Into the Flame (45 page)

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Authors: Christina Dodd

Tags: #paranormal romance

BOOK: Into the Flame
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Womanlike, she said, ‘‘Do not, I beg you, tell me what I can and cannot do. It’s a bad start for our married life.’’
‘‘Seriously. I don’t want you to marry me for your father’s peace of mind or our son. I want you to marry me for the same reason I want to marry you.’’
The way he spoke, the way he looked . . . she was starting to get hopeful. ‘‘And what’s your reason for wanting to marry me?’’
‘‘I love you with all that I am.’’
She slid her arms around his neck and kissed him. Kissed his cheeks, kissed his eyes, kissed his chin, kissed his lips. ‘‘That’s exactly the reason I want to marry you.’’
He looked at her, searching her face as if he had to see the proof. Then he stood up and rummaged through his duffel.
She watched, feeling a little stupid, a little used, the woman who had just given her whole soul into this man’s keeping—which apparently reminded him that he needed to pack his clean underwear.
But he pulled out a small black velvet box—a ring box—and slid to his knees beside the bed. ‘‘Firebird Wilder, you are my only chance for happiness. Will you marry me?’’ He popped the lid.
The ring inside was platinum, the stone a diamond. Or, at least, she thought it was a diamond. It was a little hard to see.
‘‘I bought this when I met you the first time. I was going to give it to you that night you finished your finals, and tell you who I was—the cougar was my subtle little hint—and ask you to marry me.’’ His complexion flushed as he spoke. ‘‘I bought the ring on a policeman’s salary, so it’s smaller than I’d like, but I’ve carried it with me ever since, and I thought we could get you a bigger one later, but—’’
‘‘Never!’’
He blinked in surprise.
‘‘We are never going to get me a bigger one.’’ Firebird was laughing and crying. She let him slide it on her finger. She looked at it from all sides. ‘‘This is exactly the ring I want. It’s perfect.’’ She cupped his face and kissed him, then kissed him again. ‘‘This is absolutely perfect.’’
Konstantine and Zorana waved Douglas and Firebird off to Las Vegas for their first wedding—before Zorana would let them go, she made them promise to celebrate a second wedding with the family, and for all Konstantine’s grousing, he was glad of that— then stood on the porch of their rented home. ‘‘Listen to the silence,’’ Konstantine said. ‘‘Have we ever not had a child living at home?’’
‘‘Briefly.’’ Zorana nodded. ‘‘I seem to remember it. Do you think Jasha and Ann will know what to do with Aleksandr?’’
‘‘If not, they’d better learn.’’ Taking Zorana’s hand, he said, ‘‘Let’s go for a walk.’’
‘‘Now? I wanted to order some good cookware off the Internet. Those pans I’m using are worthless.’’ But she clasped his fingers and followed him down the steps.
The street in Blythe was narrow and lined with trees, but it was a street, with neighbors and car noises and a loud radio next door. Konstantine missed his home. He missed the quiet, the pines, the grapes, his recliner, his toilet, and his own bed.
‘‘Where are we going?’’ she asked.
But he knew she knew.
It took an hour to walk to their valley.
When they rounded the corner, they stopped and looked, and Zorana cried to see the ruin of the past thirty-five years, and Konstantine sighed again.
Then they both straightened their shoulders.
‘‘It’s not so bad,’’ Konstantine said. ‘‘The vineyards and orchards are flooded and burned, but the Rom have done as they promised—the bodies are hauled off and the logs stacked up. Your relatives—when we rebuild, they should come and visit.’’
‘‘I’ll tell them.’’
She surprised him. ‘‘You know how to reach them?’’
The little witch looked sideways at him. ‘‘I have my ways.’’
They walked toward the house. In the end, even the fence had caught fire and burned.
‘‘Gutted,’’ he said. ‘‘A total loss.’’
‘‘Yes, but look!’’ She hurried through the scorched grass, into the blackened square where their house had stood. Lightly, she stepped over the charcoaled beams.
‘‘Be careful.’’ He watched her anxiously as she bent and he lost sight of her. ‘‘What is so important that you must go in there now?’’ he rumbled in a low voice.
She heard him, of course. Her head popped up. ‘‘Nothing much.’’ She started back toward him. ‘‘Only your heritage.’’ She arrived at his side. She held a flat, square tile covered with ash. She blew it clean, so that the white and gold and cherry red shone like new, and offered it to him with her blackened hands.
His family’s revered icon.
He braced himself for the pain and slowly reached out to take possession. He wrapped his fingers around the edges. . . . It did not burn him. He brushed his palm across the surface, over the four Madonnas. Each visage showed the Virgin Mary in a different aspect: joy, sorrow, pain and glory.
His ancestor, Konstantine, had killed for these icons.
Konstantine’s mother had died for these icons.
The devil had been defeated by these icons. Not forever. Not on all fronts. But when the icons were reunited, he had lost his dearest servants, and for that, Konstantine gave thanks.
He looked around at his land, still here, still rich, still fertile. He looked at the forest that surrounded it, where the wild creatures mated, flew, ran, lived. He looked at the sky, blue and warm with spring, breathed the air of freedom, and knew the joy of life reborn. ‘‘We have to plant again.’’
‘‘And rebuild the house, bigger this time.’’
He turned on Zorana. ‘‘Woman, the planting will cost a fortune. We don’t have the money for a bigger house.’’
‘‘We have insurance, and we will borrow from our sons.’’
‘‘We should
not
borrow from our sons.’’
‘‘Very well,
I
will borrow from their wives.’’
‘‘You . . . you dare! Woman!’’ He towered over her.
She stood up to him. As always, she stood up to him. ‘‘Konstantine, the troubles are over. By this time next year, we will have four new grandchildren. When they visit, where are you going to put them? We need a bigger house!’’
Almost he smiled to hear her making her plans. Almost, but he kept his face stern. ‘‘You foresee grandchildren? Not one, not two, not three, but four?’’ He showed her four fingers and lifted his eyebrows. ‘‘Are you having a vision?’’
‘‘A great vision, Konstantine.’’ She placed her hand on the icon. ‘‘Of you and me in a home with the Madonnas glowing in the corner, placed on a red tablecloth. Here on our land, we will live to be very old, surrounded by grapes and babies and happiness.’’
‘‘Humph.’’ He lowered his fingers. ‘‘Then I must be a seer, too, for I see the same vision.’’
And they were both right.
Don’t miss any of Christina Dodd’s
New York Times
bestselling
Darkness Chosen
series. . . .
In
Scent of Darkness
, we met Jasha Wilder, the first brother to attempt salvation for his cursed family. A shape-shifting wolf, Jasha introduced us to this compelling world.
In
Touch of Darkness
, we met Rurik Wilder, who shape-shifts into a hawk. Rurik, a learned archeologist, traveled
Asia
searching for clues that would allow his family some peace.
In
Into the Flame
, we met the shape-shifting cougar Doug Black, an angry young cop searching for the answers about his past. His one true love may hold the key to more than just his heart.
And now read on for an excerpt of
Into the Shadow
, where we meet Adrik Wilder, a sexy shape-shifting panther, who continues his brothers’ journey to break the evil pact that has held his family in thrall for centuries—until a woman comes along who changes the course of destiny. . . .
The dream started as it always did, with a gust of cold Himalayan air striking Karen Sonnet’s face.
She woke with a start. Her eyes popped open.
The darkness in her tent pressed on her eyeballs.
Impossible. Tonight she’d left a tiny LED burning.
Yet it
was
dark.
Somehow he’d obliterated the light.
No. No, it was a dream. Just like all those other nights.
But she could have sworn she was awake. She heard the constant wind that blew through this narrow mountain valley, whistling through the granite stones outside and buffeting the ripstop nylon canopy that protected her—barely—from annihilation. She smelled the stale scent of tobacco, spices, and body odor her cook had left behind. She felt the menacing cold slipping its fingers into the tent. . . .
She strained to hear his footfalls.
Nothing.
Still, she knew he was here. She could sense him moving across the floor toward her, and as she waited each nerve tightened, stretching. . . .
His cool hand touched her cheek, making her gasp and jump.
He chuckled, a low, deep sound of amusement. ‘‘You knew I would come.’’
‘‘Yes,’’ she whispered.
Kneeling beside her cot, he kissed her, his cool lips firm, his breath warm in her mouth.
She hung suspended in time, in place . . . in a dream. Yet he kissed as if he were real, not a shadow in the night, and as he lingered, her body stirred, her breasts swelling, the familiar longing growing deep inside.
How many nights had it been? Two months? More? Sometimes he didn’t come for one night, two, three, and on those nights she slept deeply, worn out by the hard work and the thin air at this high altitude. Then he’d return, his need greater, and he touched her, loved her, with an edge of violence sharp as a knife. Yet always she sensed his desperation and welcomed him into her mind . . . and her body.
This time, it had been almost a week.
He slid the zipper down on her sleeping bag, each tooth making a rasping noise, each noise making Karen’s heartbeat escalate another notch. He started at her throat, cupping it, pressing on the pulse that raced there. He pushed the bag aside, exposing her to the cold night air. ‘‘You wait for me . . . naked.’’ He pressed his palm between her breasts, feeling her heart beat. ‘‘You’re so alive. You make me remember. . . .’’
‘‘Remember what?’’ He sounded American, without a hint of an accent, and at the times of madness, when she thought he must be real, she wondered where he was from and what he was doing here.
But he didn’t want her to think. Not now. Greedily, he caressed her slight breasts, one in each palm. His hands were long, rough, callused, and he used them to massage her while with his thumbs he circled her nipples.
She made a raw sound in her throat.
‘‘You’re in need.’’ His voice deepened. ‘‘It’s been a long time. . . .’’
‘‘I’ve been here.’’
‘‘And that was my torment.’’
It was the first time he’d ever suggested he needed this as much as she did. She smiled, and somehow, in this pitch dark, he must have seen her.
‘‘You like that. But if you’ve tormented me, I must torment you in return.’’ His head dipped. He took one pebbled nipple in his mouth and suckled, softly at first, then, as she whimpered, with strength and skill.
He made her go crazy.
But, then—any woman who dreamed a shadow lover was already halfway to insane.
She grabbed a handful of his hair, and discovered how very long it was . . . and soft, and silky. She tugged at him, pulling his head back.
‘‘What do you want?’’ His voice was a husky whisper.
‘‘Hurry.’’ She was chilled. She was desperate. ‘‘I want you to hurry.’’
‘‘But if I hurry, I won’t get to do this.’’ He pushed the sheet down farther, caressed her belly and thighs. Lifting her knees, he spread her legs, exposing her to the cold, shocking her, making her suck in a startled breath.

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