Island of Glass (The Guardians Trilogy #3)(93)

“I must have missed the heart.” Disgusted, Doyle sat, brooded over the food.

“I don’t think so.” Now Bran brushed his lips at Sasha’s temple.

“It’s the sword,” she said. “Yours could hurt her, and enchanted, make her bleed, but can’t end her. We have to free the one that can, and will, from the stone.”

“Somebody’ll play King Arthur,” Sawyer supposed. “Hope it’s you, man, as you’re the best here with a sword.”

“We will have one more battle.”

“Don’t say one more,” Sawyer said to Annika. “It’s bad luck. Let’s just say, we’re taking a hike tomorrow.”

“I like to hike.”

“We’ll make our own fun.”

? ? ?

They talked late into the night, or what felt late, and still Riley didn’t come back. Doyle let the key guide him—it simply drew him along the corridor to a wide, arched door that opened when he stepped up to it.

He hoped to find her there, waiting for him. But there was no wolf curled by the fire or stretched out over the enormous bed.

Once again he went to the doors, flung them open to a balmy, almost tropical breeze perfumed with night-blooming jasmine and citrus. The room held a curved love seat in a nook, two wing chairs in front of the fire, a sturdy writing desk—she’d like that—under a window. And the massive bed with a soaring headboard carved with symbols. He recognized some—Irish, Greek, Latin, Aramaic, Mandarin.

If his translation could be trusted, all symbolized peace.

He wouldn’t have minded some damn peace.

He took off his sword, leaned it on the side of a chair. Poured himself a couple fingers of what he discovered was whiskey in a slender bottle, and settled down by the fire to wait for her.

He should’ve been annoyed, and couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t—or not particularly. She’d have run off that energy by now, and should have come back. But she was still out there, sniffing around, he supposed—literally—exploring her brave new world.

So he sipped his whiskey, brooded into the fire, and with a soldier’s mind went over every step of the battle looking for mistakes.

He didn’t hear her so much as feel her, and turning his head saw her standing just inside the terrace doors, scanning the room with those amazing eyes.

“About bloody time.”

He rose, walked to the bed, tossed the bedding aside. He stripped to the skin, and rolled in. A moment later he felt her leap up, land beside him. Curl against him.

And finding his peace, he put an arm around her and slept.

? ? ?

The change came at dawn with the sun breaking the night with soft pinks, strong reds, rich golds. It moved through her, pain and beauty, helplessness and power. She shuddered with it, gave in, gave all as one became another.

And on a sigh opened her eyes to find Doyle’s on her.

“What?”

“Beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

Still half dazed, she blinked. “Huh?”

He rolled onto her, covered her, and his mouth was hot, indescribably tender on hers. Her system, her spirit, her body, barely through the glory of the change, trembled anew at the fresh assault on her senses.

She could barely breathe and his hands stroked over her skin, molded her breasts, skimmed down to her hips. His mouth followed.

She flew up, clung, clung, clung to that edge of impossible pleasure, then let it go to take the fall.

Helplessness and power, pain and beauty.

All she was responded, gave back. Here, too, was change, a merging of two into one. They rolled over the bed, grasping, finding, taking.

He could still smell the wild on her, all but feel it beat inside her. When her mouth met his again, strong and fierce, he surrendered to all she was.

And all she was, was his.

Lust burned. Love shattered. Need beyond the physical overwhelmed.

When she straddled him, those eyes like melted gold, her body taut and glowing in those streaks of morning, he was lost.

So she took him, slow, slow, glorious torture. Then stronger, deeper, until her breath caught on moans and her heart thundered under his hands. And driving, driving, fast, wild, and straight into the heart of the storm.

She slid bonelessly down on him, rested her head on his chest. Her lips curved when his arms came around her, as they had around the wolf before they’d slept.

She’d have slept again, warm and content, if not for the sudden and desperate hunger. She hoped to God there was food of some sort close by.

“You watched me change,” she told him.

“It’s not the first time.” He stroked her hair. “It’s magnificent. Oddly arousing.”

She snickered at that, then her head shot up as she sniffed the air. “Food.”

“There’s a kind of sitting room where—”

“No, here.” She rolled off him, leaped up.

On a table were platters—that hadn’t been there—eggs, grilled meats, bread, glossy pastries.

He pushed up to his elbows. “Tell me that’s coffee.”

She sniffed a pot as she stuffed bacon in her mouth. “Tea, but it’s strong. I’m starving.”

He watched her eat, still naked, still flushed from sex, her hair tousled and shaggy, her hands grabbing greedily.