Inferno of Darkness (Order of the Blade #8) Page 7

  Lust burned through him, but it was more than lust. It was a driving, uncontrollable need for her. He wanted to claim her and make her his. He was consumed by the urge to seal their bond until nothing could ever break it. With a low growl, he shifted her off him and unfastened his pants. In one swift move, he had them off. He tossed them on the ground beneath her as a covering. He took her in his arms and kissed her, but this time, he savored it. It was as if his urgency had been sated, knowing that it was close, knowing that he was going to do this, that she was going to be his.

  With tantalizing slowness, he eased her dress over her head, her violet-blue eyes locked on his as she raised her arms over her head and allowed him to slip it off her in shimmering cascades of magic and light. He slipped off her silken undergarment, and then froze in shock at the sight of her body…luminescent perfection marred by slashes across her belly, deep scars that had burned themselves into angry black cuts across her flesh.

  The anger that rose within him was like a sharp flash of white-hot fury, and he went down on his knees, wrapping his arms around her waist and pressing his lips to each wound. “Who did this?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer. Instead, she wrapped her arms around his head, holding him to her as he kissed each injury. He could taste the taint in the wounds, the dark energy swirling through them. They were more than pain. They were suffering. They were agony. They were punishment. They were betrayal. He felt her pain in each kiss, her belly trembling in response. Swearing, he eased her back onto the ground, never lifting his head, sending his Calydon healing energy into each kiss, even though he knew it was impossible to share it with anyone except another Calydon or his mate. But still he offered it, thrust it out into her body, willing her soul to accept it.

  Heat began to burn, and he placed his hand over her belly, shocked to discover that the warmth was coming from her injuries. It was a pure heat, a healing energy. Had he done that? Had he reached her? Deep satisfaction thrummed through him, and for the first time in his life, he began to understand the allure of a sheva. He finally began to comprehend the need to bond with a woman and offer her the kind of protection that only a soul mate could give. Suddenly, the urge to make her his reverberated through him, and the protective runes on his arms seared his flesh, as if his soul was fighting the constraints that he himself had put there so indelibly.

  “Come,” Elisha whispered, tugging at his shoulders. “Kiss me, Dante. I need to feel your kiss.”

  He responded to her plea willingly, bracing himself above her as he kissed her. What had been a savoring temptation quickly became a dark, pulsating need for more. A quiet seduction wasn’t enough. A kiss would never satisfy what was building between them. His kisses grew deeper, more demanding, more ruthless, and so did hers. He let his hips lower and groaned as he felt the heat of her skin against his. Her nipples were taut against his chest. Her belly was soft beneath his cock. Her hips undulated in an invitation that every cell in his body screamed to accept.

  He slid his knee between her thighs, sliding his hand to grasp her calf. He bent his head to her breast, grazing his teeth over her nipple as he raised her leg and wrapped it behind his lower back. She gasped, gripping his shoulders as she writhed beneath him, her back arching in a desperate invitation for more.

  Finesse deserted him. Class was no more. Seduction was hopeless. The need to possess her was too great, too deafening, too desperate. It was more than lust. It was a towering inferno of such need that it crawled through every pore of his body, driving him with relentless ferocity. He grabbed her other leg and wrapped it around him, his control shuddering when she hooked her ankles behind his back, relinquishing all her defenses, turning herself over to him completely.

  He grasped her hands and pinned them above her head as he moved over her, searching her face, needing to see those violet-blue pools fastening on him, only him. Her thick eyelashes framed her hooded gaze as she watched him intently, as if she needed to see him as much as he needed to see her. “My Elisha,” he whispered as he moved his hips until he was pressing against her entrance. “Mine.”

  She shook her head, twisting restlessly beneath him, her breath coming in shallow gasps. “No one owns me,” she said. “No one. No matter what binds me. No matter what shackles hold me. No matter what I am compelled to do. I am the only one who holds my heart.”

  With those powerful, brave words, Dante felt his world shatter. The anguish and courage in her eyes touched his very heart. He kissed her fiercely, then pressed his lips to her ear. “Then I shall not seek to own you,” he whispered. “But I give all of myself to you. I am yours. Forever.” Then with one swift thrust, he buried himself inside her.

  She gasped, her belly contracting at the invasion.

  He pulled back, meeting her gaze as he began to move inside her. Slowly, ever so slowly, he withdrew, and then drove again, never breaking eye contact with her. The vulnerability in her eyes was agonizing, but at the same time, the trust shining in them made him want to go down on his knees before her and proclaim his loyalty to her.

  Suddenly, watching her wasn’t enough. He needed to taste her, to touch her, to connect them on all levels. He bent his head and kissed her again, driving deeply, his whole body shaking with the depth of his need for her. Never had he felt like this. Never had he wanted a woman so badly. Never had he understood what it might be like to fall to the sheva bond, or to even want to. But in this moment, with Elisha in his arms, he simply wanted the world to stop and hold this moment suspended in eternity.

  Despite what she said, Elisha was his. His.

  Chapter Six

  Having Dante inside her was incredible beyond words. His strength, his power, and the way he looked at her seemed to melt the walls around her heart. Elisha felt tears building inside as she watched the play of emotions across Dante’s face as he moved within her with tantalizing slowness. Despite his ardent claims to the contrary, he wasn’t cold or detached. He was deeply, intensely real in every way. His kisses were like an infusion of raw need and unapologetic lust. His grip on her wrists, pinned way above her head, should have been scary, but it was simply a decadent, seductive display of his strength. Instinctively, she knew he would never hurt her. Holding her wrists like that was a game, a show of power by him, and a trusting surrender by her to the raw maleness of who he was.

  Never before had sex been pure pleasure, without the threat of pain. She’d never been able to relax and not worry about what it would lead to. But in Dante’s arms, shielded by the surreal strength of his frame, at the mercy of a man stronger than any she had ever known, she felt no fear. All she felt was a deliciously wonderful desire licking through her, flames that seemed to be starting in her belly and spreading outward. She loved how his eyes were darkening, becoming hooded with lust and want. “Kiss me,” she whispered. “I want to feel your lips on mine.”

  His immediate response, swooping down to kiss her, was a heady sensation. She loved both the fact that she’d dared to tell him what she’d wanted, and that he’d given it to her. And the kiss itself was amazing. His tongue was a fiery stroke of seduction, of passion, of intimacy so private that it was like a combustible secret just for them.

  Fire licked away at her, building and roiling, spreading out from her belly toward her toes and fingers. Her breath became shallow. Need crashed through her. Their kisses became more desperate and more demanding. He thrust deeper, and even deeper, withdrawing with agonizing torment and then plunging into her again, their bodies coming together in the slick, wet heat of unstoppable frenzy. More kisses, more touching, more, and more, and more—

  The orgasm tore through her, dragging a scream from her throat as she arched backward, flinging herself with reckless abandon into the sensations tearing through her. Dante shouted her name, and then bucked against her, filling her with his seed as it poured out of him in a torrent of passion. Again and again the orgasm took them both, a merciless, magnificent crescendo of explosive sex, endless desire, and a relent
less, eternal connection that would never release them.

  Ever.

  ***

  For a long time, neither of them spoke. Dante just held Elisha in his arms, their bodies tangled around each other. Her head was nestled against his shoulder, and Dante pressed his face to her hair, nuzzling the soft tresses. He’d wrapped one arm tightly around her, holding her close, while he traced small circles around her breasts with his index finger. “Your skin is so fragile,” he said, unable to keep the awe out of his voice. “So soft. I’m afraid to breathe too hard or you’ll shatter.”

  Elisha laughed softly, a throaty sound that made him smile. “How can you say that after you just made love to me like that? You weren’t being careful then.”

  “No, I wasn’t.” He kissed her lightly, pretty damn certain he would never get tired of kissing her. It was kind of shocking that something that simple could be so immensely satisfying, but it was. “Are you okay?”

  She smiled at him, her eyes blossoming with warmth. “Yes, you silly man, of course I am. Making love with you was the most beautiful moment I’ve ever experienced.”

  He laughed, caught up in her charm, but stupidly pleased by her comment. He liked the idea of being the one to show her what it could be like, to be the one that mattered. “You’re just saying that to stroke my ego so that I’ll save the world for you.”

  “No, I’m not.” Her smile faded, and she placed her hand on his jaw. “Dante, there’s so little beauty that exists. So little warmth. So little kindness. What you just gave me, I’ll treasure for all my existence. It will give me the power to keep my heart open no matter how much darkness consumes me, no matter how much pain takes me.”

  Dante frowned at her words. “Elisha, I’m not the brightness. It’s you.”

  She laughed softly. “It can’t be me—”

  “In my world, you are.”

  She sighed as she trailed her finger over the runes on his arm. “Then your life must have been as dark as mine.”

  Dark anger rolled through Dante at the thought of Elisha experiencing the kind of life he’d had, and all his peacefulness vanished. “Shit, woman, you deserve more than my life.”

  “As do you. You’ve been through so much,” she mused softly.

  A foreign sensation drifted through him, a sense of connection that unsettled him. He wasn’t sure whether he was irritated that she’d seen his truth, or whether he liked it. “You can tell? Is it my lack of boyish charm that clued you in?”

  She raised her eyebrow at him. “Well, your foot for one thing. What happened to it?”

  His eyes narrowed, not wanting to taint her or this moment with his past. The past was an albatross, contaminating the present and stripping hope from the future. “Hangnail.”

  She punched him lightly in the chest. “Seriously. It looks cursed.”

  “Cursed?” Her comment caught his interest, and he looked at her sharply. “I just figured it was poisoned. I never thought of a curse. Why do you say that?”

  “Because…” It was difficult for Elisha to articulate it. She didn’t have a specific reason. Now that she’d seen it close up, that had been her instinct, after all the curse damage she’d seen in her life. But maybe she was wrong. Maybe it was simply poison. Pulling out of his grasp, she sat up and gestured to his foot. “Can I touch it?”

  His eyes were dark, watching her intently. He was lounging on his back with his hands locked behind his head. His biceps were flexed and one knee was cocked, showcasing parts of him that made her body radiate with heat. His sleek, muscular body completely relaxed, yet taut with vigilant readiness. “Sweetheart, there’s no part of my body that’s off-limits to you after what we just did.”

  “You’re such a deviant.” Her cheeks flushed, and she leaned forward to study his foot. The skin was blackened and charred. His foot and lower leg were twisted and mangled, as if every bone had been crushed and torn apart. She held her hand above it, and sharp pinpricks of pain jabbed into her palm. She sucked in her breath and turned her hand over. Sure enough, her hand was dotted with hundreds of microscopic marks, like malignant pin pricks. Fear rippled through her and she glanced at him. “I think it is cursed. What happened?”

  He was watching her more intently now. His pose was the same but a new level of tension was rippling through his body. “Why do you think it’s cursed?”

  “Watch.” She moved so she was sitting in front of him, her legs on either side of his. Carefully, she lifted his leg onto her lap.

  Dante gritted his teeth, and he bit out a curse under his breath. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.

  “I know. Sorry.” She laid her hands on either side of his ankle and gently opened her mind to his injury. Her fingers became translucent and melted through his flesh. He swore and his leg jerked, as if he had to fight to keep himself from pulling away.

  “You’re like ice,” he said.

  “It’s not me,” she said, as she carefully wove her fingers through his cells. “It’s the damage.” Slowly, ever so slowly, his foot began to shimmer and fade, becoming slightly transparent. As his skin turned the same sparkly blue of her hands, a pulsing, black shadow became visible beneath his flesh. It was moving and swirling, as if it were alive. Cold fear gripped her. “Dear God,” she whispered, horrified by what she saw. “How is that possible?”

  “Jesus.” Dante sat up, staring at his leg. “What’s that?”

  “The black magic residue.” Her fingers began to tremble from the effort of connecting with him, and she eased her hands out of his leg. Her whole body was shaking now, and she fisted her hands, trying to cleanse them of what she’d just touched. “How did you get this?”

  “My father did it when I was fighting him. What is it?”

  His father had done that to him? “It’s a curse from beyond the nether-realm, originating in the queen’s darkness.” She looked at him, even as she touched his foot again, as if she could fix it by sheer strength of will. “It’s made from my mother’s energy, Dante. The curse is from my world.”

  His jaw tightened. “He cursed me? You’re shitting me.” Dante shouldn’t have been shocked by her revelation. He’d seen his father’s brutality for years. He’d known his leg was rotting from the moment his father had sliced across his ankle with a blade he’d never seen him wield before, a blade that he’d assumed had contained poison. He’d taken it as another example of what a bastard his father was, fighting with poison instead of relying on his own skills. But a curse? That was worse, because it was destruction on a whole new level, one that attacked the soul, not just the body.Anger rolled through him, fury against the man who had spent his life claiming he was a hero, when he was nothing but scum. “How do I stop it?”

  “It depends on what it is. It might not be…there might not be anything you can do.” She met his gaze, and her face was anguished. “But there’s no way to predict. They’re all different.” She ran her hand over his leg again, but this time, she kept her hands corporeal. Her touch was soft and gentle, a balm that eased the throbbing in his leg. He closed his eyes, focusing entirely on her touch, on the feel of her hands on him, and on the respite she gave him. He was so used to living with the pain in his leg that it was almost shocking to feel his leg begin to relax under her soothing caress. She was doing something to his leg, and it felt incredible.

  “I remember this,” he said quietly, trying to force his mind away from the grim prophecy she’d just dealt him. He needed to clear his mind and stay focused if he had any chance of moving forward and finishing his last task before he died: saving the world without sacrificing Elisha.

  “Remember what?”

  “The feeling of being touched in kindness.” Old memories surfaced, memories he’d shut down for so long, memories he’d buried out of necessity. “My mother was kind.” Suddenly, he remembered her so clearly. Her blue eyes, the way she’d hugged him, the way she’d sat over his bed every night with a sword, waiting for his father to return to take him. He recalled ho
w she’d kept them on the run, constantly moving, trying to hide from the man who she knew would be coming for Dante. “I used to have nightmares that my father had found me, and she would hold me at night and chase the demons away.” He opened his eyes to see Elisha staring at him, her radiant blue-violet eyes shimmering with emotion. “Your touch is like that, too,” he said quietly. “Gentle. Soothing.” He grinned, a sudden, wicked gleam in his eyes. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s completely different than a mother’s touch. But good.”

  She swallowed, and her palms tightened around his ankle. “What does it feel like?” she whispered. “To be touched like this?”

  There was so much yearning in her voice that he forgot his own pain. “You don’t know?”

  She shook her head, her hair tumbling over her shoulders, even as she continued to tend to his leg. “When you kissed me, it was the first time that I’ve been kissed and not been afraid of what was to follow. It was amazing, and beautiful, but it was still a sexual touch, so it’s different.” She hesitated, and then looked down at her arm.

  He could see bruises on her forearm, dark purple marks that hadn’t been there before. Fierce protectiveness surged through him, and a low growl echoed deep in his chest. “Where did those come from?”

  “I had them all along. I just hid them from you.” She shrugged, not answering his question about how she got them. “I can control how much of my true self manifests. Will you—” She hesitated, as if uncertain whether she should ask.

  She didn’t have to ask. He knew what she wanted. Wordlessly, he took her hand in his and pressed a kiss to the bruises. It wasn’t a sexual kiss. It was a kiss of comfort and healing, one that asked for nothing in return. She sucked in her breath, her eyes wide as she watched him. He laid his palm over her arm and focused his Calydon healing energy into the wound. A Calydon could heal only his sheva and other Calydons, so he knew he couldn’t heal her, but they were connected enough that maybe she could feel some relief. Warmth flowed from his hand into her arm, and he stroked her bruised skin gently.