The Darkness in Dreams (Enforcer's Legacy, #1)(23)
She knew he had been hunting her for weeks, but not in a bad way. He kept her company in the sharp, clear way he had, always watching. He was a mystery older than time. But she’d not been frightened. Had never been frightened of who she knew him to be. He had been her silent companion for weeks until she’d had enough, of his reticence, his demanding power. She’d turned to face him, there on the open plain, in the midst of her father’s goats. Without her weapons, with no other human nearby. And held out her slender hand.
Their passion had been as wild as the ancient story. When he changed into his human form she’d been awed by the beauty in his bladed face, the midnight eyes and dark hair lifting in the breeze. He was a warrior, but she had always known that he was, never questioned his ability to change form or the lethal efficiency when he had to deliver death. He never did it capriciously. There was always a need, but she would watch him when the shadows were dark and only the dancing yellow light drifted from the fire. When he would stare into the flames, lost in grief.
He was not always hard and remote. He carved a toy for her, whimsical. He offered it to her, half embarrassed. It was a little lion, exquisitely detailed. She tied it to a piece of leather and placed it around her neck so the lion lay close to her heart.
Over the weeks there were nights under skies drenched in stars, teasing in the deep pools beneath the towering boulders, long seductions in the caves hidden in the mountains. They learned each other’s needs, felt each other’s hearts. He taught her how to fight against a larger enemy. She taught him how to cook the rabbits she shot with her bow and wicked arrows.
They raced through the woods and sometimes he let her win. She thrilled when he chased her down and their passion would explode. He told her she was innocence, the one bright, pure thing in his dangerous world. She saw in him a majesty he would never accept for himself. They were each other’s mirror. His strength was her weakness, while her innocence brought him to his knees. She was in his heart, he told her, so deep he would never be free.
He would leave, and return, and leave again. But she always knew he’d come back, and when she stared up at the stars that split the midnight sky, she imagined him flying through the dark rift on some errand for the Gods. She would save up the stories for when he returned. Tell them, while grinding the bsisa, chickpeas with fenugreek and coriander. Tell them, while spilling the hot sweet tea during the evening ceremony, when she was baking the flatbread in sand ovens, tasting the olive oil mixed with dates and milk. She would curl against his side and he would tease her.
“So many stories, Gaia.”
“Not as many as the Grandmother.” And she would feel sad, as she thought of the woman who was young, but held the ages in her eyes. “I’ve not talked to her since I was a child. Perhaps she’s gone.”
“She will always be here,” he said, and kissed her forehead, “here,” and he kissed above her heart, “and here.” Kisses that moved until she no longer thought of stories or sadness or anything at all.
And then one day he simply wasn’t there.
She searched everywhere. She called, begged, fell to her knees and bargained. Panic filled her heart and then turned to dread. He would not disappear unless the one thing she feared had come to pass. And then that fear began to fade and was replaced by another. It wasn’t that he couldn’t come back, but that he chose not to come back.
And her heart began to break.
She cried herself to sleep until she could cry no more, until her eyes were so gritty and raw even her mother remarked about her distress. She busied herself with the goats, with the tending of the cook fires and the making of the bread. Her father watched while her mother turned to the other women for help.
But nothing could bring her back, and over the years she withdrew into her private world, where she would lie sleepless under the stars, imagining he was there in the darkness, watching her. And sometimes, as she drifted to sleep with the dawn, she would feel his soft caress against her lips and ache with a loss so deep she would never be free.
Lexi jerked upright. Her heart was pounding with grief, her skin cold with sweat. She bent her head to ease the tightness in her throat. She was used to the night terrors that woke her in the darkest hours, sending her out onto the deck to stare at the restless waves. Used to the dreams that were visceral, bloody, sharp stabs in the dark.
But this dream… this dream hadn’t come from the imagination. It hadn’t come from a suggestion played through a subliminal message on her phone.
This dream had been real, and her skin still quivered from the touch of his tongue, the stroke of possession that pooled with a heaviness that felt perfect and male and so deep inside a soft cry rose in her throat. She could still taste him in her mouth. Every bit as beautiful as she’d imagined. There wasn’t a part of her body that didn’t still ache. So long ago… all of it, lost.
It took too long to slow her racing heart, and when, in the dark, Lexi curled back on the bed she knew she would not sleep.
CHAPTER 10
When the dawn light warmed from gray to pink, Lexi slid out of bed. She picked up a red moose pillow, held it against her chest. The room didn’t scream phony as loudly as it did the night before, but Lexi missed her own bedroom.
She had spent months getting everything just right. There was the weathered grey planked floor—she’d added scattered white rugs to warm the wood in winter. Shelves lined one wall, displaying the driftwood collected the summer she turned nine, each bundle tied with red thread for good fortune. The old cabinet across from the door had been rescued from a thrift store and provided a bright spot of teal. The color complimented the warm gray of the mohair blanket folded at the end of the bed. The upholstered headboard with the tuck-and-roll design was in a muted sand-colored linen, matching the comforter that kept her warm on damp nights.