Eternal Rider

And what a fine picture it was. A master-fucking-piece.

He offered his hand. “I’m going to make sure you get to the bathroom.”

Cara rolled her eyes, but she allowed him to pull her to her feet, and she didn’t protest when he gripped her upper arm to steady her. By nature, he wasn’t a caregiver, but tending to Cara’s needs gave him a sense of satisfaction. He hadn’t been in a caretaker role since he’d taken Vulgrim in a few hundred years ago, but even then, he’d focused more on being a protector, and then a teacher. His intent had not been to raise a family—caring for Vulgrim had been a strategy to gain an ally in the demon community. Yet the demon and his son, Torrent, had woven their way into the fabric of Ares’s personal existence, and sometimes, Ares wondered what kind of price had yet to be paid for that.

Shaking off the useless reflection on his past, he started the water for Cara. “If you want music or steam, there’s a control panel on the right.”

“Don’t suppose you’ve got a fridge and microwave in here, too?”

“Thought about it, but can’t figure out a way to insulate the electronics,” he teased, and wow, that was way out of character for him. Maybe one of the ghastbats had caused brain damage. “I’ll leave you alone.”

It took fewer than ten minutes to get in and out of Cara’s house with a duffel full of clothes, a pillow, and the toiletries she’d had on her bathroom counter.

One thought dominated his mind as he gated himself back to Greece: She wore Victoria’s Secret boyshorts.

He could so easily envision her lush curves contained in the sexy underwear. Yeah, thongs and lacy panties and crap were nice, but for some reason, the mix of masculine and feminine of the boyshorts worked for him. Really worked.

He’d love to hold her against him while his hands slipped down the back of the boyshorts to cup that tight ass… and f**k, he was obsessing over freaking panties.

Feeling like the Webster’s definition of loser, he stalked through his house, halting at the bedroom door. His heart did something weird against his sternum, a spastic flutter of anticipation. Was he actually looking forward to seeing Cara again? The goofy way his lips were curved into a smile said yes, and horror of horrors, he realized he was experiencing some sort of crush.

He needed to kill something. Needed to get his head back in the battle, reacquire his target, and go on the offensive, because he was doing exactly what he used to berate other men for. Hell, he’d actually arranged for women to seduce enemy commanders, and then he’d waited for their dicks to lead them to distraction and destruction.

Cara must be the ultimate karma.

Mercifully, the shower was still running, so he figured it was safe to enter the bedroom, where he tossed the bag and pillow onto the bed. He moved to the door, but froze at the sound of a thump and a weak cry.

“Cara?” He was halfway across the room before her name was fully out of his mouth. Adrenaline spiked, his warrior instincts came to bear, and he charged into the bathroom, prepared to take out the threat.

He burst into the shower, found her trying to get to her hands and knees.

“What happened?” he barked, fear roughening his voice, and he silently chastised himself. Nothing should rattle him this much.

Startled, Cara screeched like a banshee—and Ares knew well what they sounded like—and tried to cover herself. The effort was useless—what he’d seen had already been saved to his memory card and tagged as a favorite.

Hot water drenched him from the multiple shower heads, but he didn’t give a shit. He sank down on his heels to help her. “Cara!” His voice cracked like a bullwhip in the tiled space. “What happened?”

“It was nothing.” Drawing her knees up to her chest, she wrapped her arms around them and huddled against the wall. “I slipped.”

“What, you slipped on soap?” She was too pasty, with dark circles under her eyes, and he wasn’t buying her excuse. “Bullshit.”

“Don’t talk to me that way,” she snapped.

“Then tell me the truth,” he shot back. “You passed out.”

Her eyes roiled like the waters off his coastline after a storm. “I didn’t pass out. I just feel so… weak.”

“This is more than a side-effect of healing Battle, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never felt this way before. Is it the agimorbid-thing?”

“Agimortus,” he corrected, though by this point, since she’d said it right before, he suspected she was deliberately mispronouncing it just to annoy him. Too bad he found it to be sort of endearing. Endearing. Holy hell. “Likely. Or The Aegis could be hurting the hellhound.”

“Hal,” she said, the sea-storm in her eyes gathering strength again. “His name is Hal.”

“Yeah, whatever.” The idea of naming a hellhound as if it were a dainty lap yapper irritated the hell out of him. He wiped water out of his eyes. “Let’s get you out of here.”

“I have to rinse first.” Cara dragged her fingers through her hair. The action exposed the swell of her br**sts, the deep cl**vage between them, and for all of the water, his mouth went dry. “Full of shampoo.”

“I’ll help.”

“I’ll manage on my own.” She shifted, giving him a tantalizing glimpse of honey-colored curls at the juncture of her thighs, and oh, hell, he didn’t need to see that. Didn’t need to see the imprint of the agimortus on her chest, either, but at least that cooled him down a little.

“This isn’t negotiable. I can’t let you fall and break your neck.” At her horrified expression, he gnashed his teeth. “I’m old enough to have seen it all a million times over. Stop being a child.”

“Well, I’m not old enough to have shown it off a million times over. So stop being an ass.”

Impossible woman. “Would you feel better if I were as exposed as you?” He peeled off his soaked shirt and started to unzip his pants.

“No!” She grabbed his wrist. “Really, it’s okay.”

She looked like a cornered cat as he gently lifted her to her feet. God, her skin was soft. Smooth. Her body… yeah, he wasn’t supposed to look, but shit, she was built like the women of his time—of his human time. They’d been lush, with curves that signaled that they were fertile and built to bear a warrior’s lust and his offspring.

His body hardened, primed for that thought. So much for cooling off.

“I can stand on my own—” Her legs gave out, and he caught her, tucked her against him. “Or not.”

He wrapped one arm around her waist and held her so her br**sts were pressed to his chest and her belly cradled his erection.

If the way her face flamed red was any indication, she’d noticed his state of arousal. And the way her eyes darkened said she liked it.

Fourteen

This had to be the weirdest thing that had ever happened to Cara. Which was saying something, considering that she was bonded to a hellhound, had been imprinted with a mystical symbol that made her a target for assassination, and she’d traveled instantly from England to Greece.

Now she was na**d and in a shower, being propped up by a walking, talking legend. And said legend had an erection. She’d read somewhere that normal, healthy men got up to twenty erections a day. Um… yep, Ares was definitely healthy.

“Can we hurry?” She pressed her body as tightly against him as she could. The closer she was, the less he could see of her.

Not that being plastered to him wasn’t nice. Ares was a rock-solid mountain of muscle, and she couldn’t help but stroke his skin as she clung to him. And God, she wanted to lick the droplets of water that glistened on his powerful shoulders.

“Tilt your head back.” His command was just that; an order, spoken gruffly. Yet his hold was tender.

“How many times do I have to tell you that I don’t appreciate being barked at,” she sighed.

His hand came up to her chin, and he lifted her face. His eyes were hooded, unreadable. She thought he was going to say something, but instead, he tipped her head under the stream of water. His palm was a light caress on her forehead and scalp, his ministrations deliberate, careful, as if he was afraid his touch would hurt her. In a way, it did. Her heart pounded crazily, almost painfully. No one had ever been so attentive with her.

And how could someone so comfortable with killing, who had done the things Chaos had shown her, be so tender?

Ares’s fingers sifted through her hair in long, soothing strokes. Gradually, her lids grew heavy, and she closed her eyes, slumping against him as her muscles loosened. This was very calming, yet at the same time, her pulse was thundering in her ears and sprinting through her veins. The brand on her chest was tingling. And between her legs, heat was building.

Ares took his time rinsing her hair.

“There must be a lot of shampoo,” she murmured.

“Yeah,” he said, and was it her imagination, or had his voice cracked a little? “I’m thorough that way.”

“Mmm.”

He brought his palm to her cheek to wipe away the water. “Anywhere else you need to be washed?”

Her eyes flew open. A “no” formed on her lips, but no sound came out. The way he was looking at her… this time, his expression was as readable as a large-print book. Hunger burned in his eyes. His gaze held hers captive, and she became achingly hyperaware of a growing anticipation.

She licked her lips, and his gaze dropped to her mouth, zeroed in on the tongue action. Inside her head, she pleaded for him not to kiss her. But she lifted her face and pushed herself up on her toes, surprised that her legs were no longer shaky.

“This is stupid,” Ares whispered, even as he lowered his head, slowly, until only a whisper-thin layer of steamy air separated their lips. She could have pulled away. Should have. But for the first time in a long time, she finally felt safe. How crazy was it that she felt safe in the arms of a man who could break her in half with a flick of his wrist, a man whom the entire world regarded with fear and horror? 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">