Red Demon (25 page)

Juliana stomped a booted foot adamantly. “No. I will not leave you, Aristos. Not like this.”

He seemed poised upon some very dangerous precipice, that blaze in his eyes flashing and increasing every time he glanced at her. Perhaps that was why he turned away, putting his back to her. “Jules, I’m begging you. . . . I don’t want you seeing me like this. I . . . have no control.”

She rounded the edge of the bench and, kneeling, stared up into his eyes. “My love, please tell me what’s wrong. How can I help you . . . make this pain subside? I’ll do anything. But please do not ask me to leave you. Not when you suffer so.”

He touched her cheek with a trembling hand, his eyes sliding shut at the contact. “You’re in danger; don’t you see?”

She shook her head firmly. “I do not, sir. You would never hurt me.”

“Thought we agreed no more ‘sir’ between us,” he grumbled, eyes still shut.

She covered his hand against her cheek, willing him to be soothed. “Ari, please tell me what’s wrong. What happened in the shop to unsettle you?”

“You! You happened,” he groaned, staring down into her eyes. His own pupils were pinpricks of blackness amid gleaming pools of silver—they actually seemed to swirl and change, slight ribbons of gold flowing through, as well. “You did this to me, Juliana,” he added quietly. Not in accusation, but out of utter despair.

But his declaration hit her with a jarring, physical sensation that instantly had her shaking, too.

“I . . . I caused this?” She swallowed hard, hating the idea that something about her was causing him to suffer. Was it her return? Or something about her newly returned human body?

“Not you . . . my desire for you.” He gave her a helpless glance. “You’re so gorgeous in that outfit, I just . . . overheated.”

If she’d caused such an unsettled reaction, then it should reason that she could soothe him, as well. “Come here, Aristos.” She wound her arms around his neck and held him, murmuring soothing words in his ear. The tremors in his body were still dramatic, but she felt him settle slightly the longer she held him. From the corner of her eye, she saw Emma leave them, walking into the square’s center.

Stroking his upper back, Juliana held him even closer. “Does this happen . . . often? Or only since I arrived?”

“It’s a recent development,” he said after a moment, the words tight and unrevealing.

“How recent, Aristos?”

He pulled back, placing strong hands on her shoulders. His eyes were black again as he stared at her for a long, intense moment. “You need to know what I am. Everything that I am. But not here. I can’t predict what might . . . how I’ll react when I tell you.”

She bobbed her head. “Where would you like to go?”

“Someplace private, somewhere all my own.”

“Then let’s get that Jeep—”

“No,” he blurted, shaking his head dramatically. “I’m still too . . . on the edge. Imagine if I transformed inside that thing.” He laughed darkly. “Oh, crap, baby, you really have no idea how big I get . . . the rest of me does, too.”

She leaned closer, whispering, “Your wings?”

He studied her, his expression growing mournful. “They’re massive, sweetheart,” he replied. “Don’t you recall? They span almost six feet. Nah, I don’t think that much of me’s gonna cram inside the Jeep, at least not safely.”

She thought about the vehicle’s interior dimensions and could see his point. With a resolute nod of agreement, she glanced about the square, grasping for any idea of where they might find the kind of privacy he needed.

“There’s an inn over there,” she suggested, seeing a sign. It was a building that she recognized, one that had housed a bank in her own time. “Shall we seek a room so you can recuperate? And so we might speak privately without concern about any . . . changes you might undergo?”

He tracked with her gaze. “A room together, huh? Isn’t that a bit risqué, you an unmarried woman sharing a suite with a scoundrel like me?” When he looked back at her, he was smiling; the tortured aspect had vanished from his expression, replaced by an unmistakable flare of desire. “Then again,” he continued languidly, rubbing his jaw, “I think we discarded propriety this morning . . . and last night.”

“You need rest, Aristos,” she cautioned, concerned that he might lose control again before they even obtained the room in question. “You have a method for paying for this room? As you did for my dress—thank you, incidentally. I love it.” She glanced down, brushing a smoothing hand across the bodice.

“Dangerous fashion,” he muttered, then, rising to his feet, extended a hand to her. She took it, standing tall at his side. “And yeah, I can pay. We’re all rich as the devil. Comes from living so long.”

How long have you lived, precisely?
she could barely restrain herself from asking. But there would be time for questions—and confessions—once they were inside their room.

He moved closer to her, and for a disconcerting moment, she could have sworn that his eyes grew narrower and that his cheekbones became more pronounced and stark. But as if a shadow had simply flickered across his moody features, that impression passed as he gripped her upper arm.

“I want that room with you, Jules,” he said huskily. “And I want you—the rest of you that I’ve never held or touched.” He slid a fingertip along the top of her bodice, outlining the exposed satin of her corset in a slow, tempting motion. “I want to have my hands all over this damned thing, beneath your dress.” He bent his mouth to her ear, warm breath sending contrasting shivers across her skin. “I want to take all your ribbons, Jules, and unwrap you. Like you said you wanted me to on our last night.”

She leaned into him, swallowing hard, and nodded once. He slid a palm behind her head, forcing her to look up into his eyes. “I want you to unwrap all of me, too,” he said and extended his arm. “But we’d best leave this square and get to the proverbial higher ground, or I may just swoop down upon you here in public.”

She shivered, slipping her hand through the crook of his arm. She was painfully aware of his bare skin brushing against hers, the tickling of the masculine hair upon his arms, the firm sinew of his muscular forearm.

“Take a last look,” Ari said to her, waving toward the square.

“Why? We’ll see it again . . . won’t we?” Her heartbeat quickened instantly.

“I think you know what I mean, Juliana.” His eyes flashed silver again, for only a moment. “You’ll leave that room a changed woman, altered forever by what we’re going to do.”

She shivered again, trying to settle the fevered anticipation that built inside her body. He was right; deep inside, she knew that nothing—absolutely nothing—would ever be the same between them again after they entered that hotel.

R
eally, he had no idea how he would explain himself. That one thought kept whittling away at his mind, and no matter how long Ari paced about their hotel room—or how often he turned and stared into Juliana Tiades’ accepting, vibrant eyes—he couldn’t figure out the best way to share the details of his immortal life. Of his onetime death in battle, his subsequent Olympian resurrection.

He leaned against the dresser and stared at the floor between them, trying to summon the words.

With a low, perturbed growl, he started walking the floor again.

Juliana sighed. “Aristos,” she said softly. “I always realized that you were not from my time. From the very beginning, if you will recall.” She sat on the edge of the bed, hands folded neatly in her lap, her posture as refined and poised as ever. “In fact, I rather remember you stuttering in shock when I followed you out of that party.” A little dimple appeared at the right corner of her mouth; it wasn’t visible very often, quirking into view only when she grew devilishly amused.

“Your house blazed with golden candlelight,” he said, practically smelling the sweet perfume of gardenias and expensive champagne that had floated on the night air. “I can still hear Chopin coming from inside your place.”

“My cousin Harold played for hours,” she agreed, “and I stood and listened and chattered with the guests. But all night long I waited for you, Aristos. I watched you from the corner of my eye, every one of my movements choreographed to capture your attention. But then you left!” She fanned herself with her hand, eyes growing wide. “I was flustered and frustrated, and so I did the improper thing. I followed you out to the street.”

He gave her a sheepish look now. “I had a job to do. I didn’t notice you until we were outside.” He gave a courtly bow. “Until milady corrected that most grievous oversight.”

Jules rose, a proud tilt to her chin as she walked toward him. It was a near- perfect re-creation of the tall, regal way she’d carried herself the first time he met her.

“I remember every syllable that passed between us. Every breath and touch and gesture.” Her eyes fluttered closed, and when next she spoke, it was on a quiet, intense sigh. “I just want to know how it is that someone like you, sir, moves so easily in the physical realm.” She laughed. “Do you recall me asking that?”

He swallowed, dipping his head low to capture her mouth with a slow, burning kiss. She caught his upper lip, sucking it, then kissed him again, angling for a much deeper connection. She coiled both arms about his neck, and he caught her narrow waist in his big hands. She gasped, ducking her head sideways when he moved to kiss her again.

“And I remember your reply, Aristos.”

He laughed and repeated the long-ago words against her cheek. “You, ma’am, are clearly a bedeviled spiritualist.”

“Now you know that I’m a Daughter of Delphi, and you understand my prophetic abilities.”

He nodded, sliding his palms down to her hips. Although she was tall, her frame had always been slender and willowy, and she felt delicate in his firm grasp. Her heart was beating so strongly that the bodice of her dress vibrated with the rhythm.

She leaned up close to stare into his eyes. “Tell me,” she urged, gaze never wavering.

That was all she said, those two simple words.
Tell me what you are, what you’ve become . . . what you’ve done over the past twenty-five hundred years.

“I should’ve come clean with you back then.” He flexed his thick forearms, feeling the hum of otherworldly power bristle through his body. “It’s . . . gotten a lot more complicated lately.”

She stroked his arms, watching the way the muscles rippled beneath her touch. “Complicated in what way?”

He pressed his face against the top of her head, dragging her scent into his lungs. White-hot need moved through his core in reaction, causing his groin to tighten like a fist. He ached to have her but focused only on Juliana and this confession.

“You coming back to me,” he said, rocking his hips slightly forward. “For one thing.”

“When you get aroused, do you . . .” She gave her head a slight shake, blushing as she grasped for the right words. “Are you . . . well, do you become . . . uncontrolled? Is that it, Aristos?”

“Trust me; it’s easy enough to lose control around you, sweetheart.” He gave her his most dazzling, seductive smile, hoping it conveyed how deeply she had always affected him. “Any man would lose his cool if he tasted what I have of you.”

“But . . . you touched me when we courted, and I never glimpsed such a strong reaction,” she insisted. “Something about you has changed over the years; I’m certain. Something that’s causing you pain.”

He stared past her shoulder, feeling bitter despite himself. It was too much, the power that Ares had shouldered them all with, the burden of their calling. And to what purpose? So that the god might indulge his endless bloodlust. Finally Ari whispered, “Nothing about what I’ve become is familiar ground.”

He wasn’t ready to tell her everything, not the part about River’s power—how it was altering him, bit by bit. So he asked a question, one that seemed incredibly relevant. “What was it like, while you were dead?” He flashed on the moment of his own death, how he’d felt the warmth of his blood before he’d realized the extent of his own injury.
The bright light enveloping him, warm, soothing; unlike the soggy, bloody muck of the battlefield.

“And what was it like when you came back?” he pressed when she looked away. “What did it feel like?”

“I thought you were the one who wished to finally share your secrets,” she told him, still staring off to the side.

“I died over twenty-five hundred years ago, Jules. I died a violent, brutal, warrior’s death.”

She snapped her gaze to his, blinking back at him. He continued. “See, you never quite had it right. I haven’t lived forever. I know the stench of death, same as you.”

“Did you make . . . a bargain? To return?” she asked hesitantly.

“Did
you
?” he countered.

“We’re not talking about me, Aristos. We’re discussing your life . . . Twenty- five hundred years.” She shook her head in wonder. “Who were you then?” She glanced upward, her mind making quick calculations. He did the math for her.

“I was—I am—a Spartan warrior. Raised on the banks of the Eurotas River, one of King Leonidas’s three hundred personal guard. I died . . .”

“At Thermopylae,” she finished, a look of wonder and admiration filling her face. “My beautiful Aristos, you are a Greek god!”

He flinched as if struck. “No. No, Jules, don’t ever say that.” He stepped backward, but she’d already bounded to her feet.

She rushed at him, burrowing her face against his chest. “I always knew you were the bravest, boldest man I’d ever known. Our people . . . I am Greek, do not forget. You are the pride of us all. My darling Ari.”

Gingerly, he folded his arms about her, feeling off-kilter in the face of such admiration. Somehow, always, it had been the last thing he’d expected from her, perhaps because he knew he’d attained immortality by bargaining with the devil himself.