Chapter Sixteen
Maeve stared down at Stephano sleeping, and brushed the tears from her eyes. He was relaxed-looking in sleep. She wiped another tear aside. How could his mother ever leave him? Warring since he was a child… No wonder he only knew one way to live, one way to enjoy what was meant to be shared with love.
She gently smoothed the cloth over his forehead then down his cheek and jaw, going up the other side of his face after. It was traditional for a Siren to wash the face of the man she loved. Do I love him? She cleaned off his chest, then unable to deny herself the experience, moved the cloth over his ample manhood.
The fleshy shaft wasn’t as hard as when she’d caressed him to his pleasurable release, but it was still heart-stopping. She licked her lips and checked on him. He was snoring lightly, his chest rising and falling. His muscles were smoother now, not so tight and hard.
But it was his trousers she had to deal with, and putting him to rights. She had a feeling Stephano would not like waking with his body uncovered. She considered the leather then his shaft. His testicles were daunting, let alone his penis. Are all men so large? She couldn’t say, but Stephano was sure of himself, and such arrogance must be partially due to his size and what he did with himself. The way he’d shuddered and held her hand almost painfully under his as he’d thrust through their grips…it had been arousing to think of him doing that to her body, not their hands. He’d clearly enjoyed the experience. So much so he’d fallen asleep after.
With great caution, she gently tucked him away. He shifted his legs in his sleep but didn’t wake. Uncertain if he would awake any second now, she buttoned him up quickly, heart in her throat, and buckled his belt as well. Heart hammering, she went back to cleaning his hands and arms in case he woke. He didn’t, which was good. Because with each touch, she grew more and more achy inside where she now knew she wanted him.
No, this was for him. Only him. If he woke and knew she was aroused, he would want her, surely. No doubt whatever he did would be…good, but some things were to be given. I gave this to him. No matter what else happened between them, this night, caring for him, was the right thing to do.
* * * *
Stephano woke, startled from sleep and reached for his blade. He found the soft curves of a woman. Maeve. She lay on her side, curled against him. Breathless from the grip of his dream he tried to think of what to do when she shifted away from him with a sleepy sigh. After a few minutes of waiting for her to speak, he realized she was deep asleep. Still unsure, he watched her for a while longer. She buried her head under her arm, hiding most of her face almost as if protecting herself. Careful not to wake her, he brushed some of her long hair off her face and back over her slender shoulder. In sleep, she seemed younger to him. Her cheeks were flushed. Was she warm? He held the back of his hand to her forehead, but she felt fine to him, not too hot. He wasn’t. The heat he’d been battling since entering this world had dimmed.
He settled behind her, head resting on his fist so he could gaze at her. She had done something to him. Changed him in ways he wasn’t sure he understood. Or liked.
Oh, it wasn’t the hand job. Or it was, but it wasn’t a hand job… She’d done exactly what she’d whispered she would do. She’d cared for him. He wasn’t even sure how long he’d slept. And that, more than the powerful ejaculation, had him frowning up at the ceiling.
She’d cried over him. He rubbed a spot she’d kissed, an old wound he thought he’d suffered down in Memphis a few decades ago. They’d run into a fierce band of feral Vampires. The death of a young woman had clung to them. They’d raped her repeatedly and drank from her until she’d died. It’d taken her days. He had found her because she’d been missing, a friend of a woman he’d bedded. He hadn’t known what to do with all the fury blazing in him. He’d attacked. Not waited for Ajax and Aaron, or anyone else. He’d run straight at the group, getting a wrought iron bar rammed in his side for his lack of caution. He’d ended five of the seven bastards. Aaron still owed him drinks for that night. He’d saved him from getting the same piece of iron in his throat.
Spartans could die. Ares was never pleased when they did, and he often called them back only after they’d lingered in Hade’s realm for longer than they’d like, but Spartans could die.
He’d died twice. Once on the battlefield, in a glorious fight with the Persians. It had been brutal. His death heroic.
The next time it hadn’t been a battle and he hadn’t been heroic.
Maeve made a soft sound of distress in her sleep. He watched the frown slowly ease from her pretty face.
She’d cried over him. Over wounds that were ancient history. Over more than his wounds, though. ‘You break my heart.’
He would. He didn’t know how to care for a woman. Oh, he’d read every article about relationships he could get his hands on, but it all seemed too difficult. Personal. Intimate. Draining. And up to the individuals. He could communicate. He could read signs. He knew how to make a woman happy. But only for a short while. Never for more. Even now, if he wasn’t stuck here with her, he’d want to leave, go home, sleep in his own bed.
He rolled to his back and studied the ceiling. That’s what I always do. I leave. I don’t want more.
Aeros had more. He appeared…happy. Solid in a way he hadn’t been before. Now that Stephano could see the Aeros before and the Aeros after Tabithia, he could see the difference. One thing was certain, Aeros would die for good if Tabithia ever did.
But that didn’t worry Stephano. What had him awake wasn’t that. Or it was, but not the fear of finally tossing in the towel. He’d done it twice before, after all. The second time he’d taken the two-hundred-foot dive down to concrete, ending his immortal life and getting his ass thrown in Hades’ deepest darkest cell.
Only Hades hadn’t shown him more than he already knew the second time. His life meant nothing. No one meant anything to him—outside of his companions, but they were immortal Spartans and if they did die, they would return. Nothing else mattered. No woman. No family. No cause. No good. No evil. Oh, shit mattered. He’d gut someone for raping a woman, and he’d string them up by their entrails for touching a child that way. But nothing mattered. Not like Tabithia did to Aeros.
He’d tried. He’d bedded women, in the hopes of finding more. That spark, that feeling, that one. None had ever been the one. No one had ever fought for him, wanted him enough to risk their lives for his, or even miss their nail appointment. Women were selfish and self-centered, filled with their own agendas. So he had his. What did it matter if he did only want to have sex with them? That’s all they wanted.
Until now.
Maeve. She entered his life, or whatever this was, but did she matter? She thought him little more than a womanizing thug. He was. Essentially, he killed and fucked. That was a womanizer and a thug.
He moved to his side to study her. He felt attraction for her. What man wouldn’t? Simply following the line of her body his groin stirred. He cut that off before it could start. He felt protective over her. Sure, like he would for any woman in this situation. But more? He’d been sick to think her dead, but he was sick to think of anything as beautiful as she was dead and gone, lifeless and cold.
There’d been so many. She didn’t feel different. Oh, the way she’d stroked his cock had been mind-blowing, but he wasn’t going to be satisfied with that for long, and when he wanted more, then would she ‘give it’ to him?
‘You break my heart.’
He’d done that to many women. More than he could ever possibly count or make amends for. Most didn’t really want him or even love him. They wanted sex, they wanted a handsome man on their arm. If he didn’t provide that, then they cried and wanted more, but really, truly they never did want more.
He’d even lived with a woman once, way back when. She’d died. Cancer. Not a knife to the heart, or slice to her throat, or something equally brutal. A slow, sickening disease had robbed her of her life and left him standing on the edge of that two-hundred story nosedive. He’d not done it for her. Or out of grief or agony of losing her. They’d lost whatever it was that had kept him with her long before he soared through the air to his death. He’d done it because nothing mattered. No one and nothing he did. He’d been sad at that, more than her tragic death.
Does Maeve matter? If she died on this journey, if her arm couldn’t be restored to how it was and she had to lose it, would it matter? He sighed and restlessly turned onto his back, rubbing his face. She’d kissed his scars, but she had no idea that those rough patches didn’t feel things the same way they once had. There was too much scar tissue. Too much damage. Maybe I’m too damaged. Maybe there’s too much of me scarred to ever feel anything.
He was tired. He needed sleep. Too much self-reflection wasn’t good for a man. It made him irritable. Still, her voice rose to mock him. Hasn’t anyone ever cared for you…eased you simply because you were grumpy?