Archangel's Storm

Of course, Dmitri couldn’t disconnect completely from the Tower that had been his responsibility for centuries, nor had she expected it of him. What mattered was that the instant she looked at him in a way that said she needed his attention, the phone went off. There was no doubt in her mind that she was the most important part of her husband’s life . . . important enough that he would give up immortality should she choose a mortal existence. Because that was something else she understood; her Dmitri would not choose to go on after she died. He’d survived once, wouldn’t again.



Striding back to her, he placed his cell phone on the wrought iron table that held a plate filled with slices of fruit she’d cut for them to share. “What are you thinking?” He leaned down, hands on the arms of her chair. “You’re tense.”



And he’d figured that out from meters away, while she’d believed him engrossed in his conversation. “I almost wish,” she said, putting down her juice and tucking her feet up in the chair, “you hadn’t given me time to rethink my choice.”



His head dropped, and it was instinct to stroke her fingers through his hair. “I’m a bastard, Honor.” Fierce voice, his eyes locking with her own. “We both know that.” When she would’ve spoken, he shook his head and continued. “I damn well rigged your original decision—maybe I thought I was giving you a choice, but by asking you when I did, I made sure that choice was the one I wanted.”



Trailing her fingers down his neck and over the faded gray of his T-shirt, she said, “Was that meant to shock me? Hmm?”



His lips, so sexy and tempting, curved. “You realize most people are intimidated by me.”



“Really?” It was a blatant tease. “How strange.”



He laughed, her Dmitri who had never laughed like this when they’d first met, with the light in his eyes. “You are definitely not Ingrede.”



She’d wondered if he truly understood that when they married, understood that while she carried the soul and the memories of the woman he’d danced with on a field of wildflowers, she’d been shaped by the winds of another life. Now she saw the knowledge in his eyes, saw, too, the heart-piercing love he had for the woman she was in this lifetime, a hunter scarred but no longer broken. “Oh?” she said with a smile she could feel in every cell of her body. “I don’t seem to recall your first wife accepting your every word as law.”



“I do believe your memory must be faulty.” Eliminating the inches that separated them, he claimed an unashamedly sexual kiss that melted her bones. When he trailed his lips over her jaw and down to the pulse in her neck, she fisted her hand in his hair.



“Take me.” It was an offer she’d make only Dmitri. “You haven’t fed today.”



But instead of sinking his fangs into her willing flesh, he lifted his head, frowned. “I don’t want to weaken you. I can have some blood packs delivered—”



“No. You feed from me.” He was hers to care for, hers to adore.



“Honor.”



“I’m on a high-calorie, high-iron, high-fluid, high-everything diet for a reason.” She’d had a long conversation with a Guild physician before they left for Italy. The elderly and somewhat cantankerous man was used to dealing with vampiric-human pairings and had given her guidelines to follow if she intended to be one of those “possessive females.” “If you tell me you prefer a bag of old blood to my neck,” she muttered, “I’ll bite you myself.”



He didn’t soften at the joke, continuing to lean dark and dangerous and a bit pissed off above her. “I’ll get the packs delivered.”



“Dmitri—”



“I’ll let you have your way in every other thing you want, but I won’t compromise your health.” His voice was steel. “I’ll allow myself to feed from you once a week.”



Honor narrowed her eyes. “Every second day.”



“This is not a negotiation.”



“Yes, it is. It’s a marriage. So negotiate.”



His arm muscles turned rigid where he held on to the chair. “Twice a week,” he gritted out, “and you’ll take an iron test every five days.”



Tapping her finger on his wrist, she saw the implacable resolve in his expression, knew the negotiation was at an end. It had gone better than she’d hoped—after all, Dmitri was near to a thousand years old and arrogant with it. “Fine,” she said with a pretend scowl, “but if you ever stop giving me the little bites when we make love, I’m filing for divorce.” The erotic blood kisses were all about sex, not feeding.



This time, his smile was of the very bad man she had in her bed three times a day at the very least. “Oh, I’ll never stop doing that. If you ask nicely, I might even bite you on that spot on the inside of your thigh that you like so much.”



Honor shivered. Once, the idea of a bite on her thigh would’ve made her throw up, and even Dmitri could only do it if she was in a certain position, where she could kick him away if need be . . . but when it went right, when the horrible memories of what had been done to her didn’t overwhelm her . . . oh wow. “You are a menace.”



His eyes gleamed. “Let’s go inside so I can corrupt you some more.”



Impossible, but he gets sexier with every passing minute.



Tugging him down, she kissed those sensual lips, received a loving that made her breasts swell, her nipples tighten. “Come sit with me,” she said before she forgot her intent, “so we can talk about my decision.”



Sprawling into the chair on the other side of the table, he reached for a slice of sweet white peach with a desultory hand. “Don’t ask me to talk you out of vampirism. I’m only being this good because I don’t want you to hate me.”



She nibbled on a piece of apricot. “Noted.” Twisting around, she put her feet on his lap, her toes—currently painted a vivid blue green—shimmering in the sunlight.



His hand stroked over her in an absent caress. “You won’t ever be like the monsters,” he said quietly, speaking to her deepest fear. “Never, Honor. That’s not in you.”



It choked her with blind terror that she might become like the soulless creatures who’d caused her such heartbreaking harm not in one lifetime, but in two. But then she looked across at the man who had loved her both those lifetimes, and she saw not simply the darkness he wore so close to his skin, but also the truth that he’d maintained a claw hold on honor even as he sank into sin and depravity. Dmitri had never brutalized a woman, and he’d never hurt a child . . . not after he’d had to break their son’s neck to save Misha from unimaginable horror.



Unlike Dmitri, she wouldn’t be going into this new life through an ugly act of coercion, broken and twisted and tortured. She’d be ushered into it by a man who adored her, would spend eternity discovering every changing facet of him. Never would they become jaded with one another—never. It was a quiet truth deep within her, born of a love that had survived death and time itself.



“Dmitri,” she said into the sunlit silence. “Where is your heart?”



Her question could’ve been taken many ways, but her husband knew what she meant. “In your hands, where it’s always been.”



Luminous joy in her every breath, a sense of peace in her soul. “And you hold mine. So you see, I only have to worry about your heart, not my own.” As his heart was her most precious treasure, hers was his. He would love and care for that heart with every bit of his dangerous strength, would never permit her to lose the compassion and humanity he cherished in her. “Let’s go home,” she said, “begin the process.”



Dmitri’s hands tightened on her legs. “This is it, Honor. No more chances.”



“No, Dmitri. Now we’ll have an eternity of chances.”



24



Mahiya felt bruised in places she hadn’t known it was possible to have bruises, muscles sore in a way they’d never before been sore. Jason was . . . a storm.



Slow.



Relentless.



Inexorable.



She’d thought he’d be satisfied after that shockingly carnal union against the door, but he’d brought her back to her bed, allowed her only a small respite before he took her again.



Mahiya wasn’t complaining. Never would, not so long as he came to her bed.



“. . . this won’t make me stay with you, won’t make me commit.”



A twinge in her heart as she opened the bedroom window to the bright morning sunshine, that of a woman who wasn’t only in sensual thrall to Jason, but who was fascinated by the glimpses she’d had of the man behind the spymaster . . . and that man, he was a dangerous, complex, fractured creature she hungered to know. But it wasn’t an opportunity she’d ever have, wasn’t an opportunity Jason would give her. She wasn’t even certain if he’d return to her bed.



“Goodnight, Mahiya.” Watchful eyes.



She wanted only to sleep wrapped around the strength and heat of him, but she satisfied herself with a final caress of her fingers over his cheek, having the haunting sense of setting a wild creature free. “I’ll see you in the morning.”



“In the morning.”



A rustle at the door shattered the whisper of memory. Then Vanhi was bustling in through to the bedroom, her rich ebony hair tamed in a severe knot at the back of her head, her body clothed in a sari of black dotted crimson. Only she could get away with such bold shades while the rest of the fort wore the faded colors of semi-mourning. Because only Vanhi had been alive since before Neha.



The vampire with her green eyes and skin of deep bronze had the appearance of a stunning woman in her thirties, but the manner and ways of a grandmother. She’d rocked Neha and Nivriti in the nursery as she’d later rocked Anoushka, then Mahiya. She was the only being Mahiya had dared love after the brutalization of the single friend she’d made as an adult.



Crimson on the stones, slick and thick, blood-drenched wings lying lifeless beside the unconscious form of a man whose only real crime had been kindness.



Even the beloved mare Mahiya had helped raise from a foal had been given away—to Arav’s new lover, the cruelty a conscious one. However, Vanhi held Neha’s affection and thus was safe to love, though even the vampire wasn’t permitted to spend too much time with Mahiya without finding herself sent on holiday to another part of the territory.



“So,” Vanhi now said, “that spawn of a she-goat is dead then.”



Mahiya was unsurprised at the judgment. “I won’t be mourning Arav, but the way he died . . . I would not have wished that on him.”



Vanhi snorted. “He should’ve been castrated for the advantage he took of a young girl barely fledged.”



“I allowed him to take that advantage,” Mahiya replied, the argument an old one. “I was a fool.” Willing to accept dross for gold. “I won’t be one again.”



“Oh yes?” Vanhi raised an eyebrow as she picked up a jet-black feather from the carpet. “Yet Raphael’s spymaster is welcome in your bedroom?”