The Darkness in Dreams (Enforcer's Legacy, #1)(68)

Christan parked the large vehicle and lifted Lexi in his arms. She struggled; Christan brushed his fingers across her forehead and calmed her.

The caretaker met him at the arched, double wooden doors, holding one open. Christan nodded in greeting and carried her inside with the swift sure steps of a man who had lived in that space for a very long time.

Even in the dark he knew his way around. There was the large kitchen, leading to the vaulted main salon. Delicate painted frescoes of pastoral scenes covered the walls. At one end of the main salon, a massive staircase led to the second floor, framed with black iron railing. He took the stairs two at a time, not breathing hard as he shouldered his way into the bedroom. Paused, considering what she would think. This had been their room four hundred years ago. The memories were thick and buried in every corner. But he had no choice. He would do what he needed to do.

Moving into the bathroom, he stripped the dirty clothes from her body. She had roused enough to stand on her own, but he held one hand on her shoulder as he turned the taps in the modernized shower. She felt too fragile, and he stripped off his own bloody clothes, then lifted her and stepped beneath the spray. At the first sign of her resistance, he just held her, stroking along her arm. Her breathing calmed. The water was warm as it soothed across her skin, and for a long time he simply held her upright until she shuddered once.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he said as she opened her eyes.

Lexi didn’t seem to know what to say, so Christan reached for the lemon scented soap. Gently, so as not to alarm her, he smoothed his hands over her collarbones, then down her back. He needed to do this. Each reincarnation was seared into his soul. No matter what color her hair, what body type she possessed, he could touch her like this and know her.

He would never tell her, but he felt so proud of her courage. His warrior girl. She hadn’t flinched in the face of violence, hadn’t run this time. She’d grown into a new skin and it thrilled him, sizzled across his nerve endings. Made him a little irrational. He felt it, in the way his fingers tightened before he let her go.

Need pressed against him, but Christan forced it back. With quick movements, he washed the blood from his skin, his hands easy and comfortable with his own needs. She’d watched him fight and refused to leave until he was safe. Then he’d asked her to drive where the imprints from Gemma would be the most intense. He knew the memories had returned, just by looking at the new amber line that burned beneath her skin. She would hate him for it, and perhaps he deserved it more now than ever.

He reached for the shampoo and worked the lather into her hair, pressing against her scalp. Bits of dirt washed away with the lather, and he ran his fingers through the pale strands, spreading them across her wet shoulders, smoothing down the center of her back. He loved her hair. Loved it best when she bent over him, the silken veil cocooning them while he moved deep within her. Abruptly, he turned off the water, lifted her, wrapped a large towel and carried her back into the bedroom, ignoring his own nudity. Kindling had been laid in the fireplace. Flames burst into life. He settled himself in a chair, close enough to feel the warmth, and held her.




She was so warm, snuggled deep into the curve of a masculine shoulder. Hard arms surrounded her. His fingers were stroking her leg as if soothing a restless child.

Lexi knew that touch. She recognized the strength in those corded arms, breathed in the intimate fragrance of male flesh tinged slightly with lemon soap. Her eyes opened. Slowly she pushed out of his arms, realizing she was wrapped in a towel and he was wrapped in her.

It would be better if she could move away, but then he would be exposed. And he knew it. A slow, wicked smile curved his lips, and Lexi looked around. The room was familiar, too. The walls were a soft earthy rose, but once they’d been white. The floor was cool tile beneath her feet. A carved Italian four poster bed rested against the far wall and was deep in shadow, still draped in white linen. Tall windows overlooked what she knew would be a garden where she’d once played as a child, loved as a young woman. Where she’d cried and begged and lost everything. Emotions rose and nearly overwhelmed her. Lexi lunged to her feet, but before she could run, he was behind her. His big hands circled her arms, holding her steady.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered in her hair. “I shouldn’t have brought you here without warning.”

It took her a moment before she could speak.

“I remember, Christan,” she said as she turned to look at him. “I remember Gemma.”




They were sitting on the thick rug in front of the fire. Lexi was curled in a white robe. Christan had donned a pair of jeans and was stretched out like a great cat. The caretaker, an elderly Brit named William Strome, brought up food, and Christan insisted she eat.

Firelight spilled warm light across the floor, over the curve of Christan’s shoulder. He was shirtless. Hard muscles across his chest bore the scars of his life. It was the first time Lexi had seen the entire tattoo that snaked across his back and shoulder, down his left arm to just below the elbow. It was pagan, the copper and black lines forming an intricate tracing beneath the skin, a primitive language that spoke of violence and war. She remembered touching, biting some of those lines. She refused to look away.

Christan was watching her, his expression guarded.

She reached out and touched him.

“What are these lines?”

“My life.”