Page 25 of Four Promises to Love

He felt his weakness, heard his own lies. Horror broke over him as shapes emerged from the snow, silent and deadly. He thrashed as arms bound him, yelled as a fist filled his mouth with blood. He saw the flash of the choora, heard the whisper of the blade, then a gargle and a sound like rain hitting snow…

He’d stared death in the eyes. So many times.

And he was tired of fighting it.

Just as he surrendered to the promise of peace, he felt himself dragged back from the edge. Fingers slid from his, and he saw the man’s wide, terrified eyes the instant before the water closed over the other’s head⁠—

“No!”

Owen awoke with the shout raw in his throat.

He pushed himself up, circling his arms around his knees. He shut his eyes, burrowing his head, waiting for the images to fade. Most of the time, they did…but tonight, they resisted. He couldn’t stop the past as it gleefully ran amok in his head, leaving a trail of bloody footprints and invisible scars. Chest heaving, he looked desperately around the gamekeeper’s cottage for something to anchor him—to keep him in the present.

The banked fire in the hearth illuminated the small and rustic space. On the table, he saw the sketches of the garden he’d been working on and the remnants of the supper he’d taken alone. As much as he loved his family, he needed solitude. Here in the cottage, he didn’t have to keep up pretenses—and no one could witness him behaving like a madman.

His breath was rough and ragged in his lungs. Perspiration chilled his bare chest, but it hardly mattered given the ice in his gut. His muscles were knotted ropes, and he realized that he was shaking.

Bloody hell, I want a drink.

The thought of that—of betraying his promises to his kin and himself—caused his stomach to roil. He dragged his fingers through his hair, welcoming the small pain when they caught on snarls. As usual, the women in his family were right: he did need a haircut. It was one more thing to add to the list of things he ought to do but hadn’t. The list was long—and had gotten longer since Seraphina started wreaking havoc in his life.

He ought to expose his past with her to his family.

He ought to refuse that asinine challenge she’d issued. His sister had cheerfully conveyed that Madame Seraphina had invited him for a private séance…if he was “brave enough to explore beyond the veil.” As far as he was concerned, accepting that offer was not a measure of courage but of stupidity. And he definitely ought to stop having debauched thoughts about Seraphina.

At the moment, however, thinking about her was preferable to thinking about other things. He flopped back onto the cot, resting an arm over his head. As he stared at the low-hanging rafters darkened by age and smoke, he wondered why he couldn’t get her out of his mind.

Seraphina was trouble. She had obviously targeted his family for some wicked purpose—money, most likely. The village gossip about his siblings being the ones to end the so-called curse of Bloody Thom had spread like wildfire; she and her little band of miscreants had probably heard it and seen an opportunity ripe for the picking. And her story about the “connection” she felt to him—about them being drawn together by the spirits of Rosalinda and Thomas?

Utter claptrap.

Owen knew this…and yet.

The memory of their last kiss sent a swirl of heat through his veins. He’d known she was manipulating him, of course. What made no sense was how much her deviousness aroused him. From their first meeting, he’d been attracted to her bold sensuality: she was no wilting violet but a blooming oleander, seductive…and quietly dangerous.

It was fitting that their second kiss had taken place in a graveyard. In the dark and amongst the dead, their passion had burned like the fires of Tartarus—consuming, inevitable, and inescapable. The moment she’d ended up on his lap, ulterior motives—hers and his—had gone up in flames. Her feminine hunger had been real. The way she’d clutched his hair, feasting on his mouth like a woman starved, hadn’t been feigned. Nor had that moan that escaped her when he touched her lovely breast.

He let his hand wander over the taut bands of his stomach to his cock. He wrapped his fingers around his shaft, unsurprised that he was already hard. Seraphina had this effect on him, and maybe, right now, she was the answer to his problems. He closed his eyes, stroking himself idly, recalling how delightfully she’d squirmed on his lap when he’d licked her ear. What if he’d allowed things to progress further—what if, instead of proving his point, he had let passion take the lead?

He imagined stripping off her disguise. For he had no doubt that the wanton minx was using those drab gowns and enigmatic manner as camouflage. In his fantasy, he relieved her of every article of clothing, leaving her naked on his lap. Her shoulders would be as smooth as her manner, and her breasts… He exhaled through his nose, feeling her firm and rounded flesh nestled in his palm. Although her undergarments had prevented him from feeling much, he’d wager her tits would have perfect nipples—pink and saucy to match her mouth.

If her reaction to having her earlobe suckled was any indication, she would enjoy his oral ministrations there too. He worked himself harder, his biceps bunching as he imagined licking her nipples while she straddled him. He felt her fingers in his hair, heard her sighs as he tongued and suckled her. He smelled her skin, that heady scent of female musk and lemons ripening in a garden, and it made him greedy for more.

He gripped her satiny hip with one hand, reaching between her legs with his other.

“Owen,” she breathed.

Her voice, husky and sweet, wrapped around his name, and he felt himself spurt a little. He thumbed the pre-seed over his tip, imagining that he was rubbing her—that it was her slick little button he circled. The naughty miss liked being diddled, he recalled. She liked having her pussy eaten as well—had liked it so much that when he’d licked her pearl, she’d gushed upon his tongue.

“There. Right there. Oh, Owen.”

Her passion spun his senses. This time, their encounter would end differently. He tumbled her backward onto the bed and spread her thighs. In a swift thrust, he hilted himself to the balls. He groaned, feeling the tight, pulsing lushness of her sheath. They were face to face, and as heavenly as her body was, it was her eyes that held him captive. Their topaz depths beckoned with glints of hidden treasure.

“What do you want?” she asked, both playful and sultry.

“You,” he rasped. “All of you.”

She gave him what he asked, circling his hips with her legs while he plowed her. She moved with him, her wantonness making his chest surge and his fist jerk faster. He felt her—and not just the way her cunny milked his shaft. She touched him—everywhere. Her fingers sifted through his hair, sending electric tingles over his scalp. She kissed him, and her sweetness was more intoxicating than any spirit.