The Fallen 03 - Warrior (23 page)

And he wanted it again.

She turned on the makeshift bed, drifting into troubled sleep, and he wondered if he could ignore that burning need. He hadn’t been strictly truthful—he didn’t need to sleep right now. Wasn’t sure that he could, particularly since the last time he’d slept, she’d been stolen and taken to the Dark City. If he slept again, would Beloch find her? Take her?

He built a pallet for himself on the far side of the barn and threw himself down on it. He wasn’t going to touch her.

But he could sense her dreams. The restless way she shifted, the pounding of her heart.

Would it make any difference if he took what he needed? She would still die. Would he be the cause?
It would still trouble him, whether he ever touched her again or not.

She sighed. Just a soft susurration, but it went directly to his groin, and he stifled an answering groan. If it went on like this, he was never going to make it through the night.

He had no clear idea how they were going to get the hell out of this accursed place. No idea what kind of toll the Darkness would demand.

He could die tomorrow. As a soldier he’d lived with that truth for his entire existence. It had never bothered him—it was his fate. And it didn’t bother him now.

Except . . . if he was going to die tomorrow, then he was going to have her one last time.

Not her blood. Never her blood. But he could bring her pleasure, lose himself in the tight sweetness of her body. He could have her. And if death came for him in the Darkness, he would meet it head-on, knowing at least some level of completion.

She stirred again, and he thought of her gorgeous mouth. Beloch had hurt her, in the clever ways he could, leaving his victims confused and uncertain. She kept denying anything was wrong, but he’d looked into her green eyes and knew. If he took her, touched her as he so desperately needed, would he hurt her too? Or would he ease some of the longing and frustration that threaded through her body? He closed his eyes, and he could see the fantasy that
played in her slumbering brain. Him. Going down on her.

He wouldn’t have thought his cock could get any harder. If he just continued to listen in on her sleeping fantasies, he could bring himself off with a couple of quick jerks. But she still moved on the pallet, her hips rising to an unseen mouth, and he gave up fighting. He crossed the midnight-dark room to look down at her.

He hated that dress. Garnet red and low-cut, it was a whore’s dress, a message from Beloch. It was no surprise that Michael wanted her out of it.

He closed his eyes, breathing in her desire, and her fantasy came to him with riveting clarity. His long fingers cradling her hips as he tasted her, drank from her, made her explode. . . .

A tiny shiver shook her body, just the merest tease of a climax, and it was the last straw. She deserved better than that, better than a sleeping twinge of satisfaction when he could give her so much more and ease that ache inside him as well.

Her feet were bare. He frowned. For some reason he hadn’t realized that. Stumbling through tunnels and along forest paths must have hurt like hell. She hadn’t complained.

In fact, she never complained. She demanded food when she needed it, answers that he couldn’t give. But she never said she was in pain, or that she was tired. In truth, she was brave, strong, the kind of woman who was more than a match for him. The
kind of woman—hell,
the
woman he longed for. And could never, ever have.

He couldn’t stay there and not touch her. The air was cool and clear, and it called to him. With one last glance at her restless, sleeping form, he stepped out into the night.

I
WOKE IN THE DARKNESS.
I
WAS ALONE
in the barn. I knew it, even if I couldn’t see it. The stars overhead had blinked out, and I could see nothing. I’d dreamed about him putting his hands on my restless, aching body. Instead, he’d left. I hated this world of unending darkness, darkness without him. Hated His Holiness, the Archangel Michael, hated my own love-starved, traitorous body.

Even dawn in this dark, dismal world was barely a change in light. It started slowly, shadows in the corner of the old barn resolving themselves into piles of hay, an antique tractor, a thick pyramid of milking cans. Did people really farm here? Did they live normal lives, eat and drink and work and play?

They were dead, Michael had told me. Dead people didn’t do any of those things, did they?

The lack of color hit me anew as dim light began
to pour through the roof and the doors. In the darkness I’d forgotten about the black-and-white world.

I moved my head, looking down at my body. Still in glorious color, when I felt drab and empty.

I didn’t hear him come in. I looked up and saw him, standing motionless, looking at me out of hooded eyes, and I couldn’t read his expression.

“Time to go,” he said. “We’ll reach the edge of the Darkness in a couple of hours.” He held out his hand to me. “Come.”

I ignored it, of course, sliding off the platform of hay bales on the far side. I shook my skirts free and turned to face him. “I’m ready,” I said, somewhat needlessly.

He dropped his hand without another word, turning his back on me, and I watched him, my mournful anger at being abandoned vanishing for one brief moment. That angel-beauty was so devastating, so perfect, that even his tall, strong back took my breath away. Not to mention his gorgeous, tight ass and long, long legs.

It wasn’t just his astonishing physical beauty. It was his reluctant honor, his determination to lead his people to victory, the way he risked everything to come after me. The way he kissed me, his infrequent smiles, the intensity in his dark eyes, the sense that no matter how hard he fought it, he couldn’t stop caring about me. Even if he wouldn’t touch me.

I didn’t have the same self-control. If he wanted
me, he could have me, to my everlasting shame. But he didn’t. Not enough.

If he could fight it, so could I. If His Fucking Holiness could resist me, then I could ignore him. I was just as strong, just as determined, as he was.

I followed him out into the tepid daylight.

M
ICHAEL BLESSED THE
silence of the morning drive. He’d brought the grapes and cheese she’d missed the night before, but she’d simply set them on the backseat, ignoring him.

It had taken everything he had to keep from going to her last night. He’d seen her dreams, her need, and he’d wanted her so badly he’d been ready to explode. But if he hadn’t kept his distance, he would have taken her blood. His willpower was only so strong.

Blood-eater.

He could hear the pumping of her heart, the soft pulse of blood through her veins. When he looked over at her, he could see the artery in her neck, smooth and plump and tempting.

He’d never wanted blood before. He had taken it from the Source without thought, like someone drinking a tonic. Now, suddenly, he was obsessed with Tory’s blood. He didn’t dare allow his mouth anywhere near her neck or he’d take her.

She was angry with him, though he wasn’t quite sure why. He didn’t care. It was easier that way for both of them. If they made it through the Portal, made it through the Darkness, she would still be
furious with him if he continued to do his best to goad her. It was a good plan. It should have filled him with relief.

He could hear the sound of rushing water up ahead, and for the first time in his existence he felt a prick of apprehension. Not for himself. He was incapable of feeling any fear—except when it came to Tory.

There was no room for fear on the battlefield. Caring about her weakened him, when he couldn’t afford weakness.

He brought the car to a stop, pulling out the brake. The river ran fast and deep, the color dark and ominous beneath the lacy froth of bubbles.

He said nothing, just looked at the depths, waiting. She had said nothing since they’d left the barn, not a word. But he could outwait her. He had eternal patience. He wasn’t in any hurry to face death.

It took a full ten minutes by his estimation, though he’d expected her to last longer. “All right, I give up,” she said in a cool voice. “Why are we here?”

He nodded toward the swift-flowing river. “That’s the way to the Portal.”

She screwed up her eyes. “There’s no boat, and with that current we can hardly swim across. We’d be dragged downstream.”

“We’re not going across. We’re going under.”

I didn’t know how to swim. It embarrassed me, and I’d done what I could about it. I’d followed swimming lessons on the Internet, practicing while
I lay on the floor: the backstroke, sidestroke, crawl. I suspected that if someone dropped me into a calm, shallow pool, I could manage just fine, and wading into the ocean had felt strangely normal.

But the idea of submerging myself in that angry river terrified me. “No.”

He’d already started to climb out of the car, and he walked around behind it to my side. “There’s no choice.” He opened the door before I could think to lock it.

“It wouldn’t have done any good,” he added. “I could’ve ripped the door off its hinges.”

I wasn’t sure what angered me more, the fact that he had read my mind, or that he’d hidden just how strong he really was. I’d never had a chance in hell of beating him.

“Stop reading my thoughts!” I snapped. “I don’t know how you do it, but just stop.”

“I don’t need magic or bonding skills, Victoria Bellona. Your face is very expressive.”

“And does my face express how much it annoys me when you call me that, Your Magnificent Angelness?”

“I already know,” he said tranquilly. “Get out of the car. Putting it off doesn’t help matters.”

“I’m not going in that water. I’ll drown.”

“Maybe.”

Incensed, I looked up at his golden beauty, his dark, intense eyes. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“Don’t be irrational. I could have simply left you
to Beloch’s tender mercies. Or I could have snapped your neck at any point since we left the
castello
. When you die, it won’t be by my hand.”

Trickles of uneasiness danced around the solid core of terror that had pinned me to the car seat. “Why do you say
when
? Do you know something I don’t know?”

“I know a great deal you don’t know,” he said. “If I had a few hundred years, I’d enlighten you. But you’re mortal.”

“And you’re an asshole,” I said. “If you think it would take hundreds of years to enlighten me about your brilliance, then you’re sadly mistaken.”

“Out of the car, Tory.”

Okay, calling me by my name was an improvement, but not enough to get me out of that car. “I can’t swim,” I said sullenly.

“It doesn’t matter. We won’t be swimming. The only way to get to the Portal is to let the river take us.” He reached in and scooped me up before I realized what he was doing.

I fought like a wildcat, hitting, scratching, but he was impervious as he carried me toward that river of death. “Don’t do this!” I begged.

“There is no choice.”

A moment later I went flying through the air, screaming at the top of my lungs. And then the cold, dark water closed over my head, and I sank like a stone, down, down, as the rushing current caught me in its icy grip. I couldn’t see, couldn’t
breathe, as water filled my mouth and nose, weighed down my skirts. I kicked desperately, but I was at the mercy of the powerful river. I could feel thick muck at my feet, and I tried to look upward, but I was down so deep there was no light at all above me, and my feet were stuck fast. I strained upward, where fresh air had to lie, but it was as if my bare feet were encased in cement. Even the powerful current couldn’t free me. I was going to die, and I wasn’t ready.

And then a strong arm went around my waist, pulling me free, and his mouth covered mine, breathing air into my lungs. I clung to him, not fighting, letting him take me with the deep, dark current, letting go, falling, falling into darkness.

Something hurt. Like a dagger in my chest, sharp, burning pain, and light was filtering down from above. A moment later we broke through into the light, into the fresh, sweet air.

He shoved me up onto the riverbank and we both lay in the grass, gasping for breath. I could still feel the deathly pressure on my lungs, still taste the water in my mouth and nose. Still taste the air he’d breathed into me as he pulled me free.

He moved before I did, sitting up, and reluctantly I glanced at him. The water plastered his shirt to his chest, and I could see the line of tattoos snaking along one arm, twisting, turning in the fitful sunlight. He looked gilded, blessed by the light. “Your tattoos are moving,” I said, my voice raspy from all the water
I’d swallowed. Near death had taken the starch out of me, and my hurt and anger faded.

“Yes,” he said.

He didn’t release my wrist. His hold was surprisingly gentle, and I had no idea if I could break it. I didn’t try. Something was happening between us, moving, like the ink-dark lines on his body, and I felt my stomach clench.