Mists of Velvet (15 page)

Wrapping her hands around his shoulders, Bronwnn struggled to bring him up to his feet. After a few attempts, he was able to stand and wrap an arm around her waist. Still disoriented and stumbling from the effects of the thorn-apple, he allowed her to guide him along a path that had become overgrown with long grass and wildflowers.

Like a sleepwalker, he followed her. So trusting, she thought, as she looked up at him. His eyes were closed, and his head lolled from side to side. She must get him to her cottage, and there she must rid his body of the poison ruling his mind.

The moon fortuitously slipped behind a cloud, shrouding the path in darkness, and Bronwnn’s wolf eyes and instinctive tracking abilities aided them in the dark. Silently, they walked on until she moved off the path and into a densely wooded area. In seconds they were standing before the dilapidated cottage she used for herself.

One night as she explored outside the temple, she had come across the abandoned croft. Besides offering shelter, it afforded her the luxury of privacy, and a place she could truly call her own, where she practiced divination, and the ancient healing arts of her goddess mother. Here she kept her mother’s books and studied whenever she could. Her mother had also been the only goddess versed in the Dark Arts. Knowledge of the occult led to greater understanding of all alchemy, so her mother had sought knowledge in the darkness and practiced it for the greater good of all in Annwyn. It was this dark knowledge that Bronwnn knew she would need to call upon tonight, to save this man from the mage’s ritual spell.

Here, in her cottage, with all her herbs and spells, she could heal this man—her mate—freeing him from the grip of the mage who sought to rule the mortal world and the Otherworld.

Supporting his weight against her, Bronwnn reached for the rusted latch. He was heavy, and she was tired from bearing the majority of his weight. The hinges groaned as she opened the door, and the man pitched forward, taking Bronwnn with him. He landed on his knees, Bronwnn on her back, the wind knocked out of her.

It was dark in the cottage and quiet. The only sound was the harsh, rasping breath of the man as he leaned over her. With a shaking hand, he touched her face, her cheek, her eyes, then down her nose to her mouth, where the pad of his thumb rubbed back and forth.

His eyes were dark, an indistinguishable shade in the dim light of the cottage interior. But they watched her, focusing on her face even through the glaze that made them shine. She was keenly aware of him, not only of his size above her, but of the way his body seemed to call to hers. She was a wanton to be thinking of her own needs at a time like this. But these desires were too new for her to control.

He cupped her cheek in his hand and leaned down so that his lips were against her ear. “Thank you,
mo slanaitheoir
,” he whispered before collapsing against her.
My savior.

Rhys felt his body being dragged across a wooden floor. He was too tall and heavy for her, he knew, but he was too damned weak to help her. He could barely keep away the call of unconsciousness, let alone drag his carcass to wherever the woman was taking him.

He tried to talk, but his mouth was too dry, and his throat felt as though it might seize up. He could only just crack open his eyes, which was a real bitch, because the brief glimpse he had of the woman as he kneeled over her was stunning. Her hair seemed to glow, and her eyes were a pale blue, a color that reminded him of the icy waters of the Arctic Ocean.

She was an efficient little thing, because he quickly found his body being placed on top of a pile of blankets—no, furs, he realized as he sank into the soft luxuriousness. The woman didn’t speak a word, but Rhys heard her walking about the room; then he heard a scratching sound, immediately followed by the acrid scent of smoke. Beside him a roar went up, and the crackle of a log snapped. The flames of a hearth washed over his body, absorbing some of the chills that raked him.

In a way, he was damned glad for the drug he’d been given. It was playing with his mind and giving him a reprieve from the pain in his body. His chest hurt like hell, and he was losing too much blood.

Blackness beckoned, and he fought it, trying anything to stay awake. He thought of Keir, and he tried to reach him, to find a connection, but he was too weak, and his mind too drugged out to do anything effectively.

Lifting his arm, he searched with his hand for the woman. Immediately she was there, grasping his arm. The darkness eased away, and slowly he lifted his head and tried to open his eyes. She was kneeling before him, her body glowing a pale alabaster in the firelight. She looked like a damned angel, but angels, he knew, didn’t live in Annwyn.

She shook her head, confirming his suspicions. She was not an angel.

He frowned. That wasn’t what he meant.
Mo
was Gaelic for my. But Rhys saw her nod, even through the blurriness of his vision.

She was a goddess, he realized. His, if her nod meant what he thought it did. And she was naked. Oh, shit, she was naked and stunning, and everything he could have dreamed of.

Mo bandia
. . . The phrase ran through his mind. She had answered his question with a nod. He had dreamed of a woman. He had felt a deep connection to the one in his dream . . .

As he bolted upright, his head swam, but he reached for her anyway, anchoring her with his hand through her hair as he watched the silvery white strands slide through his fingers. Oh shit, his dreams. This woman . . .

Had she dreamed of him, too? Did they have a bond that linked them across their opposing worlds and his mortality? Had he been shown his fate when he began to dream of this woman?

Stunned, he allowed her to ease him back down onto the pallet of furs. She was leaning over him, her silky waist-length hair sliding over her shoulders to conceal her breasts. There was no denying who this woman was—
what
she was. His dream lover . . . and a goddess of the Sacred Order of Annwyn.

Memories of those dreams came rushing back, and he couldn’t stop the way his body responded to her. In his dreams, his body had been hard and aching, but in reality, it was infinitely more acute. He was aware of more than just her physical presence hovering over him. He felt her in his blood, in his soul.

Most mortals would scoff, but Rhys knew differently. He had been raised in both mortal and Otherworld traditions, and he knew in his heart, and believed in his soul, that destinies were preordained, and when the time was right, those destinies revealed themselves.

Like now, this very moment with his
bandia sianaitheoir
—goddess savior—breathing softly above him. This was his fate; this woman. He had been shown her in his dreams, and now he was here with her. Her path was to save him, but what was he to do for her? He was a mortal. She was immortal; a powerful goddess. He could have nothing she wanted or needed; yet he knew that despite his failings, he would not give her up.

The fluttering of her fingertips against his unshaven jaw jolted him. Her touch went deep into his flesh, where he felt it stir inside him. Already, he felt a measure stronger. Fingertips skated from his jaw to his lips, where she touched him tentatively, then down to his throat where the tips of her fingers lingered on his Adam’s apple. He swallowed hard, and he heard her indrawn breath.

Rhys knew he shouldn’t be turned on. Hell, he’d almost been a sacrificial lamb. But he needed to touch her; to feel her skin, just once. What if he died? He had to touch her before he did.

Reaching out, he placed his hands on her bare shoulders and brushed back her long hair. Her eyes fluttered closed at that innocent touch, and his cock surged at the sight. It would be so easy to span her hips and move her to him so that she straddled him. From there, he could push up into her and watch her as he finally claimed her—just as he had in his dream.

Rhys felt nothing now but desire—not pain; not the blood that had begun to dry on his chest. His vision was crystal clear, and he saw her, a beautiful, voluptuous goddess kneeling before him. Her breasts were heavy, swaying before him, begging to be cupped in his hands.

Slowly, he ran his fingertips along her collarbone, then over to the notch at her throat, allowing her to become accustomed to his touch. Her breathing quickened, causing her breasts to rise and fall enticingly. Slowly, he slid his hand down her breastbone, then cupped one of her breasts, filling his palm. She gasped, her eyelids flying open at the contact. Slowly, he cupped the other one, lifting it so he could see it full in his hand.

She had beautiful big breasts, just what he liked, and he pressed them together, kneading while watching the pleasure cross her face. Then, with his hand on her back, he drew her lower until her breasts hung above him, and he trailed his tongue over her nipple. Given a slow flick, the flesh hardened, and she swayed into him, her little nails biting into his shoulders, giving him a rush of power and primal aggression.

He surged up against her, making her feel him. The tip of his cock rubbed her thigh, and he moaned as he sucked her nipple. Hungrily, he clutched her to him, her breasts rubbing against his face as he pushed them together and used his tongue and mouth to make her writhe. He wanted his cock there, thrusting up between her breasts. He wanted to watch her take him.

He was getting more than a little excited as he thought of it. Tugging her nipple, he soothed the pinch with the brush of his thumb. She shivered, and he could almost feel the wetness between her thighs trickle against him.

Tugging again, he flicked her nipple, and her lips parted on a silent moan. His touch became more intense as he worked both her breasts. Suddenly, her hand slipped from his shoulder, and she brushed his chest, making him hiss. Instantly, she pushed away from him.

“No,” he growled, reaching for her. The pain had been fleeting. The discomfort he felt from his injuries wasn’t half as bad as the unfilled ache in his cock.

But she evaded him by jumping up and escaping his hand. Rhys lifted his shoulders, turning onto his side to reach for her, but he pitched forward when the dizziness took hold of him.

Damn it! Now was not the time for his body’s strength to evaporate. With a groan, he realized his moment of lucidity and power was gone, leaving him a weakling mortal on the floor.

Darkness beckoned, and he begged God to give him the strength to resist. But his prayers were not heard, and he slipped deeply into unconsciousness.

Weightless and floating, Keir hovered in the air, staring at the wooden door before him. He felt a strange sensation, a rippling of fear and malevolence, slither over his nerves. Evil—he felt it. He had a connection to it. Rhys?

Closing his eyes, he searched for his mortal’s thoughts, but he found nothing. Strange. When Keir had left Velvet Haven, Rhys had been in his office. Perhaps he had fallen asleep.

Trailing down to the floor, his form became solid, and he stood before Rowan’s door, torn between the desire to see her and the need to ensure Rhys was safe.

When the door to Rowan’s chamber opened, and Suriel exited, Keir’s decision was made for him.

This was the evil he had sensed. He knew it. He was always aware of the malicious vibe that seemed to shimmer around Suriel. But the connection Keir had felt? His gaze darted to where Rowan was lying on the bed. Was the connection Rowan? Had Suriel touched her? Hurt her?

“Relax, wraith. I didn’t lay a hand on her. Nice robe,” he smirked as he breezed by. “Come to do a little magick?”

“Fuck you,” Keir snarled.

“Sorry, not into that kinky shit. You’ll have to find your mortal for that.”

Keir slammed Suriel up against the wall. He didn’t take any bullshit innuendos about his relationship with Rhys from Bran, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to take it from a fallen angel who understood nothing about the ancient bond between a protector wraith and his mortal.