.” He paused, lining it up in his head. “There’s something going on here that’s bigger than you or me, or even the two of us together. We’re in this . . . structure, I guess you could call it, that the gods conceived and our ancestors spent generations shaping. Only we’ve been plopped down in the middle of it without the big-ass box top that’s supposed to tell us how this cosmic game is supposed to work.
The massacres took away our info transfer, and Iago took away our connection to the gods. That’s left us figuring out what all the pieces do, one by one. We’ve got a couple of the rules down. As for the rest of it, we’re just winging it right now. But there I was one day, winging the shit out of things, when this folder came across my desk with a goddess inside it.”
She inhaled to say something, but he touched her lips to keep her quiet. “Let me finish. I’ve lived part of my life an addict to blood and death, and I’ve lived part of it on the surface of things, and I don’t like either of those lives. I’m learning to be a better man. Gods know it’s not going to be an easy process. Hell, for all I know, I’ll get my target tomorrow morning and I’ll be forced to call the Other back, and then who the fuck knows what’ll happen? But if I’ve figured out anything about this structure we’re in, it’s that while it might seem on the surface that the gods control our personal destinies, they don’t. We do. Strike chose Leah despite the prophecies. Brandt and Patience found each other before the barrier reopened. Even Nate and Alexis found their way to each other on their own terms. I want that for myself. I want you for myself. And I’m hoping like hell you want me back. I can’t promise you a future—I can’t even promise you tomorrow, and I’m sorry as hell about that, because after what you’ve been through with Ambrose and your ex, you deserve to know there’s a future, and I can’t say that. What I can say is that I’ll be here for you as long as I’m able to be. As long as you want me to be.”
He paused, and when she didn’t say anything, something sank inside him as his brain fed him a repeating loop of all the reasons she’d be smarter not to have anything to do with him. He’d left it too long, pushed her away too many times. He hadn’t fought hard enough to find a way for them to be together despite the danger. His history and his future scared the crap out of her, and for that he couldn’t blame her.
When she stayed silent, he worried he’d said too much. “Now it’s your turn.”
Then, finally, she smiled. “I’m thinking you had me at ‘goddess.’ Though the other stuff wasn’t bad, either.” As relief spun through him, excitement burgeoning on its heels, she eased her knees apart and linked her hands behind his neck, urging him into the space she’d created for him. “You’re right that I’d ideally like to know I’m in a relationship that’s going somewhere, but this isn’t an outside-
world situation, is it? For all we know, we’re down to three years and a week left to live . . . or in three years and a week, it’ll all be over and we’ll be able to go our separate ways. Under either circumstance, it seems silly to deny myself something special just because it doesn’t fit into all of the things I wanted in the outside world.”
The idea of a three-year time limit poked at Michael, irritating him. Which just went to show how much things had changed around him, within him; his longest previous relationship hadn’t made it to the four-month mark. Then again, he thought with a dark kink of self-awareness, it wasn’t like he was looking past the next few days, really. And that made it easier to say, “Let’s give it a try and see where we can make it fit in our world.”
She nodded, and her smile lost its reserve as her eyes gained a wicked gleam. Then she leaned into him, wrapped her legs around him, and sank into a kiss that promised so much more than just a kiss. It sparkled with the promise of tomorrow.
Heat shimmered through Sasha, taking her emotions from a poignant ache to soft acceptance, and from there to desire. She yielded to all of those things and more as she wrapped herself around Michael, anchoring herself to his solid strength. She kissed his neck, glorying in his hiss of pleasure as she found the soft spot behind his ear, and the way he shuddered at the drag of her teeth across the sensitive skin. But it wasn’t just the heat that had convinced her to set aside what usually passed as her better judgment—it was the hum of rightness that had brought her to this point, and the sense that it was time for them, maybe even past time. She respected him for holding her away when he’d been certain that being with her could endanger her, could put her in the way of the darkness. There was still a kernel of fear within her, but although it disturbed her to know she was kissing a killer, one who was god-bound to kill again, at the same time, she was kissing Michael. He wasn’t the Other; he was himself. He challenged her, yes. He excited her. He pissed her off. But she wasn’t afraid of him.
Maybe she should be, but she wasn’t.
So she softened against him, trailing her hands down his body and up again to toy with the hair at his nape. They were aligned hard to soft; she cradled his erection between her legs, held him there by wrapping her legs around his waist as they kissed, again and again. She tugged his shirt free and ran her hands beneath, her blood firing at finally—finally—being able to touch him like this, and trust that he wasn’t going to pull back this time.
Then he did pull back, but only far enough to break the kiss and say against her lips, “I applaud the idea of the kitchen, but would the chef mind transferring this to her bed?” He was smiling, but his forest green eyes were intent on hers, making the question far more serious than it seemed.
She got it, then. Twice before when they’d been together, and he’d been fighting the Other and the silver magic, they’d grappled with lust, with him standing, her pinned up against a wall. Warmth shimmered through her at the knowledge that he wanted this to be different, that he wanted to be different.
Smiling, she slipped off the counter, pressing full-bodied against him as she did so. Then she took his hand, feeling the ridges of their palm scars rubbing with sensual friction, and she led him to her bedroom.
There, gauzy curtains darkened the room, which was dominated by a big bed covered with a verdant green bedspread and a small army of pillows.
When they reached the bed, she turned to face him, and they stood there, staring at each other for a moment that spun out into temptation. Then, as though finally catching up with himself, he exhaled a long, slow breath that did little to release the tension gripping his powerful body. His hands came up to bracket her face; his lips softened beneath hers in a gentle, achingly tender kiss. Within moments, though, their kiss hardened to a demand and his arms came around her as his mouth fused with hers.
And all she could think was, Thank the gods.
Heat leaped within her as he gathered her against him, then bore her down to the bed, so they were wrapped together, straining together, trying to get closer and closer still, despite the tactile barrier of their clothes. His taste exploded across her senses; his scent filled her. She caressed him, dragging her fingers through his hair, clutching at his wide shoulders.
His sleeveless shirt was slick to the touch, molding to his muscles, making her very aware of his leashed power. She sensed his desire and felt the sharp excitement of his sex magic as they boosted each other. There was no hint of the foreign silver magic, adding to her bone-deep certainty that this was right. Call it hormones or magic, or maybe something more—she needed to feel alive, to take something for herself after so long. More, she needed to take him, and knew he needed her. She’d seen the emptiness inside him as he’d looked into a future and seen only impossible choices.