Prisoner of Night (The Black Dagger Brotherhood #16.5)(26)

“It’s okay.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Well, don’t pretend I didn’t give you the answer you wanted.” She had no idea where her brass balls came from. Probably because she had nothing to lose. “I’m glad, actually.”

“You don’t seem petty enough to care what your wingman looks like.”

“It’s just good to know I can still feel this way.” As his stare came back to her, she shrugged. “It’s been forever. I thought . . . I guess, I thought sex wasn’t going to be a part of my life anymore. That the raids and losing my parents and my old life had taken that side of me away. It’s nice to know that’s not true—”

“It’s not right.”

She took a step back from him and cleared her throat. “Sorry. Guess I misread things.”

“No, not that.” He shook his head. “It’s just a complication that isn’t going to help you or me.”

“Agreed. But I don’t expect anything from you, you know.”

He shifted himself away from her, planting the soles of his boots on the bare metal floor. And as he stood up, he moved slowly, something she assumed was because of his soreness. But then . . .

There was a hard ridge at the front of his hips. A thick, hard ridge that distended the fly of his combats.

“My apologies,” he said roughly. “I can’t do anything about it other than promise you I’m not going there. I told you I wouldn’t hurt you, and I mean it.”

As if sex with him couldn’t be anything other than painful for her.

As if he were dirty.

Ahmare thought about the time they had here in the bunker, the hours they were going to have to spend trapped together in this stainless steel wayside mission that sheltered them from the sun.

It was mysterious who a person wanted. And only sometimes did it make sense.

“The hair can wait,” he said gruffly. “Let’s just try and get some sleep. Like I told you, you get the bunk, I’ll take the floor. Not that there’s much difference to them.”





15




TWILIGHT IN A MAN-MADE universe.

Duran played God in their stainless steel world, lowering the lights, the glow off all the metal a false gloaming. In the near darkness, he sat on the floor across from the bunk Ahmare was on, his back against the wall, his legs out in front of him. He tried not to listen to her breathing. Dwell on her scent. Hear the rustle as she took off her windbreaker and used it as a pillow.

He should have thought to bring a blanket for her.

As time began to crawl by and the silence thickened to hair shirt proportions, the lack of illumination amplified his senses and his absorption in her. But he wasn’t sure that wouldn’t have happened anyway.

More shuffling, and thanks to his peripheral vision, he could tell she was facing him now. He didn’t trust himself to look right at her. If he did, he might be tempted to get up, walk over, and give her something softer to lie on.

Something naked to lie on.

“How did you get the name Duran?” she asked.

He closed his eyes and savored his name on her lips. It made him feel blessed in some way . . . anointed.

Okay, that was crazy. But the trouble was, in this quiet, dim space, his emotions toward this female were as expansive as his senses, and everything about this time with her was like a horizon, a vast sky under which he could travel, safe from foul weather and sheltered from all harm, back to a home he’d never had.

Back to her, even though she was neither a destination nor anywhere he’d ever been before.

It was all a falsehood, he told himself, created by the chemistry between them. Except . . . sometimes when you felt things deeply enough, the strength of the delusions was such that reality could get rewired, at least temporarily. He knew this because of what he’d seen in the cult. He’d witnessed firsthand what devotion did to people, watched it turn a corrupt mortal into a savior in the eyes of lost souls who were willing to surrender every part of themselves to another.

He had always vowed such a thing would never happen to him.

“It doesn’t matter,” he muttered, answering her question about his name.

“So it came from your father?”

“He insists people call me by it, yes.”

She was frowning, he thought without looking at her. He could sense her thinking things over.

“Can I ask you something?” she said.

“You just did.”

“Who is your father, exactly.”

“It doesn’t matter—”

“He’s the Dhavos, isn’t he.”

Duran stretched his arms overhead and cracked his back. In any other circumstance, he would have avoided the question—by leaving the room, if he had to. No such luck on that one.

“Yes,” he said after a while. “He is. His name is Excalduran.”

As she exhaled, the way her breath left her, long and slow and low, was an I’m-sorry that he appreciated she didn’t put into words.

“So it’s eight in the morning,” she murmured.

Duran frowned. “Really?”

“You know,” she continued, “I’ve been lying to myself. In my head, I’ve been saying that we’ll be here twelve hours. That’s all I’ve been willing to grant the daylight. But with it being summer? Fifteen, I figure. At least.”