Shadow's End (11 page)

Of course, she had to go and do something to destroy the moment.

Before she fully realized what was coming out of her mouth, she said, “Now, it's my turn to ask you a question. How can you stand to work for Dragos?”

SEVEN

T
he loathing in Bel's voice was so evident, Graydon shifted position, subtly pulling back.

He needed to put some physical distance between them. Somehow, he needed to calm the riot of feelings her question roused.

He couldn't blame her for how she felt about Dragos. She was, after all, only one of many who felt that way.

Once, very long ago when the world was new, all of the ancient Wyr had been feral. Dragos had been the most feral of them all, a gigantic predator that did not distinguish between the natures of the creatures he hunted.

Graydon kept his voice measured as he told her, “Once, we were all more beast than human, but that, too, was a very long time ago. Dragos is not what he used to be. None of us are. He is the one who originally had the vision for the Wyr demesne. He approached each of the sentinels to get our support. He created the laws, and he and the sentinels work together to uphold them.”

She shook her head. “It's hard to fathom we're talking about the same creature.”

“In a very real sense, I don't think we are.” He paused. “Yes, he can be a challenge, but I believe in everything he has accomplished. Just as you feel with the Elven demesne, I believe in our demesne and what it stands for. So much so, I've dedicated my life to protecting it and upholding its laws.”

The delicate skin around her eyes tightened. She said, “With my head, I can understand what you're saying. But my heart remembers the terror of watching the Great Beast fly overhead, and the anguish of loss I felt at the people he slaughtered. I'll always remember that he is a killer.”

Her words felt like a slap. He turned his face away. As the evening had progressed, his feelings for her had grown richer and more complicated. They shared such a deep love for the woods, and he understood how passionate she felt for her son, but now he felt chilled with the realization of what real distance lay between them.

He said, “Bel,
I
am a killer.”

After a moment, she touched his averted face, her warm, slender fingers cupping his chin and urging him to turn back to her. With reluctance, he complied.

“I see what you are, gryphon,” she told him. “You're proud, and incredibly strong, and courageous, and you're very dangerous, precisely because you are also so good and kind that people might forget the reality of everything about your nature. Even considering all that, you could never be like him, not in a million years.”

As he looked into her eyes, her large gaze was so full of warmth it banished the chill almost completely.

Almost, except for the knowledge of the distance lying between them.

The wild part of him that fought against any kind of restraint rebelled against the awareness. Just as it had driven him through the air to her, it drove him forward now.

Moving with gentle care, he took hold of her hands, holding her so lightly, she could pull away from him with a single easy gesture. Like the rest of her, her hands were beautifully formed, the bones slender and graceful.

She didn't pull away.

Bowing his head, he pressed his mouth to her fingers.

They were on a runaway coach, hurtling nowhere.

She would never be able to live in New York, so close to the dragon.

He would never be able to live in the Elven demesne, so close to Calondir. Even if Graydon would consider leaving his duties, the Elves would never accept a former Wyr sentinel in their midst.

As Constantine had said, she was the very definition of unobtainable.

Yet he still reached for her.

“Look at us,” he said against her fingers. “You with your commitments, and me with mine. We live a world apart from each other.”

A tremor ran through her. “Graydon,” she murmured. “What are we doing?”

He lifted his head. He could drown in eyes such as hers, so wide and dark, yet so full of light. “Bel, tell me not to kiss you, before I do something we might both regret.”

“I can't,” she whispered. “I want it too much.”

Her unsteady confession struck away the last of his resistance. Holding his breath, he lowered his head to the pure, plump arc of her lips.

Then he was touching her mouth with his.

He was kissing Beluviel, the unique woman who personified that first, unique breath of spring, while the warmth and giving softness of her lips shaped to his, and oh my gods, she was kissing him back.

That single caress was so damn
shocking
, he nearly came in his pants, and
that
shocked him with a raw pulse of adrenaline that ran like fiery liquor over his skin.

Slowly, not believing his remarkable fortune, he let go of her hands and slid his arms around her long, supple torso. She nestled closer, and the way her muscles relaxed and curved into him was downright miraculous.

She was so far above him, so far beyond his reach, he wasn't entirely sure any of it was real, except his body knew differently. His muscles grew tight and his heart pounded
as if he were racing, while his starving lungs forced him to suck in air, and the desperate ache in his hardened cock felt like a mortal wound.

He had crossed so many boundaries in himself, he had no idea what this new, foreign place held for him.

Stroking his fingers down her long, silken braid, he eased away to look down at her. A dark rose color flushed her cheeks, and her eyes shimmered. At the sight, a thread of alarm streaked through him. She wasn't teary, was she?

She made a soft, urgent sound at the back of her throat, took his head in both hands, and reached up to kiss him a second time.

This time, she slanted her mouth over his and touched his lower lip with her tongue. The caress was so intimate, so needy, shock washed over him again.

It was all the invitation he needed. Crushing her against his chest, he ravaged her mouth, plunging into her with his tongue over and over.

Her fingers worked against the back of his skull, threading through his short hair, while she matched his kiss eagerly. Only half aware of his actions, he took hold of her long braid and wound it around one hand until he made a fist at the nape of her neck.

He was burning, burning. He felt too big for his clothes, on fire for her. Every goddamn breath he took was filled with her luscious, feminine, unique scent. Suddenly starving for every new sensation, he pulled away from her mouth and ran his lips along the petal soft skin of her cheek.

Either he was shaking, or she was, or perhaps they both were. He held her tighter.

“Bel,” he whispered, drunk on the delight of saying her beautiful name. “Beluviel.”

She shuddered and sobbed out something in his ear. What she said, he didn't know, but the sound of her trembling voice snapped him back into himself.

He could have pretended it hadn't. Clearly she wasn't rejecting him, so he could have pressed on. He didn't want to stop, but he lifted his head anyway.

The golden firelight gilded her rosy skin. Her lips were slightly swollen from his kisses, and the long, graceful arch of her throat as she bent her head back in willing acquiescence of his grip in her hair was utterly perfect.

With a quick glance, he committed the sight to memory, and then he focused on the expression in her gaze. She gazed at him with a combination of such pleasure and pain, conflicting impulses threatened to tear him apart.

He whispered, “I shouldn't want you so desperately, but I do.”

“I shouldn't delight so much in hearing you admit it,” she whispered in reply. “But I do, and I want you too.”

He tightened his fist in her hair. “Tell me we shouldn't be together, just once.”

He watched as her trembling mouth shaped a stunning reply. She whispered, “I can't think of a single reason why we shouldn't be together, just once.”

“We can steal this hour for ourselves,” he said slowly, watching every telltale, tiny shift in her expression for any sign of refusal. He couldn't bear the thought she might think of him with regret. If she showed a single hint of remorse or reluctance, he would stop.

There was none.

Stroking her fingers through his hair, she murmured, “There's no reason why we can't. No harm will be done.”

There was something wrong in what they said to each other, but his fevered brain couldn't quite puzzle it out. His growing hunger for her was louder than any other instinct or doubt.

“No harm,” he agreed hoarsely. “We can take this time together. Just until dawn, just you and me.”

“And we don't tell anybody about this,” she whispered, searching his gaze. “Afterward, we go on living our lives, just like before? You'll go back to your demesne, and I'll return to mine?”

“Yes.”

Loosening his grip on her hair, he pulled her braid apart. The long, dark strands cascaded over his fingers. Against his callused skin, it felt incredibly soft, like water or silk.
Obeying an impulse, he buried his face in a handful of her hair.

That was when he began to realize where they had gone wrong. There was no way he could make love to this incredible woman and go back to his life as if nothing had ever happened. The very fact of her threatened to change him at a fundamental level.

He was beginning to think she might be everything he could ever want or need. She certainly embodied far more than he had ever thought he might find in a woman.

And she was nothing he could ever have for himself.

Not truly, not past dawn.

Just as he couldn't turn away from her earlier at the masque, he couldn't turn away from her now. It would be a terrible thing to close the door on spring and never venture forth to experience all the wonder that living his life to the fullest could bring, even if he could only have an hour with her.

Easing out of his arms, she undid the fastenings of her leather vest, pulled it off and set it aside. The jacket was heavy, he noted, and stitched with a thick lining, a good solid understated piece of armor. Underneath, she wore a white silk shirt, embroidered along the neckline and wrists with a curling green vine.

Touching the vine with one forefinger, he murmured, “Pretty.”

She gave him a luminous smile. “I stitched it last month. I like to remind myself that winter is temporary, and spring always comes.”

“You're not too cold?” he asked her again, stroking her cheek. She shook her head, leaning into his touch. “We can spread my coat on the ground.”

“And we can use my cloak as a blanket,” she murmured.

“You deserve a much finer bed than this.” Unable to resist, he leaned forward to caress her lips with his.

She said against his mouth, “This is the best bed I could hope for.”

He shrugged out of his coat and laid it out on the ground. The fire was beginning to die down, so he took a moment to
add the last of the wood to the blaze. As it flared up, he turned back in time to see her pull off her leather boots and pants.

Her long, bare legs were flawless. Muscles flexed over narrow, graceful bones as she bent to scoop up her pants and drape them over the log. Her hair fell longer than her shirt, the feathery ends brushing against her thighs. As she bent her head, the tip of one pointed, elegant ear peeked out of the dark, shining strands.

Transfixed, he stared at her.

Sex, for him, had always been rowdy and affectionate, and an altogether temporary condition. It was damn fine physical exercise, and an excellent way to release tension and get a comfy cuddle or two.

The next morning, he would feel fit as a fiddle. With a whistle and a spring in his step, he was ready to get on with his day. He honestly didn't mind paying someone generously for a good time, as long as she wanted to do it, was happy to be paid and enjoyed her work.

In contrast, he was stricken by the depth of emotion he felt when he looked at Beluviel.

With a silent roar, hunger banished his soul to live inside his skin. It became the raw, feral force that drove the beat of his heart, the pulse of his blood. In all the countless ages in which the gryphon had taken flight, this was the first time he left himself behind.