Rebel (23 page)

“And since your word has proven worthless, I won’t ask you to swear to it. Just remember that if you hurt her I’ll kill you. And I fight dirty. You wouldn’t even see me coming.”

“You do not need to tell me you have no honor,” Metatron said stiffly.

“No, I don’t, do I? I suggest you remember that.”

T
HE DREAMS CAME AGAIN THAT
night. I was in the ocean, but this time it was warm, embracing, and strong hands were on my ankles, pulling me down. I went willingly, knowing my lover was taking me, my lover who was Death.

His golden hair flowed around his beautiful, cruel face, and I couldn’t breathe until he put his mouth on mine, and suddenly the water was no danger at all as he pulled me deeper and deeper, holding me against his body as we danced. I held on to him as I’d wanted to, my arms around his waist, my head against his shoulder, as he dragged me down, and I wanted to weep with sorrow and joy. This was what I was born for. This was what I would die for.

His hands caught my hips and brought my legs around him, and he was hard, so hard. The light was
strange and eerie, and no one could see but my lover, and I could release the control I kept over my body, let the fierce, hot desire wash over me, wash over him. I needed his touch, I needed him inside me. He could dominate me, he could worship me, he could control me or let me take charge. He could violate me, take me any way he wanted, sacred and forbidden, as long as he took me.

There was fire beneath the water. I knew it was impossible, but I didn’t care; I was as drawn to those flames as I was to Cain. He pulled me toward it, and I felt the pleasure-pain of it licking between my legs, felt the spiraling burn of desire spread through me, claiming me, drowning me in the flames and the sea, and when he pushed inside me I burst into a thousand tiny stars, sparks settling slowly into the depths.

My eyes flew open. I was lying flat on my back in bed, cocooned in the velvety darkness of the deepest part of night. Every square inch of my skin tingled, my nipples were so hard they hurt, and the ache in my womb was a hard, physical thing. What was he doing to me?

And then it came again.
Come to me.
Like a siren call on the night wind, but I was no longer listening. Now I knew.

It was Cain, the trickster, manipulating me, playing games. Maybe even mocking the repressed sexuality of the poor, deluded widow, playing games with
her dreaming mind and laughing at her. I rolled over on my stomach and buried my face in my pillow, moaning, this time in shame.

I wanted to kill him. At the very least I wanted to slap the smile off his charming, devious face. Hell, I wanted to stab him.

I sat up on the bed, leaning back against the rough wall. It felt as if I’d switched off a light, or broken a phone connection. In the muffled distance I could almost hear him calling me once more:
Come to me
. Resolutely I closed my mind to him. He wasn’t getting anywhere near me, into my dreams, into my body. And as much as my muscles tensed, I wasn’t going to get up and knock on his door, even on the pretext of slapping him.

The hell I wasn’t. I pushed off the bed, fury vibrating through me, intensifying with the now clear call from his seductive voice. I walked across the floor, opened my door, and strode over to his, knocking with deceptive softness.

“Come in,” he said. I didn’t move.
Come to me.
I remained rigid, holding behind my back the pretty Japanese vase I’d snatched off a pedestal. Nothing but the best for Cain.

A moment later I heard him move, could almost imagine the languid beauty of him as he came toward the door. It opened, and he stood leaning against it, a slow, sensual smile on the face that I still,
ridiculously, wanted to kiss. “There you are,” he said, and the timbre of his voice slid beneath my skin, another arousal. Magic tricks, like the wall of flame, all illusion and no substance.

“Here I am,” I agreed pleasantly. “You called me?”

A wary look came into his silver eyes for a moment. “I don’t think so,” he lied smoothly. “But you’re welcome, nonetheless. Any the worse for wear after your adventure?”

Adventure? He called a murder attempt an
adventure
? My simmering rage came close to bubbling over. Not enough to change my mind and decide he was behind it—time and wisdom had convinced me otherwise. No, he didn’t waste his time with straightforward murder attempts; instead he burrowed into someone’s mind to torment and mock her while he undoubtedly got his own rocks off.

I smiled sweetly. “Are you inviting me in?”

“Of course,” he said, opening the door wider. And he made the critical mistake of turning his back on me.

He was a lot taller, but the vase was big, and I crashed it down over his head with all my strength, listening to the satisfying crack as it shattered against his hard skull, watching him go down onto the hard floor in a boneless heap.

Unconscious. Blood seeping into his golden hair. Lifeless.

The sudden cry of pain came from me as I sank to the floor beside him, pulling him into my arms. What had I done? This wasn’t a movie—I could have killed him with my stupid fury and hurt pride. He was a deadweight as I cradled him against me. The warmth of his blood trickled down my chest, soaking into my clothes, and I began to cry like a stupid baby, rocking him.
Don’t be dead, don’t be dead,
I prayed silently.

I’m not dead.
The words were clear and wry.
But I’m going to have one hell of a headache.

I looked down at him, ready to sob with relief, and then realized he hadn’t spoken out loud. His eyes were open, watching me, and this time the words were audible. “Hell, Martha. Can’t you take a joke?”

I dropped him on the floor, and his head bounced slightly as I tried to scramble away; but his head was a hell of a lot harder than even I had suspected, and he caught me and yanked me back. “I liked it better when you were holding me,” he added.

“Dream on.”

He laughed, the heartless bastard. “I think we’ve had enough of dreams, haven’t we?” And before I realized what he was doing, he’d tugged me down to his mouth.

The sizzle I felt every time we touched was still there, more a quiet vibration than an actual shock. I knew I should have slapped him, but his mouth was
so sweet beneath mine, and he wasn’t dead, and neither was I, and for a brief moment I just wanted to savor it. I put my hand out to cradle his face lightly, to thread my fingers through his long, silky hair, and then I yanked, hard, pulling his mouth away from mine.

He rolled out from under me before I could follow up with any more mayhem, bouncing lightly to his feet, then stared down at me with a sudden frown. “You’re bleeding.”

I glanced down at the blood on my shoulder. “No, Sherlock, that’s your blood.”

“No, Watson, you’re kneeling in shards of pottery. Clearly your last-minute remorse wiped out your common sense.”

I scrambled to my feet as well. He was right—a piece of the vase was stuck in my leg, and I yanked it out ruthlessly. “I’ll survive.” It was then that I realized what I was wearing. In deference to the warm night, I was dressed only in a thin shift, one that covered all the important things, like scars and breasts and hips, but hung only halfway to my knees and left my arms and too much of my chest bare. And he was looking at the blood trickling down my leg with an expression that made my stomach twist in what had to be disgust. But didn’t feel like it.

I should walk away. I’d made my point, there was nothing more to say. But I said it anyway. “So, was any of it real? Or just dreams?”

“A little of both.” He watched me warily. “I didn’t take anything you weren’t willing to give, by the way. In case you’ve decided to call me any nasty names.”

“Like dream rapist?” I shot back. “It doesn’t seem much different from putting a drug in someone’s drink.”

“Doesn’t it? You had a choice. You always had a choice, and you chose me. Just as you did tonight.”

I stared at him, momentarily speechless. “I think,” I said meditatively, “that I really hate you.”

“No you don’t. I can prove it. Come to me, Martha.” It was the first time he’d said those words out loud, yet they echoed through my body.

“I don’t think your magic juju works when I’m awake.”

“It doesn’t. It’s just me asking. Come here, Martha. Or turn your back on me. It’s your choice. It always has been.”

I stared at him. “And it doesn’t matter which one I choose?”

His smile was rueful. “Of course it does. I’m ready to explode from wanting you. You’re making me crazy—I can’t concentrate on why I’m here; all I can think about is getting inside you, and each dream only makes it worse instead of taking the edge off. I’m drowning in you, in your scent and your touch and your taste. Come to me, goddamn it.” His voice was ragged at the end of this, and I was hot, trembling.

“No,” I said. Just to see the darkness flood his face. “You come to me.”

He moved with the timeless, effortless grace of all the Fallen, and before I could rethink my foolish offer he’d pulled me into his arms, wrapping my legs around his hips as he kissed me. I had no choice but to twine my arms around his neck and hold on tightly as he ravaged my mouth, kissing me . . . completely. If one could come from being kissed, this was the kiss that would do it. His mouth was warm, wet, and I opened beneath the pressure of it, tasting his tongue, his want, his demand, with a fierce need of my own. He carried me through into the shadowy bedroom, and his skin was hot beneath my hands. I knew what would come next: gentle kisses, sweet encouragement as he set me down on the bed. He would coax and charm me until I finally relaxed, and then—

I felt the wall against my back, hard, and his hands were up under the shift, on my hips, ripping away the scrap of underwear I wore. He braced me against the wall as I felt his fingers between my legs, testing me, slipping in the wetness of my arousal, and then he fumbled with his jeans. I heard the rasp of a zipper in the darkness, and a moment later he was pressed against me, large and hot and real, and there was no sweetness, no gentle persuasion, there was only the hard thrust of him, pushing in, deep, so
deep that I wanted to cry out in sudden satisfaction. Wanted to cry out for more.

But his mouth still covered mine, his tongue pushing into my mouth as his cock pushed between my legs, and the sizzle between us turned into a small shudder of satisfaction. He began to pull out, and I wanted to cry. It wasn’t enough, I needed more of him—and then he thrust back in, deeper than before.

I was digging my fingernails into his shoulders, but he didn’t seem to mind. He pulled out again, and this time his thrust reached all the way home, to the tip of my womb, and I cried out against his mouth, climaxing again, harder this time, so that my entire body seemed to convulse. He held still, letting me ride it out, and then he began to move when I didn’t think I could bear any more, pushing through the clinging walls of my sex, a hard, steady thrust that pushed me back against the wall, his hands under my butt now, cradling me, holding me as he worked me, taking his time. He tore his mouth away from mine, sinking it onto my shoulder, and I felt his teeth grazing the tender skin at the base of my neck. I knew what he wanted, the completion of this rough, heavy joining, and I could only blame him for the fact that I wanted it too. But I was past speaking, lost in the insistent push and power of his body in mine, deep, impossibly so, and it should have hurt, but I was so
slick he could move easily enough within the clinging tightness.

I didn’t expect anything more—I was still trembling with the aftermath of the shattering climax I’d just had—when he started to move faster, harder, and he put one hand between us, touching me, rubbing me, and this time I did scream, I couldn’t help it, as a wave more powerful than death caught me up and flung me into the night air, and I was sobbing, clawing at him, holding on to whatever I could as the maelstrom knocked me off my feet.

He joined me, rigid, trembling in my arms as I felt him come, felt the liquid warmth inside me, and I wanted him to take me, all of me, my blood, my life, everything was his. But I was beyond speech, beyond thought, as another climax hit me, out of nowhere, and the world disappeared.

Everything swung dizzily around me as I felt him move, carrying me the rest of the way across the room, lowering me onto the bed. “Don’t move,” he said roughly. As if I could. Every muscle in my body had turned to rubber. I sank into the welcoming softness of his bed, his scent all around me, and fell asleep.

W
HEN
C
AIN CAME
back, she was lying on her stomach, one hand curled protectively under her chin, dead to world. He looked at her, immediately
hard again, and shook his head at his own absurdity. He was supposed to be using her, manipulating her. Instead he seemed to be at the mercy of his overpowering need for her.

It was lust, pure and simple, he told himself. If lust could ever be pure. For some reason she called to him as no one in memory had, and there was no rhyme or reason to it. She refused to be charmed by him, when he had most women at his feet with only the slightest effort. She was quiet, reserved, and saw right through most of his games. And he couldn’t get enough of her.

And the oddest thing of all—he’d been so caught up in the clenching power of her body that he’d forgotten all about her blood. The climax that had shaken him to his very core had been like nothing he could remember feeling, and even with the scent of her blood against his face, dancing beneath her skin, coming inside her had been enough.

Thinking about her blood now made him even harder, though. She was a blood virgin—that had been common knowledge—and she’d fight him like hell over it. She was a hard woman to convince. And the longer he stood here, the harder he got.

He looked down at his hands. They were shaking slightly with his need for her. What the hell was wrong with him? What had she done to him?

He wasn’t a fool, and he knew the answer. One that was unacceptable. Any form of weakness was,
and if he could deny it he could force it out of existence. He wanted her. He didn’t have to look any deeper into the whys of it. He wanted her, and now that he’d taken her the first barrier had been broken, and he could have her until he tired of her. He could fuck himself senseless in the sweet, milking clasp of her body, and eventually he’d have enough.