The Darkness in Dreams (Enforcer's Legacy, #1)(98)

“It’s lovely.”

“Arsen didn’t change anything—other than adding the lights to the pine cones,” Christan said with male uncertainty. “I think those are new.”

“It’s perfect.” Lexi walked closer to the fire, awkward now they were alone. “How long do you think the snow will last?”

“I’m not a weather man, cara,” he teased, tossing the towel aside. Lexi shifted beneath his gentle amusement, studying the smooth round rocks that framed the fireplace.

“I’d just forgotten, that’s all. How cold snow can be.”

She felt him step behind her, let him loosen her fingers where she clutched her coat like a virginal bride.

“Are you having a moment of doubt, cara?”

“I can’t really go back, can I?”

“No.”

“I mean, even though Arsen virtually rebuilt my cottage, I could still tell.”

“I knew you would.” His fingers slipped under her hair, stroked across her nape, moving lower to ease the tension from her upper back. “Someday, maybe you can have another cottage.”

“Yes. Someday.” She tipped her head forward but he had already moved away. She missed his touch immediately.

“Would you like me to leave?”

Her heart clenched. “No.”

Slowly, she turned to face him, studying the unyielding power he held in check, waiting. She remembered the way she loved him. Had always loved him. She was lost, with no words she could say that would break this moment of sharpened awareness. The distance that remained between them, that sense of separation, hit her with a fierceness that was both helpless and tender.

She held out her hand.

“Please.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” He walked toward her, sliding his big hand from her shoulder down her arm to close around her hand, lacing their fingers.

“I have something to show you.”




The bathroom was exactly how she remembered, but this time there were candles on every surface. He led her through the door and flicked a tiny flame to each wick as she watched. The breath caught in her throat. He stood behind her. She could feel his heat as he gently held her shoulders, no more, just held her, as if he was afraid she would disintegrate if he held too tightly. And maybe he was, afraid as she had been afraid, of losing something so elusive. His eyes were fiercely tense when she turned to face him.

“I’m sorry. I need to tell you, I shouldn’t have walked away from you.”

“I understood. The immortal world can be hard to understand.”

She shook her head. “Not then. Not because of Seattle. That was wrong, too. I’m talking about when I was Gemma and I walked away.”

His eyes had darkened and one corner of his mouth moved up, but not in humor. “I thought you were you, now,” he said. “Don’t apologize for the past.”

There were tears in her eyes. “I must. Because if I had been me then, I wouldn’t have walked away. Not from your rage. From what I saw in your eyes. I would have held you. Loved you. I wouldn’t have given up on us.” His entire body tensed, and she was suddenly afraid. “Will you touch me?”

He stood back, leaned against the wall and she felt his power warm and soft against her skin.

“No,” she said, slowly pulling the sweater and the lacy camisole beneath it over her head, dropping the clothes beside her feet and kicking them to a corner. She was naked from the waist up, her hair—a shaft of sunlight in winter—sliding like a silken curtain across her breasts. “Will you touch me with your hands? Really touch me?”

He hesitated. She slid her fingers down, released the zipper from her jeans, pushed them along with her panties over her hips to the floor, kicked them aside, too. It was just the two of them and this moment, where they either reached for each other or they didn’t. She waited.

He removed his shirt and she saw the pagan tattoo move beneath his skin, felt the answering tingle at her wrist. He was so frighteningly beautiful, totally male. The muscles of his chest, the tight stomach, narrow hips—she watched his hands slide to the jeans, unfasten the button. With quick movements he was naked, his erection hard. The remembered strength made her shift restlessly.

“Cara,” he said as he reached her. He traced his fingers lightly across her cheek and down her throat, then brushed aside her hair to cup her breast. “Why do you ask me to touch you?”

“I have to know, Christan.”

“What do you have to know?”

“If it was real.”

“It’s real,” he whispered.

“Are you sure?”

“You are my heart, cara.” He reached behind her to turn on the shower. Multiple shower heads filled the glass enclosure and he backed her beneath the flow, soft as rain. Water, so warm against her head and shoulders as he stood in front of her. He reached for the bottle of lemon scented shampoo. His hands undid her, the feel of his fingers caressing every part of her scalp, her temples, her nape, tilting her head back to expose her throat as he rinsed her hair. She caught her breath, mesmerized by this immortal who touched her with such sensitivity that liquid fire ran through her veins. There would never be another male for her, and she wanted to do the same for him. She took the bottle, dragged her nails from the crown of his head to his nape until, with a shudder he took her lips and they kissed while soap slid slick across their bodies and swirled at their feet.