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She stood as far away from him as possible, a shoulder just barely turned in his direction. He measured the angle of that presentation like a careful architect. Had she stood in just that manner so that part of her would connect to him, if just the shoulder? He thought yes, oui, because he knew her. After five months of absurd dating, yes, he knew her very well.
He saw the clean line of her jaw, the angle of her beautiful long throat, her chestnut hair in waves down her back, her chin lifted, so proud, so determined. He knew her thoughts. Ah, oui, after five months he knew her obsessive thoughts and they were not fixed on him as they ought to be. Non, they reeked of her constant need to find Rith, to see him imprisoned and tried for his crimes, to see him dead.
What was left for him? Little bones she cast at his feet every two weeks. He hungered for them and jumped at them when they came. He tore them to bits, sucked on the marrow, chewed them with sharp hard teeth until he had devoured each small piece. But until the bones came, he waited as one suspended in time, caught as if between dimensions, waiting for her smiles and her frowns, the soft clearing of her throat, the words spoken from tender lips.
How he despised the breh-hedden that had brought him to this terrible place, into the power of another woman. He had fought for over two centuries to keep his heart and mind free of the shackles of any sort of love. Love had betrayed him once, love that had felt eternal, love that he had given his heart to without restraints of any kind.
He had believed himself loved but in the last month before his ascension, his wife had grown distant, even cruel at times, weeping uncontrollably, enraged, perhaps even insane—he would never know. But in her unstable state, she had betrayed him to the revolution, spoken of his crimes, of secret but false alliances with the court of Marie Antoinette.
He had been for the revolution. He had been on committees to create a new government based on liberté, égalité, fraternité. He had renounced his lands, his position in society. How could anyone have doubted his sincerity, his patriotism, his dedication to a new France?
But Robespierre was another kind of monster and so he had found himself confronting Madame La Guillotine and all because his wife had betrayed him. He could not imagine what the crowds thought when he simply disappeared off the guillotine just as the angled blade made its terrible descent.
No, his wife’s betrayal and the revolution’s betrayal had slain his heart, had changed him. Gone was his innocence, his belief in l’amour, in the equities of life. He had departed from a country caught in civil war, as well as an encroaching war with all of Europe, to ascend to a new dimension also at war. This time, he became a warrior and no longer a fool hoping for political change.
So Fiona could never truly be important to him. His heart was too broken. But as he watched her, mon Dieu, sometimes, he thought his heart beat in unison with hers, trying to call to her from the depths of his soul, summon her, beg her to hear him, to turn toward him, that he might see in her eyes the same need he felt.
He was so f**ked, another perfect American expression.
Of course, her scent rolled toward him in heavy waves, which meant that she knew exactly where he was and that she was thinking about him, just as he thought of her.
The trouble was that the more her scent rolled, the more it afflicted his lower body as though fingers played over him.
Merde, would this agony never end?
* * *
Fiona felt his presence like a strong wind against her back, pushing and shoving. She resisted. Of course she resisted. He was the real danger in her life, not ten death vampires, not a hundred, not a thousand. They could only steal her life from her, but Jean-Pierre, oh, Jean-Pierre, he could steal her heart, her mind, her soul … her freedom, her precious freedom.
Ethan had returned to the circle of his father’s arm. She crossed her arms over her chest and grasped the edge of the soft cashmere as though holding on to a lifeline.
She would not look at him.
She would not look at him.
The ceremony would begin soon and she would be free, at least for a few minutes, of Jean-Pierre and the coffee scent that flowed over her in a constant teasing breeze of sensory torment. She wanted a taste, maybe her tongue licking down the center of his chest, over his hardened ni**les, biting into his pecs …
She brought a hurried fist to her lips.
Quiet your thoughts, she commanded, or he will know. She suspected it was already too late for that, but she didn’t want him to know just how much she longed for him, how much she craved him. Still, the moment her navy heels had crunched pine needles, she had been aware of him.
He was far away from her, maybe thirty feet. She could measure the distance in her mind, one inch at a time. She wanted him next to her, his fingers resting lightly on her shoulder, the shoulder she had deliberately turned toward him. All she could give him was that shoulder. She wanted to give him so much more. Her throat grew tight with longing and tears, with frustration … such deep frustration. But she couldn’t give him more than the little bones she cast at him. Yes, he called them little bones, their dates.
They would have a date soon. It couldn’t be too soon for her because she was in agony. He would kiss her and his kisses were like heaven and hell combined, because much to her great humiliation his kisses brought her. He knew it, too. He savored the moment. She knew he did. What power did a man have that a mere kiss would swell an orgasm through her body like a stream of lightning flying up and up?
Oh, God.
She had to think of something else or she would go mad.
The ceremony. Yes, the ceremony. She would think of the ceremony.
Warrior Kerrick held his daughter, now three months old, in the circle of his powerful arms. She was holding her head well, and he kept a hand balanced lightly against her bare back. The baby wore an infant flight halter because at any moment Helena could do the unexpected and mount her tiny wings.
Fiona shook her head. Apparently, babies with the ability to mount wings were unheard of on Second Earth. Usually wings emerged somewhere between eight and ten for Twolings, those children born on Second Earth. But Helena’s wings were essentially a Third Earth manifestation, the result no doubt of her parentage.
Alison clung to his other arm. She kept dabbing at her cheeks, which brought a rush of tears to Fiona’s eyes. She had come to know Alison quite well and from her history understood that before her call to ascension, she had been celibate, even resigned to being without a mate the rest of her life. Her powers were simply too strong for a mortal to bear.
If Fiona understood the problem exactly, Alison’s power would have been too much for even most ascended males to bear, which caused Fiona to ponder Jean-Pierre once more. If she was his breh, did that also mean that her advanced powers, especially her level of telepathy, would be something few men on Second Earth could handle? Was Jean-Pierre in that sense the only man she could ever truly be with?
