Hunt the Darkness (Guardians of Eternity #11)(46)

“No,” she moaned in a tortured voice. “Leave me alone. Please . . . please.”

Roke moved forward, his heart clenching as he watched her struggle against an unseen foe.

“Shh, my love,” he murmured, joining her on the bed and pulling her into his arms. “I’ve got you.”

She thrashed against him, whimpering in fear until he lowered his head and brushed a soft kiss against her forehead.

“Roke?”

“Easy, love,” he husked, his hand running a gentling path up and down her back.

“Roke?” Slowly she lifted her lashes to reveal her eyes still dark with terror. “What happened?”

He tucked her tight against his chest left bare by his gaping robe.

“You were having a bad dream.”

“Oh.” She shuddered, sucking in a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he said, pressing a finger to her lips. “Tell me why you were screaming.”

Her lashes lowered, as if hoping to disguise her lingering unease.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, her tone fierce, as if she was trying to convince herself. “It’s over.”

“I shared my nightmare,” he reminded her, using the tip of his finger to trace the line of her lower lip. “It won’t bring Fala back, but it did allow me to accept her death without the bitterness that has been destroying me. Sometimes a wound has to be lanced before it can truly heal.”

Thankfully his low words seemed to offer a measure of comfort, and he could feel her tension easing as she nestled her head against the width of his chest.

“Maybe this wound shouldn’t heal.”

“I don’t believe that.” He leaned down to give the lobe of her ear a punishing nip. “Tell me.”

She grudgingly tilted back her head to meet his steady gaze.

“The Dark Lord.”

Roke brushed the damp strands of her hair from her face, already having expected what tormented her.

“He’s dead, Sally. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

“I know that logically, but—”

He stroked his fingers down her throat. “But?”

Another shiver wracked her slender body. “Do you know why the Dark Lord accepted me as a disciple?”

He settled back against the headboard, cradling her shivering body in his lap.

“I assume it has something to do with the fact that you happen to be one of the most powerful witches ever born?”

“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult.”

He brushed his lips over the top of her head. “I’m not sure either,” he admitted wryly. “You terrify the hell out of me.”

She gave a shaken laugh before she was sucking in a steadying breath.

“I was still on the run, trying to hide from the witches my mother had sent to trace me when the Dark Lord . . . contacted me. He said I possessed a talent that no one else had.”

Roke grimaced. He was familiar enough with the evil deity to know the bastard no doubt smashed into poor Sally’s mind with the force of a cement truck.

“What was your talent?”

“I was a conduit.”

Roke frowned. “What’s a conduit?”

Her hand gripped his upper arm, her heart pounding at the memory.

“The Dark Lord could speak directly through me,” she rasped. “I had a direct connection so he could use me like I was his personal cell phone.”

“Shit.” He slid his lips to her temple, his arms wrapping around her as if he could take away the horror. He’d been wrong. The Dark Lord hadn’t been like a cement truck in her brain. He’d been a constant, pulsing, malevolent force. “I’m so sorry, Sally. I wish I could scrub away the memories.” His lips moved to her cheek. “Actually, if you weren’t so damned powerful I could scrub them.”

“No.” Her hand unconsciously smoothed up his arm to his shoulder. “I need to remember the danger of putting my fate in someone else’s hands.”

Roke glanced toward the heavens. Of course she would use the memory of her brutal enslavement by the Dark Lord to try to build an even greater wall between them.

“Putting yourself in someone else’s hands isn’t always bad,” he murmured, deliberately allowing his fingers to trail down her back. Being the good guy clearly wasn’t working. Maybe it was time for a more direct approach. “We all need to depend on someone once in a while.”

She made a sound of disbelief. “Mister Lone Wolf trying to preach to me about depending on someone else?”

He trailed his lips up the line of her jaw, savoring the scent of peaches as he found the racing pulse just below her ear.

“I depend on others,” he assured her.

She swallowed a small groan, her nails digging through the thin silk of his robe.

“Who?”

“My clan.” He used the tip of his tongue to trace the large vein on the side of her neck. “My Anasso.” He tugged aside the narrow strap that held up her satin nightgown she’d no doubt found in the closet. “You.”

“Me?” She sounded genuinely shocked. “What would you depend on me for?”

It was a question he’d been avoiding since the mating first happened.