Authors: Christina Dodd

Tags: #paranormal romance

Into the Flame (26 page)

BOOK: Into the Flame

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‘‘She didn’t believe in tattoos.’’

‘‘She called me into her parlor and gave me hell.’’ He looked into the past, and everything about him told her he was in the grip of painful memories. ‘‘She didn’t know where I got the money for a tattoo like that, but she feared I was stealing again. She didn’t approve of me joining a gang, which she was afraid was the reason for the tattoo. And . . . she wanted to impress on me that no matter what, she still loved me and I could tell her anything.’’

‘‘So you told her?’’

‘‘I did. But she didn’t believe me.’’

‘‘So you showed her?’’

‘‘I did.’’ He fell into a silence that broke her heart. ‘‘She saw me change. She saw the cougar.’’

‘‘Oh, God.’’ The Wilders operated under the cover of secrecy, because Konstantine had taught them— taught every one of them—that no one would understand. No one would believe.

‘‘Like I told you, Mrs. Fuller was a Christian woman with a good heart. And she
did
love me. For a long time, I doubted that, but now I know she did, because she took her own cross from around her neck, the one she always wore, and put it around my neck.’’

‘‘That’s why you have this cross burned into your skin at the base of your throat.’’ Firebird had seen it. She’d wondered. Now she knew.

‘‘That’s why.’’ His chest rose and fell with his huge gasps. ‘‘The pain was excruciating, but not as excruciating as seeing the expression on Mrs. Fuller’s face as she realized that heaven rejected me so completely.’’

‘‘What did she do?’’ With her fingertip, Firebird traced the scar over and over.

‘‘She cried. She cried.’’

At that moment, Firebird hated the kind and Christian Mrs. Fuller. ‘‘What did you do?’’

‘‘I ran away. For the last time, I ran away.’’ He rubbed at his heart with the flat of his hand. ‘‘But Mrs. Fuller had convinced me I was too smart to let anyone else control my destiny. So I got myself to
Colorado
and finished high school there. Finished early.’’

‘‘And went into law enforcement.’’

‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘And used your powers whenever you needed to keep yourself ahead of the game.’’

‘‘Yes.’’

Okay. Now she understood—a lot of things. Her father . . . Konstantine . . . he always told his sons to be careful, not to change unless it was necessary. He said that every time they indulged their joy in flying and running, they slid closer to evil. Closer to the creator of the pact. Closer to hell, to the devil.

Douglas
had indulged his gift in the pursuit of power and truth.

He was very, very close to losing his soul. And deep inside, he knew it.

Firebird understood now. They had made love, and he was
pleased
. Of course he was
pleased
.

He had managed to give her pleasure without releasingthe wild part of him. In all his life, passion had proved to be a mistake. Always a mistake. When it came to her, he didn’t dare allow himself passion, because he didn’t want passion to sweep him away.

He didn’t want to hurt her.

Very well. That was fine. It was good that he’d learned such restraint. The men in her family were all awesome in their restraint. Never in her life had she worried that they would turn on her in a rage and crush her.

More important, she trusted them with her child’s life.

But they were awesome in their passions, too. Each man loved his woman with his heart, his soul, every fiber of his being—and all the passion of his body. That was the kind of love she wanted. That was the kind of love she would have.

She slipped out of bed, out of
Douglas
’s reach.

At once, his head turned to her.

She stretched, a slow, catlike stretch, one side at a time, with her hands over her head. Then, slowly, she skimmed her palms down the sides of her breasts, down her ribs, and over her hips. ‘‘Mmmm.’’ She sighed. ‘‘I’m going to take a shower.’’ She strolled toward the bathroom. She paused in the doorway and looked back at him from beneath her lashes. ‘‘Are you going to
come
?’’

Chapter Twenty-four

Douglas
’s feet hit the floor hard.

Silently Firebird laughed. She strolled toward the vanity.

She stopped laughing when she saw her reflection. She had bruises around her neck; she looked as if she’d been strangled.

The kelp, she supposed. More bruises on her arms, the kind made by a man’s hand.

More supposition—
Douglas
had caused them in his frantic struggles to get her free.

And her hair . . . Growing up in a family of brunettes and raven-haired people, she had always been vain about her blond sunniness, and she loved this cut. Loved it. Thought it made her look sophisticated, cheeky, and bold, not like
just
Aleksandr’s mother, but like the sexual, desirable young woman she was.

It was a harmless fantasy, one that hadn’t changed the facts . . . and now one side of her coiffure had been slashed almost to her scalp.

Something had to be done. She opened drawers until she found scissors about three inches long, the kind used to trim a mustache.

He stood watching her from the doorway, arms folded across his chest, body long, lean, and muscled. His face was still stern, impassive, but she suspected that was a facade.

No. She
knew
it was a facade. Because no matter how much he might wish to have complete control, one body part told the truth, and the truth was—he was horny.

He had the horn to prove it.

With a slight smile, she leaned over the sink, toward the mirror. Taking a longer strand of hair in her fist, she chopped it off.

‘‘Don’t.’’ He still leaned against the door frame, arms crossed across his chest, but now his fists were clenched. ‘‘Wait until morning. We’ll go to a salon.’’

‘‘Or a barber.’’ She cut another strand. She didn’t want to even it up. That would leave her almost bald. But an all-over cut, deliberately jagged and asymmetrical . . . that would work, and keep her until she could get to a beautician. ‘‘I can fix it, and I’ve been wanting a new hairstyle.’’ She was lying.

But he looked so
guilty
. He flinched with every
snick
of the scissors, and best of all, for all his rapt attention to her coiffure, he couldn’t keep his gaze on her head. It kept flicking down . . . down to the place he could see when she bent forward.

Poor guy. It must be tough to be so distracted.

‘‘
Douglas
, could I get you to do the back?’’ She turned and held out the scissors. ‘‘Of my hair? I can’t see to do it myself.’’

‘‘We really should wait.’’ He looked at her breasts, at her belly, at the strip of blond hair between her legs, and wet his lips. ‘‘I don’t know anything about cutting hair.’’

‘‘Neither do I, but I know I’m not walking around looking like
this.’’
She lounged against the counter, her eyes deliberately wide and appealing. ‘‘Come on, darling; you have to do me or I’ll do myself.’’

‘‘What?’’ Dark red stained his cheeks.

‘‘Do me,’’ she repeated. ‘‘Cut my hair.’’

‘‘Oh, all right.’’ He strode forward like a man in total control.

Too bad for him he had that barometer that indicated a storm brewing.

She handed him the scissors, then turned her back and leaned over, legs braced and slightly apart. She looked at him in the mirror.

He was staring, not at the back of her head, but at the crack of her butt.

When he finally tore his gaze away and met her eyes in the mirror, she said, ‘‘Just let the hair drop into the sink.’’

He looked at the scissors in his hand as if he couldn’t remember how to work them. She thought for a moment that she’d already broken him—
good work, Firebird
—then he visibly imposed discipline on himself and went to work.

He proved how closely he’d been paying attention. First he cut handfuls; then he took the ends between his fingers and cut again. Every time he ran his fingers across her scalp, she purred and shifted, ‘‘accidentally’’ grazing him with her hip, moving her bottom into the cradle of his thighs. ‘‘I love to get my hair cut. I love the sensation of scissors clipping away, and when someone strokes my head, I just melt. Don’t you?’’

‘‘No.’’ He kept his gaze strictly on his work.

‘‘Men. You’re so tough and strict, you don’t take the time to enjoy life’s little pleasures. When we shower, I’ll wash you, and we’ll see how you like that.’’

‘‘I’m not going to shower with you.’’

He’d done enough clipping.

The new cut made her look thinner, younger— tougher and in need of an eyebrow piercing—but it didn’t look like a mistake.

Carefully she pushed his hands away from her head. She turned and faced him. Placing her fingers on his chest, she looked up into his face. ‘‘Why else did you come in here?’’

‘‘To piss.’’

Deliberately crude. He was trying to chase her away.

Too bad she’d had brothers.

She allowed her gaze to feather down his body to his straining erection. ‘‘All right. But you’re going to pee on the ceiling.’’

She slid sideways along the counter, then sauntered past him and toward the shower enclosure, which was warm with natural gold stone and a decorative ring of bold blue glass tiles. She swung the glass door open, turned on the faucet, and, while she waited for the water to warm, she glanced back at him.

He still had his back to her, but he watched her in the mirror, scissors clutched in his hand, his gaze hot and hungry.

‘‘Come on, honey,’’ she coaxed. ‘‘You can sit on the seat and I’ll wash you . . . all . . . over.’’

She saw the flash of supernatural red in his eyes.

He swiveled on his heel and sprang toward her, then stopped and stared at the scissors, forgotten in his hand.

She giggled and slipped into the enclosure.

It was definitely built for two, with a multitude of water jets, an imposing handheld shower massager, a shelf filled with soaps, shampoos, and foaming gels, and a smooth stone seat built onto one end.

A glance toward
Douglas
proved he still stood immobile in the middle of the floor, held there by the mere force of his will and a pair of tightly clutched scissors.

She sorted through the bottles. ‘‘You’ve got my favorite scents.’’

As if he couldn’t stop himself, he looked up at her, staring through the glass enclosure.

She filled her palm with shampoo, lifted her arms, and scrubbed her poor, shorn head. She ran out of hair too soon. So she rubbed the pale bubbles down her body, inciting him, reminding him of her breasts, her belly, her thighs, and how much she enjoyed her own sensuality. ‘‘I love the smell of mint. How did you know?’’

‘‘Smelled like sunshine,’’ he mumbled. ‘‘Like you.’’

‘‘What did you say?’’ She turned her back to hide her smile, and so he could see her soapy hands slipping over her bottom.

‘‘I said I guess I’ll shower with you. There’s plenty of room.’’ He paced back to the counter,
so
totally in control of himself, then paced back to the shower.

Hastily she rinsed herself, grabbed the shampoo, and stepped back to let him enter.

It was a big shower.

He was a big man.

But she crowded him into the corner, and when the backs of his knees hit the seat, he sat.

She filled her palm with shampoo, then shoved the bottle into his hand. ‘‘Hold this.’’

BOOK: Into the Flame

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