Dark Embers (20 page)

P
hoebe woke, fourteen years old and locked in a nightmare, from a sleep so deep it had felt like death itself.

He was there, his black eyes flickering with red. That meant it would be a bad one, meant her mother wouldn’t have a chance to talk him down. She ran forward, tried to put herself between the monster and her mother. But he swiped at her with a curled claw, sent her reeling, headfirst, across the cold tile into the pale yellow wall.

She was a little disoriented, a little shaky; her head had hit the wall hard. But she was conscious enough to know that he’d caught her with some of his claws—she could feel the blood dripping down her back, could feel the tattered edges of her shirt fluttering around the wounds.

The pain was excruciating, worse than anything he’d ever done to her before, and it made the climb to her feet much slower and more difficult than usual. She wanted to stay where she was, to cower in the corner and whimper, but he was making
those
sounds. And her mother was screaming.

She turned, wobbly on her feet and more than a little light-headed. He was on her mother, more monster than man now, and her mother was sobbing as he sank his teeth deep into her shoulder.

“Leave her alone!” She charged him, but he shrugged her off, sent her careening into the entryway wall. She slammed into the mirror and it fell to the ground, shattering. One of the pieces cut her leg as it broke.

“Don’t hurt her! Stop, please!” She screamed the words, scrambled across the floor on her hands and knees because her right leg refused to support her. He kicked out, caught her in the face hard enough to make her ears ring and the room around her go dark.

She awoke later to horrible sounds. Her mother wasn’t screaming anymore, wasn’t even crying. Instead, she was whimpering, a soft, inhuman sound that made the light dusting of hair on Phoebe’s arms stand straight up. Where was he? she wondered fuzzily. Had he had enough? Had he left? God, please let him leave before Larissa got home from school. She didn’t know what time it was, didn’t know how long before her sister’s bus stopped at the end of the block. She just prayed it was enough.

She heard a sound to her left, turned her head to investigate. Froze as she found him crouched there—half human, half beast—staring at her with feral eyes. Her mother’s blood was on his mouth, strands of her hair caught in his ferocious claws. And he was coming straight for her.

Her heart stuttered in her chest; her breaths came in sharp gasps.
No, please, no
—Then he was upon her, snatching and ripping at her new skirt. At the hot-pink panties Larissa had bought her for her birthday. The pain was overwhelming, mind-numbing, unendurable. And yet she endured, for long, horrifying minutes as he tore her apart.

Oblivion beckoned, the blackness more inviting than anything had ever been. But she forced herself to stay conscious, to persevere, terrified that if she let herself slip away, he would kill her.

As he grunted and sweated and cursed above her, she let her hands fall wide.
Just a little longer
, she told herself.
Just a few more minutes and he’ll be
—She cut her hand on something sharp. The pain barely registered, was nothing compared to the rest, but something else did. Something so insidious that she could barely form the thought.

And then she was doing it—her hand clutching at the long shard of glass as she stabbed him in the back again and again. He roared, grabbed her in his sharp, shiny teeth and started to shake her. She stabbed him again, turned the makeshift blade in a circle. Gasped as his blood flowed onto her hand.

He reared back, his eyes burning like hellfire, and she knew she was going to die. Bracing herself for the blow—

Phoebe came to in a cold sweat, shivering and shocked and more than a little shaken. She glanced around the room warily, told herself that she was okay. She was safe in Dylan’s house. He was sound asleep beside her, and everything was fine. She wasn’t back in that kitchen, wasn’t underneath her stepfather. He was dead, burning in hell for what he’d put her mother through.

Shoving off the covers, she headed for the bathroom on unsteady legs. Turned on the tap and splashed water on her face until she nearly drowned. Then gave it up and turned on the shower. She didn’t know why she bothered; she wasn’t going to feel clean until she washed. It had been a long time since she’d had the nightmare, but she still remembered that much.

She took a long shower, let the hot water wash away the remnants of the nightmare that had haunted her for nearly twenty years. By the time she stepped out again, she felt nearly human. Emotionally fragile, but human.

She was drying herself off when she heard Dylan stir in the other room. She turned in time to see him reach a hand across the bed to where he expected her to be. When he met nothing but sheet, he jerked up, much like she had before, his eyes searching the room until he found her leaning against the bathroom door.

“Come back to bed.” His voice was rusty, sexy, but the last thing she could stomach was another round in bed. The dream already had her feeling battered and vulnerable; letting Dylan, with his soft hands and sweet kisses, have a shot at her was emotional suicide. And she just wasn’t up for that this morning.

Last night, he had stripped her down to her bare essence, had taken everything from her. Her composure, her self-possession, her control. She’d told him things she’d never told anyone before. She felt naked in more ways than one, and didn’t like it.

“I want to get to the lab,” she said. “Get started.”

“Yeah, okay.” He ran a sleepy hand over his face. “Give me a second and I’ll take you.”

“I can find my way. You probably need to take a shower first. By yourself,” she continued, when his eyes lit up and he moved to join her. “Much as I enjoyed the last few hours, I assume you didn’t pay me three million dollars just to become your sex slave.” Her throat was tight, but she forced the words out. Did her damnedest to make them steady and unconcerned, despite the regret welling inside her. “I want to get to work.”

“Of course.” But he was across the room in a flash, ripping off her towel and tugging on her hand until she followed him back to bed. As soon as her butt hit the comforter, he was on her, rolling until she straddled him.

Her heart was racing, beating so hard that for a second she thought it might burst right out of her chest. She didn’t know if it was fear or renewed desire that was causing the reaction—probably a combination of both—but when Dylan raised his head to claim her mouth with his own, she couldn’t turn away. She wanted one more time with him, one more good memory to chase away the bad.

She leaned down, pressed closer as his tongue stroked inside, claiming her as completely as he had done with his body through the long, long night. She knew she should push him away, should climb off him, knowing that she needed to get some distance between them. But it felt so good to have his tongue stroking the roof of her mouth, tracing her lips from the inside, tangling with her own, that she stayed where she was and reveled in the heat working its way up her spine.

Her fingers crept up his chest, over his scars and the fantastic sapphire he never took off, to tangle in the long, black silk of his hair. Her body moved against his and he groaned, his cock hardening quickly despite the wicked, wonderful things they had done to each other through the night.

“Dylan,” she started to protest, began to push him away. Then he slipped inside her and all she could think of was more.

“Fuck, Phoebe,” he gasped as she closed around him. “You feel so good. I can’t stop. I can’t—”

“Don’t,” she panted, her body arching and quivering above him as his hips rose and lowered, rose and lowered, each movement making her just a little crazier. “Don’t stop.” She picked up the rhythm and began to ride him.

Leaning forward, she ground her mouth against his while he continued to drive into her with fire and power. Again and again she moved over him. Again and again his hips lifted to meet her own.

Inside her the heat exploded, spread through her, took her over until he was all she could taste, smell, hear. Until he was all she could think of.

The thought slammed her over the edge, into an orgasm so intense it made a mockery of the first dozen he had given her. Her hands curled in his hair, pulled hard as she nipped at his lips with sharp teeth.

He swore again, harsh words that were low and mean and sexy as hell. With each syllable he uttered, she felt the tension inside her building, growing, stretching taut. When he rolled so that he was on top, she wrapped her legs around his waist, arched up and opened herself to him. He leaned down, sank his teeth into her shoulder, and she screamed before raking her nails down his back.

His tongue shot out, laved the bite marks he’d made before he kissed his way across her chest to her other shoulder. “Do it again,” he muttered darkly, pounding into her so hard the headboard slammed repeatedly against the wall. “Do. It. Again.”

She did, clawing at his back like a wild thing. “Damn. Fuck. Holy hell,” he growled right before he bit her again. The second bite, deeper than the first but no less pleasurable, sent Phoebe careening over the edge of a higher, more dangerous peak. Sobbing as her body flew apart, she clutched him tightly. Held on as he found his own release and emptied himself into her, his cum filling her in several long, drawn-out pulses.

Phoebe waited, her face buried against his neck while she held him tight, as aftershocks of pleasure racked Dylan’s body. But as soon as his orgasm was done—as soon as he stopped shuddering in pleasure—she pushed him to the side and rolled off the bed.

“Hey, you keep trying to get away from me. Why?” he demanded, belatedly lunging for her.

She sidestepped his grab and headed back into the bathroom for another shower. “I’m going to get dressed. After Lana—” She cut herself off, started again. “After last night, I have some ideas I would like to start working on.”

“Really?” He bounded out of bed, met her in front of the long marble vanity as unself-conscious about his nudity as she was achingly aware of hers. “You’ve thought of something?”

“I don’t know yet.” She glanced in the mirror in an effort to avoid looking at Dylan, then winced at the bruises on her upper arms, the obvious bite marks on the curve of her shoulder.
What have I done?
she wondered, blindly stepping into the shower.

As the spray hit her, she was overwhelmingly conscious of the wetness on her thighs. Dylan had fucked her without a condom, had taken her with no thought of consequences or disease or their lack of commitment to each other. It pissed her off that he’d been so lax. Infuriated her that she had been just as careless, when she knew—better than most—the consequences of doing such a ridiculous thing.

“Can I join you?”

His voice, low and more than a little seductive, pulled her out of her self-flagellation. But when his words sank in, she shook her head emphatically. “No way. If I let you in here, it’ll end up being one more round of water aerobics. And we don’t have time for that right now. I want to check out the lab.”

“Are you serious?” His eyes swept over her wet, naked body in a look that said he was far from satisfied. “You won’t shower with me?”

“No, I won’t.” She nodded to the door. “Why don’t you use your own bathroom? I’m sure you’ve got one that’s even more ridiculously obscene than this one. You might as well put it to good use.”

“Come with me. I guarantee I’ll put it to good use.”

She kept the smile on her face through sheer strength of will. “I bet.” She paused, let the water run over her face and down her chest. “Now scram. Some of us don’t get paid to lounge around all day in the sun.”

“All right, fine.” He leaned into the shower, ignoring the water pounding down on him, and kissed her lightly. “Last one out of the shower makes breakfast.”

She squirted shower gel onto a green puff. “You’d better hurry, then. I’m almost done.”

He grinned, gave a little salute, then left, closing the bathroom door behind him. The second he was gone, Phoebe felt her facade crumble and tears begin pouring down her face.

What am I doing?
she asked herself, sliding down the shower wall until she was sitting on the floor, water pounding at her from all directions.
What the hell am I doing?

When she finally dragged herself out of the shower fifteen minutes later, she was still asking herself the same question.

Dylan looked up from where he was frying a dozen eggs to watch Phoebe saunter across the kitchen to the coffeepot. In her thread-bare jeans and black scoop-neck tee, she looked good. Better than good. Delicious. The way the old jeans hugged her ass was truly a thing of beauty.

Flipping the eggs, he let himself imagine what it would be like if she was his mate. It would be nice to come home to her every night, even if she wasn’t the type to have dinner waiting when he walked in the door, a glass of his favorite Scotch in her hand.

He almost snorted at the image, certain Phoebe would strangle him if she could hear what he was thinking. Besides, it wasn’t like that was the kind of life he wanted. If it was, he could snap his fingers and have a houseful of servants in a heartbeat.

But he’d never gone in for that, preferred the privacy that came with living alone to putting up with a houseful of people meant to make a king’s life easier. He’d lived with it when his parents and his brother were alive, but hadn’t liked it. That kind of bowing and scraping just didn’t appeal to him.

“So, how far away is the lab?” Phoebe asked before taking a long sip of steaming hot, black coffee. He shook his head as he watched her—the woman had to have taste buds of steel.

“About ten minutes.”

“Good. I want to head there ASAP.” She looked remote, armored—more like the scientist he’d first confronted in her lab than the woman he’d made love to for half the night.

“Okay.” He slid the eggs onto a platter and placed them on the table next to the plates of fresh fruit and toast he’d arranged earlier.