “She’s hugging a tree.”
“Does it hug back?”
“It’s something her grandmother did. She taps into the energy.”
They watched her thump through the snow to another tree, wrap her arms tightly.
“She going to do that all day?”
“Probably. At least until she gets hungry.”
“I don’t know why we couldn’t meet inside,” Phillipe said. “I’m freezing my balls off out here.”
“We meet inside, she knows you’re here, and she doesn’t need to know.”
“I make her feel unsafe?”
“It’s what you represent.”
They’d already debriefed the events at the villa. Six had been right: Christan should have recognized the pattern and his failure cost the lives of the villa’s human caretaker and his wife. What followed had been the expected recriminations from One. She’d wanted Christan removed from her territories “like the rabid dog that he is.” Christan’s violent nature caused the colossal amount of damage and they all knew the reason why—Three had created a menace with that one word, and if she couldn’t reverse it the least she could do was keep Christan contained. Three’s response had been predictable and quite intense before the discussion moved on to the dreadful business in Zurich. A building had been destroyed, for God’s sake, Six’s building, and One would be cleaning up the diplomatic mess for months. Not to mention those additional deaths in Florence which no one could explain unless you listened to the rumors. One said that while glaring in Christan’s direction, then followed with an indignant denial of the betrayal coming from within her own circle of power. To which Phillipe had murmured—not so silently—that the Italian Calata member preferred to blame others for her problems. His sentiments, while true, only inflamed the situation. But in one respect, Christan had to agree with One: it had been his failure that caused unnecessary death.
Christan pushed aside the memory, preferring to watch the activity in the snow. Phillipe did, too, and Christan felt oddly contented. Robbie was standing on the steps, laughing. Marge was making a snowball. Christan thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans and eased his stance.