Born of Ashes

When she was done with that, and still huffing out each breath, she folded her cream chenille robe from the back of the door then shrugged into it, punching her arms through each sleeve like she was ready to do her own round of boxing.

Maybe she was.

She stepped out of the shower at last and adjusted the collar of the robe—part of it was caught underneath.

But when she saw her reflection in the mirror, with her hair still wrapped up in the towel on top of her head, she had a wide-open view of the bruises on both sides of her neck. She let loose with a long loud shriek-like groan. “Look at this,” she cried. “Look at this. Look at what you did to me.”

He turned into the room and met her gaze in the mirror, but he looked confused.

“What do you mean? What is wrong?”

She shifted and held the collar wider then presented each side of her throat to him. “You marked me.”

He narrowed his gaze. “Oui, c’est vrai.”

“Oh, would you stop it with the charming French bullshit.”

“You seem distressed.” A smile played at his ridiculously sensual lips. He leaned against the doorjamb and crossed his arms over his chest, a move that drew her attention to his pecs. He wore another ribbed T-shirt, long-sleeved, an excellent look for him, which also pissed the hell out of her.

Her gaze fell lower.

“And why do you have to wear jeans and no shoes?”

He shrugged. “Jeans are very comfortable and my floors are very clean. I like the feel of the polished wood under my toes.”

“And another thing, why does everything you say have to sound so fantastic. Couldn’t you just once try for a little crudity?”

“If you wish.” But his lips quirked.

“If I wish? I wish you would go to hell, that’s what I wish.”

He smiled. “Would you please just tell me what is wrong, Fiona? Be honest with me. Speak the truth. These things you are saying are ridiculous.”

Her shoulders slumped. She put her hands on the counter and leaned forward, her head hanging low. “I don’t want to do this. I want all of this to stop. It’s too much. I can’t catch my breath. I need to find my bearings.” She straightened and looked up at him. “And I really do hate that everyone will see that you took my blood. I can tell that Endelle thinks everything’s so funny, and she thought it was just hilarious to take me into that locker room, but I hated it, Jean-Pierre. I’m not that woman.” She tugged at her collar. “And I’m not this woman to be paraded in front of everyone else like a … a cow you branded.”

“A cow?” His lips twitched.

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes, I suppose I do. But I believe I can fix this situation.”

“How?”

He moved to stand beside her. “I do not have very strong healing skills, as some of the brothers do, but if you will permit me I can take away these bruises and the puncture marks.”

“But you wouldn’t have minded me wearing them?”

“Truth?”

“Oui,” she said. “Truth.”

He shook his head. “I am in this terrible place, as well. I want you with the ferocity of an animal and a little while ago, I took you the way I have been wanting you since I first caught your wonderful scent in Toulouse. But I am not proud of it. I despise being caught in this same trap of the breh-hedden in which you are caught. At the same time, I am loving every second of it because I like you and I respect you. For that reason, this terrible part of me would have loved letting everyone see that I took your blood … twice. That, yes, I marked you. That you were mine.”

He had stated her feelings exactly.

She finally took a regular breath and pushed the collar of her robe out to her shoulders. He moved in behind her, understanding her signal. She faced the mirror now and watched as he settled his hands over the sides of her throat. He had long beautiful fingers, sexy fingers.

She felt the warmth begin and she closed her eyes. Her breathing settled down and her temper eased back. She didn’t speak. She just let the moment happen.

She was troubled; there was no other way to describe what she felt, how confused she was, how torn, and how angry. She wanted life to just stop. Ever since she’d been rescued, instead of life growing simpler and gentler, she felt as though she’d been thrown into the spin cycle of a washing machine.

When he removed his hands, she opened her eyes and her throat was as it had been before. Only instead of feeling grateful, she felt sad, as though the healing of the bruises and the punctures made from his fangs had erased what had just happened between them.

He slid his arms around her. “Chérie, do not be sad. I can put them back, right now if you like.”

At that she laughed. “I am being absurd, aren’t I?”

“You have been through so much and you have shown such courage and such grace. You have my permission to be as absurd as you need to be.”

She met his gaze in the mirror. “If that’s the case, then there’s something else I’d like you to do for me.”

He laughed, and she was pretty sure he knew exactly what she was going to ask of him. “Only if you drop the robe that I might gaze on your body. That is the payment I require for this ongoing service.”

He grinned, showing all those big beautiful teeth of his. Why the hell did she have to like him so much?

But she dropped the robe, and he offered a very satisfied groan in response. Then he suggested she bend over slightly so that he could get the exact angle he needed.

She once more put her hands on the counter. “Will this do?” She rounded her shoulders just so.

“Oui, c’est parfait.”

She closed her eyes. He began at the upper left wing-lock and began to scratch. She released a long loud groan that must have reverberated around the car-wash-sized bathroom at least three times.

* * *

The paralysis had finally worn off but the effects of first drugs, then Sister Quena’s little mind trick, had taken a toll.

Marguerite lay limp and exhausted, staring up at a cottage-cheese ceiling with a fluorescent light box running straight down the middle. Sweet Christ, how the hell old was this place?

She closed her eyes against the glare, then opened them. She saw a switch by the door and mentally hit it. The light went out, thank you, God, leaving behind a very dim natural light.

She twisted to look up at the wall with the window and groaned. Barely a slit, not even wide enough to put a shoulder through, never mind her fucking head.

She felt the weight of her ankle guard. Apparently, Stanny wasn’t taking any more chances than Quenny had. This one was new, heavier.

As prisons went, Marguerite thought her new home might actually be worse than the Creator’s Convent, and she really didn’t think that was possible. At least she had her own cell this time, but what good would that do when Thorne wouldn’t be able to get in here every morning to give her some good old-fashioned, bumping-uglies relief?

Instead of a wooden bed and lumpy mattress, she had a concrete platform and about an inch of foam. Perfect.

She struggled to lift up on her elbows. What was that smell?

Ugh. Urine. Oh, dear God.

She slid her legs over the side of the tall platform. Her toes just touched the floor. Her gaze landed on that which had offended her nose. She tilted her head. This so could not be what she was looking at. A pissing pot? In the twenty-first century?

Of course, given the nature of the odor in the room, she couldn’t be far off.

The room was white, and the texture peeling off the cement-block walls. Yep, this was definitely worse than the Convent.

Prison was right.

The door opened and Stannett himself walked in. “You don’t need to worry,” he said, closing the door behind him. “Endelle may have thought she negotiated rights to enter the facility, but I’m sure I can prevent that from happening.”

Why on earth would Stanny think those words would offer her even a small degree of comfort?

He removed his red embroidered leather coat and hung it on one of the pegs by the door.

He unbuttoned the first button of his black silk shirt, then the second.

Uh, she didn’t like where this was headed. She enjoyed men but she’d never really thought of Owen Stannett, with the curling wave along the side of his head, as a man.

A lot of chest hair appeared.

“Hold up there, Stanny. I never agreed to sex.”

“I didn’t ask you to agree to anything. You’re here. Life is simple at the Superstition Fortress; everyone does what I want them to do, just like I did what I was told all those centuries ago. It’s just my turn and I’m making the most of it. So we can do this however you want to do it, but this is my call. Do you prefer all fours or missionary?”

Marguerite understood something and she suddenly had a little more respect for Sister Quena. If Stannett had ever touched Marguerite during one of their sessions, one word of accusation would have disallowed Stannett from the Convent. He’d been circumspect all those decades. Now he didn’t have to be.

“You’re not afraid of Madame Endelle finding anything out here?”

“No. I’m not. I have friends in high places. Specifically, COPASS.”

“How convenient for you but you’re not gettin’ any from me today, not now, not ever.”

He merely smiled and unbuttoned and unzipped his snug embroidered red leather pants. He had to work them down his skinny legs and she about puked when she saw he wore tight ball-huggers, also in red. Talk about overkill.

She swung her legs, dragging her toes back and forth on the floor. “I didn’t think you liked women.”

“I don’t … especially. But you have something I need.”

As though on cue, she heard a baby cry. “Aw, shit, Stanny. You set up a nursery in this goddam facility.”

“Genetics is a beautiful thing.”

“You’re creating a race of super-Seers.”

He shucked his tight briefs. As for size, he was somewhere in the middle. But she was used to Thorne and he was warrior-sized. She frowned. Worse, he still wore his socks. There was just something so unattractive about a naked man standing around in his socks. Well, that and he had a chest that bear cubs could snuggle against and not realize their ma was somewhere else. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">