Winterblaze (42 page)

Her breath caught, and he said it again, against her mouth. “I love you.” Moving in that assured, greedy way only a man intent on tupping could, he rolled on to her, making himself at home between her thighs. His lips ghosted over her neck and down to the pendant resting in the hollow of her throat. His teeth clinked on the gold as he took it in his mouth and gave it a light tug just as he used to do. Poppy smiled up at him, and he let it go. “I love you.”
All of her.

The hot crown of his cock found her opening, and he shuddered. She was wet already.

A lazy grin slid over his lips as he eased into her. And in, and in. Until he was fully seated. “I love you, Poppy Lane.” His hand glided along her skin, over her arm, and their fingers threaded. He held her hand as he made love to her, in an undulating movement that never paused. She wanted it to last forever.

“Win…” She wrapped her legs around his hips, holding him there.

Win’s response fell short as someone pounded on the door. “Bloody—” He bit his bottom lip as if to keep from shouting, then turned his head. “Whoever it is, we are not receiving callers.”

Laughter burst from Poppy. “Good lord, Win.”

He gave her a repressive look. “Ought I have said we were shagging instead?”

“It might work better.”

The insistent knocking returned, followed shortly by Ian’s deep voice. “It’s rather important, Lane.”

“Buggering hell.” Win wrenched round, and his voice boomed as he responded. “If you do not leave this instant, I will tear your cods off.”

Poppy covered her face with hot hands as she pictured Ian Ranulf standing on the other side of the door. “Just go see what he wants,” she said through her fingers.

Inside her, Win’s cock twitched in protest. “Not likely.” He moved his hips, a delicious glide that had her attention.

“It’s about Talent,” said Ian through the door.

“Oh, God.” Poppy shoved at Win’s shoulders, rather like trying to budge a barge for the way he resisted. “Just go.” When he frowned down at her, she tucked a lock of his hair behind his ear. “The moment is over, love. I can’t do this now. Not with him,” she jerked her head toward the door, “out there.”

Several raw and rather creative curses left Win’s mouth as he slipped free. Poppy felt the loss acutely, but had to smile at his ire. Win pointed a long finger at her. “It is
not
over. Stay there.”

Still cursing, he grabbed his trousers and shoved them on before stalking to the door.

Winston wrenched the door open and caught Ian mid-knock. “What is it?” Win wanted nothing more than to slam the door in Ranulf’s face and return to Poppy, but he had to ask. “Is Talent ill?”

“No.” Ian grimaced. “Not more than he was. Here is the thing—”

Win’s hand tightened on the door. “Tell me about it later.” He had only so much time before he had to face the day and figure out his bloody fate, and he was going to revel in it.

Ian’s brows snapped together. “Look here, Lane—”

“Not right now,” Win ground out through his teeth.

They glared at each other for a wild moment in which Win struggled to keep from shouting like a madman. Something in his expression must have registered with Ian, for the man’s scowl dissolved, and he finally took in the fact that Win was half dressed. “Ah, I see.”

“Just—give me an hour.” Win halted and winced. “Two.”

He could have sworn Ian’s cheeks colored. “I’ll go.”

“I say,” came a feminine voice from the direction of the hall. “Is Poppy in there?”

Win groaned and let his head thunk against the doorframe as Daisy came up behind Ian. He could only thank God that Ian spun around and caught Daisy by the arm. “Later,” he said to his wife.

“I only wanted to check if she was truly all right,” Daisy protested as he led her back down the corridor.

Ian leaned close and murmured something in her ear. Before Win could see her response, he closed the door on them both. If he got out of this mess with Jones, he was taking Poppy back to their home in short order. He missed their cozy house. With its utter privacy.

A sense of foreboding crept along the back of his neck as he walked back into the bedroom.

Poppy listened to the exchange in the hall and bit her lip to keep from laughing. Ordinarily, she’d have gone and shooed Ian away. But Win had it in hand, leaving her to do as she pleased. Content to do just that, Poppy flopped over on her stomach and hugged the bed. But a thud from below caught her attention. She bent over the side. A small, slim leather notebook lay upon the floor. Win’s notebook. He had many of them. The last one she’d
seen had been battered and bloody, a ravaged survivor pulled from his pocket after the werewolf had attacked him. Poppy had found a way to get that notebook into Ian Ranulf’s hands so that he might have the facts needed to defeat those who’d hurt Win.

The leather was smooth against her palm as she reached down to pick up the notebook. It appeared to have fallen from the little side table by the bed. So then, not hidden away.

This was what she told herself as she opened it. She was outright prying, yes. She did not care. She’d long gone past the point of respectable behavior in regard to him at any rate.

His familiar slanted scrawl across the page made her throat tighten. She’d read his notes before. Win committed every fact to memory, but he liked to write them down as well for, as he’d say, sometimes seeing the story written down cast it in a different light. Those notes were often disjointed, little facts written here and there, interspersed with his musings. But this was different. These words were orderly, a narrative. Her frown grew as she began to read…
From the moment he’d stepped off that train, his life changed completely. And it had been because of a woman
… By the end of the first page, her heart thudded against her breast.

“I wanted you to find it.”

The notebook landed on the ground with a slap as she jumped.

Bathed in the morning light, Win stood just inside the room. Anger did not lurk in his gaze, but sorrow, deep and pained. “Just not at this moment.”

“You’re writing about when we first met.” Her cold fingers wound themselves into the sheets. “But it is different. I don’t remember events quite in that way.”

His lashes lowered, hiding his soul away from her. “It is what really happened. Before.”

Before bloody Isley.

“Why write it down, Win?” Bile crept up her throat.

“I wanted you to know.”

She went to him, close enough to smell the scent of their lovemaking against his hot skin. Close enough to see the muscle tick at his jaw.

“Why not simply tell me?” Pain and ugliness would come with his answer. Even so, she pressed on. “Why write it all down?”

His shoulders hunched, and in the silence, the sounds of the household drifted up from below.

“Win.”

An eternity passed before he lifted his gaze to hers. His voice was ice crunching beneath a boot. “Because I won’t be here. And I wanted you to have something to… to remember me by.”

She could not breathe, could not move past the numbness taking hold of her limbs. She tried to speak, shuddered, then tried again. “W-what do you mean?”

Still he did not move, as if he too were frozen. His eyes filled, highlighting their winter-blue color, before a single tear spilled over, bumping its way down his ravaged cheek. “Boadicea.”

Her breath left in a gust. “The bargain. He’s taking your soul regardless of whether we succeed or not.”

He didn’t need to say a thing. It was written on his skin, in his eyes.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Dimly she heard something crack, the shattering of the lamp glass. Ice cold swirled about her.

He moved then, gathering her in his arms and pressing
her against his warmth. “Stop.” He held her tighter. But she could not stop the cold that invaded her soul, nor stop it from slipping out to freeze the room.

“Why, Win?”

His lips brushed her temple. “Saying it aloud would make it real.” Then his fingers were in her hair, his cheek pressed hard against hers. “I did not want it to be true.”

She couldn’t stand it. She needed to move, but he wouldn’t let her go. “I will kill him.” She pushed against Win’s chest to little effect. “Let me go.”

“No.”

“We are going to meet him, and then I am going to destroy him, Win. I swear to God, I will.”

He pulled back far enough to look into her eyes. “You will not.” His fingers gripped her tighter. “You will not put yourself in harm’s way.”

“This is why you did not tell me.”

His expression grew implacable. “In part.” He leaned closer until they were nose to nose. “I will not have you risk your safety over me.”

Seething, Poppy pressed her palms against his chest. “Why is my life so much more valuable than yours?”

“Because of this.” His hand slid down to rest gently upon her abdomen. And her heart stopped. Win saw her understanding, and he nodded weakly. “You are my joy, and my purpose. I came alive when I met you.” His hand smoothed over her in a whisper of a caress. “But this babe inside of you. That is my legacy. You will protect him. See him grow and bloom.”

“Not alone…” She shivered, and he kissed her. Softly. So softly, as though he were cherishing it, memorizing the feel of it. Poppy tore her mouth away. “You will be here. With me. With us.”

His eyes traveled over her face, his touch upon her cheek tender. “I will never leave you. Not really.”

She squeezed his hands, uncaring if she crushed his fingers. “No! Not in spirit! You will be here. I cannot…” Blood coated her tongue, and she realized she’d bitten her lip. “I cannot do this without you, Win.
I will not.
”

His smile was tired, as if he’d already given up. She squeezed him harder, but he did not seem to notice. “Boadicea, not even your force of will can stop everything.”

“I can stop this!”

Win gave her a measured look. “Whatever you are thinking, don’t.”

But she most certainly would. Knowing he wouldn’t expect it, she shoved him hard, causing him to stumble back, then she fled into the dressing room.

W
in stared at the space Poppy had vacated. That had gone well. “Shit.”

The look upon her face had reflected his misery. He ought to let her have her privacy. Only Poppy did not retreat as other ladies might. She fought. That she had closed herself up in the dressing room had his instincts clamoring to go after her. As instinct had kept him alive for years, he followed it now and went to the dressing room door.

“Poppy?”

Not a sound. He tried the handle, unsurprised to find it locked.

“Poppy Lane, open this door and talk to me.”

Nothing. Win raked his hands through his hair before slamming them on the door. “Open it, Poppy!”

When she did not answer, fury licked over him. “Right, then,” he shouted. “I’m coming in, whether you like it or not.” Win smashed against the door, putting his weight into it. Over and over, until the heavy wood creaked. This
wasn’t the way to do it. Cursing, he stepped back and kicked the thing in.

The scent of Poppy filled the air, subtle, almost ineffable, and yet so familiar it hurt his heart. Something was off here. His heart kicked furiously in his chest. Glints of deep red against the white porcelain sink caught his eye. He was across the room in two strides.

“Jesus Christ!” Red was everywhere. Long, thick strands of red hair, scattered like discarded ribbons, filled the bowl of the sink. His shaking hands grasped at them as if he could turn back time, put them back where they belonged. The silken locks slipped through his fingers. “Jesus!”

“Come now, it isn’t that bad, surely.”

He spun at the sound of Poppy’s voice, and his blood rushed to his toes. The shout he wanted to utter stuck in his throat as he gaped at her. In return, she merely smiled, a small curl of her pink lips, as she leaned against the door frame in the perfect parody of a young man, one leg crossed over the other, her slim hands tucked in loose trouser pockets.

He wanted to smash something. Her hair—all her lovely, long hair—was gone, hacked off until it lay in a short, bright crown against her well-formed skull. Christ, it was shorter than his. “Why?”

She shrugged, her thin shoulders moving beneath the coat of a brown sack suit, an old one of his from when he’d joined the MP. “Last time I faced Isley, it got caught in his claws.” She lifted off from the doorjamb in a graceful move. “It was a liability. So I cut it off.”

He gnashed his teeth against the helpless tide of anger. He lifted a handful of hair in accusation.

“Have you gone completely mad? To maim yourself
for…” He couldn’t speak. Her hair. Hours of burrowing his face into cool and fragrant tresses. Spreading the mass of carnelian, bronze, and copper over her pillow. He might have wept.

Poppy’s straight brows snapped together in annoyance. Her face, no longer framed by that mass of red, appeared stronger now, the clean lines of her jaw and nose highlighted, and yet she also looked strangely delicate and exposed.

“Maim myself?” she said. “It is only hair, Win. It will grow back.” Again she shrugged. “Though speaking practically, it feels rather nice to be free of it. Lighter.”