Tempt Me with Darkness

Marrok looked away. He had felt that bond between them. Had Morganna fallen prey to her own spells?



“I won’t make the mistake of letting you touch me again,” she promised. “Get the hell away from me!”



Morganna had spoken the Call, and he had answered. He possessed not a drop of magical blood, yet he knew those words were binding. Even if he left…he would return. But he must guard against falling deeper under her enchantment, despite its irresistible pull.



He donned his clothes in angry jerks. “Gladly. I have no use for a cranky witch, especially a treacherous le Fay.”



Marrok slammed the bedroom door behind him, then sagged against it. His body regretted his departure instantly. He could feel Morganna on the other side, tempting him to further doom. With gritted teeth, he walked away and tried to call up his limited knowledge of magical mating bonds, looking for ways to ensure she was every bit as bewitched as he.



Jesu, was he doomed to obsess over an unforgettable witch who had given him naught but endless hell?



Marrok made his way to the sofa and sank down, cradling his forehead in his palm. The tightness in his chest and the recriminations screaming through his mind taunted him. He was doomed to want her. Eternally. With their bonding, she’d seen to that, and probably took perverse pleasure in knowing it.



He had announced his foolish lust, acted impulsively by answering her Mating Call and joining their bodies. It was only a matter of time before she used all that against him.



A memory tore through his head of this new Morganna crying out in pleasure, face flushed. Of her tears afterward. Such seeming emotional honesty. So unlike the Morganna he’d lain with centuries ago.



Was it possible she had been telling him the truth, that she wasn’t Morganna, but a mortal woman named Olivia?



Ridiculous. With that birthmark and those velvet violet eyes, who else could she be? His dream of her had been too powerful. And her odd behavior was nothing more than a subtle form of combat, an attempt to pit her mind against his and rouse his self-doubts.



Peaceful death and release from this hell of her making; that was his goal. Revenge sounded sweet, but he could never repay Morganna for the pain she had inflicted, the centuries of chilling loneliness.



Still, he would try.



The dream of Morganna, in the guise of Olivia, came again that eve. This time she stood before him like temptation personified, all naked and exquisite. A vivid, erotic vision he suspected Morganna orchestrated for his torture.



But in this dream, instead of disappearing into the swirling mist after she lured him with the pale enticement of her body, Morganna curled her arms around his neck, pressed tight to him, kissed him with wild abandon. He held her, tasted her honeyed mouth and fevered responses, felt indomitable lust curl in his belly. Unable to resist her seduction, Marrok joined with her.



Once he was buried deep inside her, she opened the Doomsday Diary and disappeared. He awakened on his couch in a cold sweat, wrought by fear.



Calling himself every kind of fool, Marrok rose and paced down the hall to ensure Morganna had not escaped as he slept.



When he reached the threshold of his bedroom, he knew the rationalization was a lie. He wanted to watch her sleep in his bed, where he had claimed her.



On silent steps, he reached the bedside and pushed a stray lock of hair from her cheek. As his fingers lingered on her downy skin, he acknowledged that she looked innocent with those fragile ivory features and girlish lashes. He resisted the illusion. According to Merlin, Morganna had been born a witch in every sense of the word.



So why had she been a virgin? Why had Morganna seemed more…human last night?



Resisting a strong urge to touch her again, to slide between the rumpled sheets and sink deep into her, he left the room. Finding sanctuary on the sofa, Marrok picked up the carving he’d begun yesterday. In his mind, the piece had not yet taken shape. But he allowed his fingers to take him on an instinctual journey as his thoughts zeroed in on Morganna.



Bloody hell, he should be focused on learning the witch’s secrets so he no longer endured her torment. To achieve freedom, he must stay focused, persuade her to set him free.



Thoughts of Morganna ignited a fresh bout of lust…and worry. If he could not suppress the bond growing between them, his chances of escaping the curse were bleak, indeed.



Olivia woke alone, heavy, aching, and exhausted. She should be grateful the sexy headcase had given her some breathing room. Instead, she felt hurt that Marrok had left her after…Best not to think about it.



The pain in her heart mocked her. What a foolish, simplistic plan, to lure Marrok close, strike him over the head with one of his carvings, and flee. Instead, he’d lifted her in his arms, carried her across the room, to his bed and—Stop there.



But she couldn’t. The disturbing memory of his arms cradling her against that powerhouse chest as he sank into her, played over and over in her mind. He’d made her body—and soul—soar, seemingly at will.



Stupidly, she’d gorged on his touch. She’d never had so much human contact at once. The little unloved girl inside her had greedily lapped up his attention.



Talk about a mistake…



The weirdest part was the staggering sense of connection she felt after she’d uttered those mysterious words. Why had she said them? What did they mean? They seemed like something from a medieval wedding. Once he’d answered in kind, her link to Marrok had swelled, overtaking her.



It had apparently overtaken her good sense, too. She’d given her virginity to a stranger who believed he was immortal and she was the witch who’d cursed him.



Gotta get out of here, she thought, sitting up in bed.



Sunlight streamed through the windows, illuminating the room she hadn’t seen last night. Her jaw dropped. Wow…



His headboard depicted a tale of two lovers romancing each other at the shadow of a hill. It alone must have taken years to carve in such sharp, perfect relief. And the four posts, in the form of wild wolves, so lifelike Olivia swore they would bite her if she touched them, surrounded the bed like snarling sentries.



Talent like his should be celebrated; he should be adored by the art world. If she could get his work on her shelves, he would be.



But Marrok not only lived in solitude, he prized it. Probably a good thing, since he was convinced he was immortal and cursed. Crazy, delusional man. But he’d touched her with such tender finesse that she’d begun to think…hope…but no. One night with one man could not undo years of her mother’s rejection or make her whole. Wishing otherwise was pointless.



Once Marrok had—or rather hadn’t—finished having sex with her, he had walked away. No surprise there. What kind of freak couldn’t satisfy a horny man? Her, apparently. She winced.



Time to get the hell out of Dodge and haul ass back to A Touch Of Magic.



At the thought of leaving Marrok, an odd weakness slammed into Olivia. She hurt. Even her skin throbbed in agony. But wrapped in sheets that smelled faintly of his woodsy musk, she wanted him again. Burned for him.



Wasn’t going to happen. Her libido needed an Ambien.



Grimacing with the effort it took to raise her wrist, Olivia glanced at her watch. Even her eyes hurt. 3:42 a.m. The numbers blared at her. Hopefully, he was sound asleep elsewhere in the house. She prayed that being “immortal” didn’t mean he kept vampire hours.



Olivia braced herself against the pain as she scooted to the edge of the bed. Her legs burned, her stomach churned. Between her thighs, the throbbing need nearly drowned out all else. She forced herself to keep moving. If she wanted to escape, now was her best chance.



Crawling out of bed, Olivia gasped when cold air hit her skin. Damn, she was naked.



Because Marrok undressed you and had his wicked way with you, and you put up all the fight of a gnat.



What was done, was done. Dwelling on the past wouldn’t change it. Yada, yada, yada.



Shuffling across the hardwood floor, Olivia tensed as each step stabbed needles of agony into the soles of her feet. The dizziness buzzed in her brain again. So not helpful.



Locating the bathroom was nearly cause for celebration, even if the short trip exhausted her. She shut the door, relieved herself, and noticed that the room had no window. A sink, yes. A shower, check. A toilet in the adjoining closet. But no means of escape.



Marrok’s heavy navy blue bathrobe hung on the back of the door. His scent wafted from the garment. Incredibly yummy. She’d bet he looked great in it, too.



Stupid train of thought.



Slowly, gingerly, she rose from the toilet, only to realize her thighs were sticky with blood and her own juices. A shower would be nice…



Focus. Escape!



Olivia ambled on shaky legs and grabbed the robe, biting her lip to keep in a cry of pain. What the hell was the matter with her? This was like having the flu times ten. Had she come down with something?



Moving like an arthritic woman on a rainy day, Olivia donned the robe and tiptoed out of the bathroom and into the open space of the kitchen/living room.



There were two visible doors out of the cottage: one at the front, the other at the back. Thankfully, Marrok lay asleep on the couch in between. She knew from her earlier attempt that the front door required a key, which he undoubtedly possessed. The back door…worth checking, but she wasn’t betting escape would be so easy.



As she hobbled to the door, Olivia scanned his cottage. Despite being isolated, it was decked out with high-tech security alarm, electricity, running water, every modern convenience available in both the bathroom and kitchen, right down to an electric shaver and a microwave.



But he owned no television. Worse, she saw no telephone. Even if she could find where her purse had fallen, the battery on her phone was undoubtedly dead now since the charge had been low yesterday. So much for calling 999.



Since Bram had not appeared, she assumed he wasn’t coming, and Marrok’s assurance otherwise had been a lie. God, how could she have been so reckless?



Resisting the urge to cry, then sleep for a decade, Olivia pressed on, watching Marrok doze on the couch. His head lay at an awkward angle. His face, even in repose, made her heart rattle in her chest. Her body ached so badly for him. The pain increased with every step she put between them.



Too bad. She couldn’t stay.



Finally, the exit was in reach. French doors. Stained glass. Had he done that as well? Wouldn’t surprise her.



Olivia braced herself. The damn dizziness returned, mingled with wretched pain. Her head…This was like a hangover, the flu, vertigo, food poisoning, and her period thrown in for good measure. She fell to her knees. God, she was going to throw up.



She had to get up, get out. Now!



Drawing in a fortifying breath, Olivia reached for the doorknob.



Her hand never made it.



CHAPTER FIVE



A FEMININE GASP AWAKENED Marrok in time to see Morganna crumple to the ground by the back door. He darted across the room and kneeled beside her. What the devil…? She was pale, twenty shades lighter than white. Her breaths were shallow, her body so bloody still. Had he hurt her last night?



“Morganna?”



Not a muscle twitch, not a hint of a stir.



“Morganna!”



Was this some game? She was never passive or helpless. A new tactic perhaps? Did she punish him because he had not called her by her preferred name? In eons past, she had flown into a fury for less.



“Olivia? Open your eyes.”



Marrok brushed the back of his fingers across her soft cheek. She was burning up with fever.



He lifted her into his arms and clasped her to his chest. She felt as if she’d spent all day under relentless summer sun, or was baking from the inside.



Cradling her, Marrok rose to his feet. She moaned.



“Can you hear me?” He could not mask the worry in his voice and prayed this was no hoax to gauge his concern so she could use it to drag him deeper into her muck.



Instead of a calculating laugh, she moaned again. “Burning…Need…”



“Need what?”



Silence.



He strode down the hall, trying not to jostle her. Lord, she could not weigh more than eight stone. And last night, he’d settled himself on top of her, pushed into her, insisted she take every inch of him…



Sweat beaded across Marrok’s chest and back as he laid her on his bed. “Olivia, what do you need?”



“Touch…”



He did, gently putting his palm on her forehead. If anything, her skin had climbed another degree or two. Bloody hell, if this was an act, it was the best he had yet seen.



“I must cool you down.”



Marrok raced to the kitchen. Ice. Loads of it in a bucket. Some towels soaked in cold water. Aspirin.



Hands full, he returned to see that she’d unbelted his dressing gown from about her waist and tried to open it. Dumping the supplies on the bed, he flung the garment wide, then drew it off until she lay bare.



“Better?”



She merely moaned and arched toward him, skin flushed. The woman was sick, and the sight of her bare, soft body had him unbearably hard. No doubt he was a scoundrel, but the pull he felt to her was undeniable, especially when she parted her legs restlessly and arched again.