Red Demon (12 page)

She felt her face grow hot beneath his inspection, in reaction to his words. “For a quiet man, you speak very plainly, Leo.”

His dark gaze, nearly black with desire, met hers, but he said nothing. It was his eyes that spoke everything in his heart, wove poems and epics in the air, all without uttering a syllable.

When at last he did speak
aloud
, the words were husky and low, his tone more overtly sexual than she’d ever heard from him. “I’ve already taken you hundreds of times in my thoughts and dreams.”

She felt her entire body surge with fire and need, the sensation so strong that she had to lean into him to keep steady. “Then you must be eavesdropping on my own dreams,” she admitted, leaning her cheek against his chest. His heart beat rapidly, the rhythm a vibration against her face.

He placed a steadying hand against her lower back. Her gown was open there, and the sensation of his masculine, warrior’s flesh meeting her own smooth skin shredded whatever was left of her sanity. “You want me, too,” he said on an exhale. “You still want me.” The obvious relief in his tone wrenched at her heart.

With both hands, she cupped his bearded face, tugging it downward so she could kiss him. Slowly she brushed her lips over his, determined that it would be a brief touch, and whispered, “I only stay away so my brother won’t hurt you. Always know that, love.”

He frowned, the scar in his lip blanching white. “But losing
you
hurts me. That you’re not here with me all the time, that I can’t hold you . . .”

She kissed him again, felt his mouth opening, how hungry he was to taste her. He pushed his hips against her, pinning her against the door, deepening what had begun as a tentative, gentle kiss. His hands raked into her hair; his body surged against hers; their tongues intertwined, the wet heat of him almost more than she could resist. But an image of Ares’ cruel face flashed in her mind, and she pulled back. “If I let myself love you . . . my love will kill you. Ares will kill you.”

He dipped his head low, moving in to kiss her again; she felt the bristling tickle of his beard against her cheek. “I’m immortal, Daphne.” The words were a rough, low pledge.

She instantly thought of Ares’ threats, the implications that Leo had begun to age, that his transformation would take hold quickly.

She pushed against his chest, determined to protect him. “No. No, Leo. This can’t happen.”

“There are only two of us here,” he growled, cupping her face roughly and tilting it upward until their eyes locked. “We are the ones who decide our future.”

She couldn’t fight her tears: They welled from deep inside her soul. “I wish that were true, but if you died again, Leo,” she whispered, “I would die a thousand times with you. You must live. Above all things, above all my own needs.”

His muscular arms seized her about the waist, and he cried out her name with such anguished strength, she nearly stayed with him forever.

Until she saw the only proof that could ever keep her away.

A few strands of silver glinted in his beard, gleaming lustrously by the candlelight. Leo’s beard had always been dark, nearly black, without a single graying curl.

Until now.

She lifted her fingers and outlined the few silver hairs, finding them oddly beautiful, while hating them at the same time.

“What, Daphne?” he asked, capturing her hand against his face. “What is it that you see?”

She swallowed, shaking her head. At that exact moment, there was a loud rapping on the door behind her back. She startled, leaning into Leonidas, and he wrapped her close. Clearing his throat, he called, “Yes?”

“My lord, pardon the intrusion.” It was Ajax’s deep voice, just on the other side of the thin barrier that separated them from the hallway. “But you are needed, sir.”

Leo only nuzzled her closer, locking a protective, proprietary arm about her. He did not intend to relinquish her now that she’d returned, not ever, and she knew it in that moment.

Neither of them spoke for a long, suspended moment, only the sound of their breathing filling the silence. If they parted, if they stepped out of each others’ arms, would they ever be together again?

“Sir, we require the Oracle,” Ajax added when Leo did not reply. “We thought, perhaps, you might be able to summon her.”

Leo’s arms tightened about her, and she heard him swallow. At last he called out, his voice falsely bold, “Understood. I will need enough time to . . . to summon her.”

There was a pause, and then, “Yes, sir,” and the sound of footsteps retreating on the hardwood hallway.

Daphne’s eyes locked with Leo’s in the ensuing silence, as each studied the other. Memorized the shape of a lower lip, the way a mouth quirked at the edge, the outline of a brow. But despite Daphne’s attempt to burn Leonidas’s full visage into her soul, one facet of the man’s appearance blazed brightest of all.

Her gaze went to it now, even as she fought to pretend it was not there: silver. The silver hairs in Leo’s dark beard were virgin. Brand-new. And they betrayed a tragic truth, fulfilled her brother’s threat with alacrity.

He touched his beard, rubbing his thick fingers over it curiously, gaze locked on her. “What do
you
see?” he repeated hoarsely. As if he already knew. As if he’d already glimpsed his fate himself, perhaps in the mirror that morning.

Silver washed through her vision, blinding her, poisoning her deepest soul. Because now she knew what Ares had been hinting about in his throne room. That Leonidas, brave king of Sparta, protector of Greece and eternal humanity, her only love, was aging. And that meant . . . he was also slowly dying.

T
hey had moved from the dining table to a very large, high-ceilinged room that, with its slanted angles and windows, reminded Juliana of a church. She’d heard them windows, reminded Juliana of a church. She’d heard them call it “the great room” as they’d directed her within.

A balcony ran the length of the upper portion, a kind of catwalk that apparently led to more rooms farther down the hallway. She stared upward, surprised by how basic the ceiling looked, not adorned by intricate tiles, nor painted a vibrant, rich color. Had architecture become uncommonly plain and massive in the past hundred years? And obviously electricity had won the war against oil and steam, as every light she’d seen so far was electric. There would be much to experience and learn in this century, she decided.

Slowly she lowered her gaze and counted the other people in the room. Apart from Emma and Shay, there were seven men, almost all of whom were massively built, although Aristos had to be the biggest among the group.

She sighed, sinking back against the cushions of the long settee; Ari sat beside her, and she realized that apart from him, she was surrounded by strangers. Well, mostly so, since River and Emma didn’t quite fit into that category. Still, with the others offering her a mix of curious, indifferent, and cold glances, she felt inspected, as if she were on display at an exhibition.

Ari never even looked in her direction, but instead faced forward, eyes fixed on an unseen point, back as straight as a rod. Folding neat hands in her lap, she stared straight ahead, too, attempting conversation. “For whom do we wait?”

No answer. No reaction whatsoever. His unresponsiveness perturbed her greatly.

Why wouldn’t he at least acknowledge her? Offer some encouraging or polite word?

Apparently, pretending that she didn’t exist was his current strategy for dealing with their unusual situation.

Fine; he wished to wage war of indifference? Then she would match his every maneuver. Except . . . the longer they waited, the others chatting easily around them, the more his enforced silence became a war of attrition, wearing down her attempts to stay calm.

What if he tosses me out to the street? Perhaps he won’t have me at all.
She suddenly worried, chewing on her lip.
I have nowhere to go, no idea how this new world operates.

The possibility that he would reject her outright had never even entered her mind when she’d made her choice earlier tonight. She had thought only about making Aristos hear the truth of the night she died. But now, here with the man she had never stopped loving, seeing such harsh lines on his face, she began to doubt in earnest.

A deep, hollow loneliness filled her right then, such a powerful sensation that she had to blink back tears. Because she wanted to go home with a raw, childlike intensity. Wanted to be back in her own bedroom near her own things, smelling a familiar world, but that world was as lost as she’d been until just a few hours ago.

She pressed her eyes shut, struggling to tamp down the homesickness.
I have no home. No time. No mother upon whose shoulder to cry.

She frowned, staring down at her hands, kneading them in her lap. Then she stopped, studying her pianist’s tapered fingers, noticing for the first time that her left hand was bare of the ring she’d always worn, a cameo of a Roman warrior and his bride. It had been a gift from Ari on her twenty-sixth birthday, instantly becoming her favorite piece.

“Whom are we expecting?” she tried again, leaning against Ari. She needed his solid, physical reassurance. He jerked away as if she’d pressed a hot poker to his skin. “I’m not poisonous, sir,” she huffed.

He began tapping his bare right foot, his knee jerking up and down. “Hey, Jax,” he called to his brother on the other side of the room. “How long did the Old Man say he’d be? When’s he gonna come?”

“‘Soon’ was all he said. Maybe it took a while to summon her?” Jax shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Who was this “Old Man” and who was the “she” involved? Juliana wondered. More important, how would their opinions impact her fate?

A bald man sat in the far corner astride a straight- backed chair that he had turned backward. His shiny, smooth scalp had several ugly scars upon it, which only added to his menacing appearance. When he looked up, their gazes locked briefly. “He will come soon enough,” he said, and she shivered.

That man, she noted, was frightening. She could have sworn she heard a slight growl emanate from his corner, as if he were a caged beast.

“Straton, dude. Just asking,” Ari replied.

Straton was a Greek name as well; it seemed that all the men gathered in the room shared that bond. Perhaps they’d also defied time itself, like Aristos, which puzzled her as always.

She voiced the question aloud, vexed. “What
are
all of you?”

Ari, of course, remained as silent as a Sunday morning.

“I won’t be vanishing simply because you choose to ignore me,” she warned him quietly, leaning closer so he could hear. He cut a sideways glare at her, and those eyes of his—their dark depths were pools of very intense emotion, revealing the truth of his mental state. She could practically see heat and anger and passion swirling in his gaze. No, contrary to what he’d wanted to make her believe, he was not unmoved by her presence. The furthest thing from it, in fact.

That realization caused every one of her fears to flee; her heart soared like the winged creature she knew him capable of becoming.

She touched his hand. “Aristos, perhaps you could talk to me,” she encouraged gently. “Realize that you don’t need to be so . . .”
Afraid. Heartbroken. Confused.
Dozens of words came to the tip of her tongue, but she was certain that every one of them was wrong. “So . . . uncertain,” she added at last.

She tilted her face upward as she studied his profile. That long, aquiline nose was still perfect, still beautiful. So were his high cheekbones and dusky, Greek skin.

She reached a hand to his cheek, not caring if he swatted it away. “Your skin is still so beautifully dark. Remember when I told you it was the color of ripe walnuts?”

“You tossed one of the blasted things at me from across the table, and it pinged off my forehead,” he said.

He’d laughed, eyes crinkling at the edges. Small lines had appeared, betraying his age. He’d been thirty-two then, in visible years, at least, and not aged at all since.

“I believe you were embarrassed. That’s why you cracked the nut open with your bare hand, hoping to regain your dignity.”

“I was always trying to impress you,” he said, then closed his eyes, wincing at the vivid memories. “Oh, Juliana. Please . . .”

He’d called her Juliana! He did believe, or at least he’d responded to the shared memory. She pressed on, brushing the backs of her fingertips down his jaw. “You always wore such fine suits when you courted me. I loved your silk vests, especially that crimson one. Remember? And your fancy pocket watch, the one with the gold-coin cover. It was so flashy, my mother hated it, which only made you display it more frequently.” She felt his cheek quiver with the hint of a smile, and she stroked his face again.

“And that black felt derby . . .” She sighed. “No man should look so sinfully beautiful in a hat.”

“Jules, please,” he begged again. This time, he’d used her pet name! She was reaching him, making him understand.

He forced her hand away from his cheek, their fingertips grazing briefly. A flare of heat moved up her arm at the intimacy, and she started to reach for him all over again. This time he clasped her hand, holding it in his. “Please don’t touch me, okay?” he asked gently, his eyes pleading with her as he slowly released her hand from his grasp.

“Earlier, you seemed quite happy to be physically close to me,” she reminded him.

“I was.”

“Why can’t you still feel that joy?” She patted her chest. “I am
me
, Aristos, and I am here. You can feel my beating heart if you wish, feel the pulse at my wrists. I’m no spirit or illusion.”

He pivoted, seizing hold of her upper arms. “Don’t you understand my hesitation, woman?”