Lover Arisen (Black Dagger Brotherhood #20)(34)

Centuries had passed, however, and therefore perspectives had changed. Unless one had hopped across all the years as opposed to plodding through them.

Time, as it turned out, was not linear in the strict sense of the word. It was more like a book full of short stories, all of the moments simultaneously re-readable, relivable, existing in paralleled perpetuity because they were bound together. Mortals, like readers, passed through each proverbial page of their tale, the letters, the spaces, the punctuation being the years, the decades, the life they lived.

None of them had any idea that it was all predestined. Even their free-will choices were a given—because their fates were on an endless loop, nothing finishing, just infinitely restarting, ever new, ever old.

The trick was, once you started your story, you couldn’t not finish it. And you had no choice but to read and no conscious memory of what you had been through before.

It was vital that mortals did not know the truth of time. If they did… they could jump into the stories of others and influence things they were not supposed to—and like a third party editing something that had already been published, that was a mess the original author did not care for.

Rahvyn re-leveled her head. As she regarded the meadow, she felt herself get sucked back in time, although not metaphysically. With her memories coming to the forefront, she was transported to another field, one that had been in the “Old Country.” And there, beside her, was her cousin, Sahvage, yelling at her, his face twisted into rage. He was screaming at her to go as the guards approached—but she would not leave him… and then the arrows came… and he was killed in front of her.

After that, other things happened, violent things, things that changed her, but in a necessary way. The pain she endured had given her the power to bring Sahvage back—and then she had had to leave him. He had seen inside her the change. He had also seen what she had done to the aristocrat who had taken her so violently. She had thusly come here, to this point in time and this location, to find him once more. She had hated to force Sahvage to suffer with not knowing what her fate had been, but she knew he needed centuries to evolve from what he had seen her do.

And now they were here, in Caldwell, the two of them once more together. He had even found a mate, which was such a blessing.

He did not look at Rahvyn the same way, however. How could he.

Thoughts of the little cottage they had once shared, back when she had been an orphan and he had been her whard, had her glancing at the farmhouse where she had been staying. The females there had been so kind to her, so gentle.

If they knew she had skinned alive a male and impaled him through his anus on a pole, right over the entry to his castle, would they continue to be as compassionate? She did not think so. And yes, it had been centuries ago for their timeline, but that murder, and all the others that evening, had been so violent, she did not believe the traditional passage of years mediated them at all.

Which was, of course, why her cousin treated her differently.

Lifting her hands, she stared down at them, expecting to see blood dripping off her fingers and gleaming red in the moonlight. For her, the carnage had been mere nights ago. Her body was still sore from how the aristocrat had used her.

He had deserved everything that had come unto him. She regretted nothing. She did have a secret now, though, and a side to her that no one knew about.

No, that was not true. Sahvage suspected it, and that was why he looked at her the way he now did. The young that he had been so carefully protecting… had turned out to be something he feared.

“I do not belong,” she whispered into the night. “Here or anywhere.”

Some kind of movement pulled her out of her internal trap, and as she focused properly, she realized she had pivoted to fully face the farmhouse.

In the windows of the kitchen, there was a gather of three, two males and a female. They were sitting at the table, a piece of paper between them, some kind of sketching going on.

The dark-haired male in the sweatshirt captured and held her attention, and as if he sensed her regard even through the distance that separated him, he looked up and stared out at her.

With the lights on as they were for Nate, he could not in fact see her.

It was best that things stayed that way for her sake.

But mostly for his.





CHAPTER ELEVEN




Erika regained consciousness to find herself lying with her head cradled in the crook of a strong arm and one of her hands clasped in a warm, firm grip. As her eyes fluttered open like she was a damn Victorian, she was confused by the stained ceiling overhead, and what was that delicious smell—

She sat up in a rush. The sight of Connie’s body, laid out on a bare mattress, brought it all back.

Wrenching around, she looked into the face… of the man she had been trying to find, who she just knew she had seen properly in her dreams. But the recognition of him was as far as she got. The moment his features registered, her thoughts began to spin and the buzzing that had knocked her out returned. Aware that she was likely to pass out again, she grabbed hold of his leather jacket and jerked their heads together.

Except before she could demand to know what he was doing to her, he said roughly, “How do you know.”

It wasn’t a question, more a declaration. What was he talking about?

Whatever. That wasn’t what was important.

“You’ve done something to my memory,” she groaned through the pain between her temples. “You need to stop it—”