Shadowbound (The Dark Arts Book 1) (26 page)

Lucien slowly turned. Rose silk draped her form, the robe tied just beneath her breasts. Those feet were bare, and somehow the sight was more intimate than anything else between them. This might have been a normal night between husband and wife.

But it wasn't.

"What do you want to do?"

Ianthe looked troubled. She padded across the parquetry floor, her gaze sliding to the storm through the window, then back to him. "That's a dangerous question."

"Is it?"

Their eyes met. He kept waiting for her to say something, some question about what had happened today between them, but her gaze dropped to his hands, and then she reached out and touched him. One languid stroke, her fingertips trailing over his. Wistful, perhaps.

"You have beautiful hands. I see now why you're so skillful in bed. You play the piano with the lightest touch, almost a caress. It's the same way you touch me."

Lucien cleared his throat. "Can't sleep?"

Ianthe shook her head ruefully, her hair bunched into a lazy chignon, as if she'd merely stuffed pins into it any old way. Reaching out, he caught her fingers in his and drew her into his lap. The silk of her rose-colored robe slithered over his trousers, her firm bottom nestling snugly against his cock. He was aware of it. He was always aware of it—that slow burn beneath his skin whenever she was around—but he ignored the ache, rested his chin on her shoulder, and leaned around her to position his hands again.

The first notes rang out. Something lighter of tone: Beethoven's the
Waldstein
. He managed the first and second movements, but couldn't quite manage the rapid left hand runs of the rondo with Ianthe in his lap. The notes jarred and he fell still, leaning his chin upon her shoulder and drawing in a deep breath.

"I can't sleep either," he admitted, turning his face into the curve of her throat and breathing her in. Faint traces of her perfume lingered, but he could scent the base notes of her skin.

"Did you read Lord Rathbourne's grimoire?" she asked.

"Most of it. It makes little sense. It keeps saying that he's preparing me for the ultimate sacrifice. Then he spends entire passages gloating about revenge and how this will finally earn him back his honor."

"Sacrifice?"

Lucien shrugged. It had made all of the hairs on his arm stand on end, coinciding with what Lady Eberhardt had said, but he refused to dwell on it.

"I don't like that word, Lucien." Ianthe tilted her head toward him, fear painting icy blues across her skin.

His thumb stroked over her silk robe, absorbing the sensations. "Don't you? Why? Concerned for me?"

"Of course I am."

His heart twisted in his chest. "Don't be."

She tried to turn around. "Lucien—"

Hands curling around her waist, he held her in place. The easiest way to hide the fear in his heart was to keep his face turned away. "Perhaps that's why he used me to summon the demon? Maybe I was to be the blood sacrifice to appease it? If so, more fool he. The plan backfired."

"If it backfired, then why would Morgana have been so keen to get her hands on the grimoire now?"

"Perhaps she was tying up loose ends, or thought Lord Rathbourne had written something more? Perhaps he knew something he didn't write down? Who will ever know? That's just one more dead end for us to overcome."

Almost petulantly, Ianthe stabbed the A minor. It rang through the room, clear as a bell. "Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. I'm tired of chasing my tail. I
need
to find her. What does she want, damn it?"

"Drake's heart on a platter?" It was said nonchalantly, but he knew it was a mistake as soon as she stiffened.

"Don't say that." Those soft words tore him apart. "Please don't say that."

A hard lump formed in his throat. Lucien stroked her hip, pressing a kiss to her exposed nape, gentle touches designed to soothe. He couldn't believe he was about to say this. "He's safe, love. The Prime's the strongest sorcerer in all of England, and he's protected by a handful of Sicarii. After all, he tore that demon's physical form to shreds last year, before he sent it back to me. Nobody else has ever managed such a thing. Morgana would want to get up early in the morning to pull the wool over his eyes."

"But what if she
does
somehow manage it?"

There was something about the way she said it that tore his heart to pieces. Not for the Prime. For her. Lucien grimaced. Things were becoming entirely unpredictable between them. He couldn't explain this softening toward her, but at the same time, he no longer wished vengeance upon her. The very thought made him feel somewhat ill. "She won't," he promised. "You have my word that I will do everything within my power to stop that from happening."

This time, he couldn't stop her from turning to the side on his lap. Violet eyes searched his face. "You would protect him?"

"Not for his sake." It was a confession that shook the both of them, judging by the look in her eyes.

Something changed in the air between them. Ianthe looked away, as though she couldn't bear to see it.

"Oh," she said softly, and plucked at a key. "
Oh
."

Lucien cleared his throat. "What are you doing down here?"

Ianthe's head fell forward. She struck the C key. "I think you know why I'm here." It was the faintest whisper, as though she barely dared admit it. She tugged something from the pocket of her robe and placed it on the top of the piano.

A small packeted sheath.

Hell. Lucien pressed another kiss to her silk-clad shoulder. She wouldn't have dared before, but this was an affirmation of her desires. Ianthe was slowly spreading her wings, learning to take what
she
wanted.

Turning her, he set her on the keys with a discordant jar of noise.

Their eyes met. A sad smile touched her mouth. "Mrs. Hastings won't know what to think about all of this noise."

"I daresay."

One hand inside each of her knees, he pushed them open, the robe slithering over her skin and revealing a hint of her plain cotton nightgown beneath, as he dragged his chair closer. Ianthe hesitated, then reached up and brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. A faint blush stirred her cheeks.

"Perhaps we can help each other to sleep?"

"I don't think what you have planned has anything to do with sleep."

"True." Lucien pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist and looked up. "But it's not what I want that matters. Not here. Not tonight."

Ianthe's breath caught. There was sadness there in her eyes. He realized it had been lingering there for some time now. It arrested him, but then she blinked and the expression was gone, dust in the wind.

"Why did you come down?"

"I... I couldn't sleep, but I could hear the music. There was something so hungry about it. A longing. It drew me down here."

Had she come searching specifically for him? Ianthe's hand cupped his face, sliding down his cheek until her thumb caught his lip.

Lucien turned his face into her palm, biting at the fleshy mound at the base of her thumb. A shiver ran through the both of them. Lightning flashed in the distance. "And what did you long for, Ianthe?"

"You."

How well he knew that feeling. "This is growing dangerous."

And she understood. Every touch, every moment between them, only intensified the bond. It wasn't just the sex, but the intimacy—and he hadn't expected that when he'd agreed to this. If they continued in this vein, one day soon, the bond would be unbreakable.

"Would it be so very bad?" Her eyes were enormous pools of shadow as she gently asked the question. "It's only been a few days, and yet the very thought of losing you, or our bond, sends a shiver down my spine. It's become... a part of me."

Lucien bowed his head, pressing it into her palm as she stroked his face. "I don't know anymore. I want you."

She swallowed. "I want you."

"I know," he told her, shutting his eyes. "I can feel it." He felt the certainty along the bond they shared, but with that certainty came another. "You're keeping secrets from me."

Ianthe froze.

"You don't have to tell me. I know you are."

"Do you not have any secrets from me?" Her voice was roughened honey.

Lucien looked up. Of course he did. "I keep wondering how far I can trust you."

Those dark lashes covered her eyes. "So do I. But you must know: I would never seek to harm you, Lucien."

"No?"

"No." She wet her lips. "You have become... important to me. I don't know if it's the bond, or if it's simply because of what we've shared. Sometimes it feels inevitable." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "You. Me. Sometimes it feels like fate. No matter what I do, I somehow always keep coming back to you."

"You mean the way you were the one who brought me in a year ago?"

"Yes," she said, dropping her gaze, and yet it was not the complete truth. "I ache," Ianthe told him, her eyes sad. "And it's all you. Always you."

"An ache? Here?" His palm spread flatly over her middle.

Those brilliant eyes flashed as she looked up.

"Or here?" he whispered, sliding his hand lower until his palm cupped her between her thighs.

Licking her lower lip, she closed her eyes and nodded. The aching sense of yearning in her expression made his heart beat a little faster. Perhaps they were both still too wary to meet each other in the middle, yet here, only here, was it easy. This was easy. To want. To take.

"You want me," he said. "Say it."

A roll of her hips brought her heated flesh closer to him. "I want you."

"And what part of me did you want?"

But she slid her hand behind his nape and drew him closer. Lucien leaned his knuckles on the piano keys, obeying her with another discordant wash of noise. Their faces were but an inch apart, her breath caressing his mouth. His gaze lowered to those sweet lips. How he wanted to taste them... It ached within him, like a hard fist curling around his cock. His hands slid over her thighs, dragging silk and cotton with them, until he could feel heated flesh.

Kiss me
, he dared.

Kiss
me, came the reply.

But he was not yet ready to lose.

And neither was she.

Thwarted need flashed across that pretty face, and then she turned it into his neck, her small teeth sinking into his flesh with a faint, teasing nip that spoke of her frustration. Lucien's mouth parted, and he tilted his face up, allowing her access as she soothed that slight pain with a heated lash of her tongue. A trembling psychic touch brushed along the back of his thighs, making him flinch. It came again, higher, stronger, more sure of itself, until it felt like a feather dragged over his balls.

Lucien caught her wrists. They stared at each other. Her psychic touch vanished as he slowly set both her hands behind her on the piano, a silent admonition in his gaze. This was not her moment to command. It was his.

One finger traced the smooth skin between her clavicles and headed south to her full breasts. Ianthe swallowed.

"You were made for a man's touch," he whispered.

Haunting vulnerability flashed across her face, and she turned it aside. "That's what my father said to me once."

And not kindly, he guessed. Lucien examined her half-turned away expression. "I did not mean it as an insult, but a compliment. You are beautiful. Passionate. Like a storm on the horizon, not quite unleashed. There's an untamed sensuality brewing within you." He traced her throat. "It is nothing to be ashamed of."

Ianthe's lashes fluttered closed. "I know I should not feel the sting of shame, but I still hear his words even now. Especially now."

"Why now of all times?"

Ianthe inhaled slowly and looked away, a hint of red dawning like a sunrise in her cheeks. "Because of you." The words were barely a whisper, but they struck him right through the heart. "Because I did not dare, before you. Because I did not...
want
... before you. Not like this." She looked up helplessly. "It was easy to accept your challenge to own my nights. Easy because then I did not have to put it into words that I wanted you, that I wanted to be in your bed, beneath you..." She turned her face away again with a harsh exhale. "I missed you tonight. I wanted you to come. That's the truth of it. I couldn't sleep because you weren't there. I could hear you down here, and that's where I wanted to be."

Every muscle in his body tensed. This was as close to a declaration as either of them had come—an admittance that there was something between them, something dark and thrilling, something dangerous, something... more. That she was the one who voiced it did not surprise him. She had always been braver than he in so many ways.

Thunder rumbled, vibrating the casements. Lucien hovered, torn by indecision.

"I'm scared," she whispered, "and I'm alone, and I don't want to be alone, not anymore. Not tonight."

It shook him. His own thoughts reflected back at him. He'd have never guessed that she felt this way. His demons were vast, but she hid hers so well. With a shudder, he pressed a kiss to her forehead, breathing in the scent of her hair. "I don't want to be alone either. I wasn't supposed to like you." He brushed his thumbs lightly back and forth between her thighs. Then again. Each stroke lighter than the last. Brushing higher up her thigh, then away, as she shivered.

"Are you saying that you do?" It was said breathlessly, and there was a faint tremor there that belied the ease with which she asked.

He could have said:
Sometimes. When I'm not fit to throttle you
. Or,
Especially when you're like this, molten beneath me
. But Lucien bowed his head beneath the weight of the feeling. "Yes, Ianthe. Yes, I find myself liking you."

"
Oh
."

Just that. But he saw the arrow hit its target, saw the faint bewilderment within her give way to a vicious joy that was swiftly muted by something else, something that scared her.

He understood it, because it scared him too. The ground beneath his feet was rapidly giving way, leaving him in a foreign land, a land he'd never been in before.