Honor thought of what it must be like to carry such sorrow through the ages, to mourn for nearly a thousand years, and felt an ache so vast it had no end. “She wouldn’t have wanted this for you,” she said, so certain that she didn’t stop to question it. “You know that.”
Honor was right, Dmitri thought. Ingrede would have been horrified to see who—what—he had become, how he’d let the loss of her and the children twist him. But he also knew another thing. “Some things, no man can resist. Some losses, no husband”—no father—“can ever forget.”
“Dmitri—”
“I don’t know what I can give you, Honor,” he said because she deserved honesty, “but I know I’ve felt nothing like this since the moment she died.”
Honor cupped his face. “It’s all right.” The gentlest of kisses.
He didn’t know how she’d become the one to offer comfort when he’d caused the harm, but his soul, cold for so long, basked in the warmth of her.
“I once fed Elena,” he told her a long time later, as her lips closed over the forkful of rice he’d lifted to her mouth, as she allowed him to take care of her in a way he hadn’t earlier.
Curiosity turned the deep green of her gaze to sparkling gemstones. “Were there knives involved?”
“No, but she was tied up at the time.” It seemed an eon ago that he’d taunted Elena while she remained restrained for her own safety. “She’d shot Raphael.” The others in the Seven had been ready for blood, Dmitri bound by a vow to keep her safe.
Honor leaned forward, brows lowering. “I heard rumors . . . she really did?”
So he told her the story, and managed to get most of the food into her at the same time, wondering if she’d noticed the fruit and honey he’d added to the table.
“I do have hands, husband.”
Lifting a slice of fruit up to those beautiful lips as she sat on his lap, one arm around his neck. “You can use those hands to thank me for taking such good care of you.”
Small white teeth biting into the fruit, slender throat swallowing the juicy flesh. “Dmitri?”
“Yes?” He ran the fruit down that throat, licked up the juice.
She shivered. “I hope I’m sitting in your lap when I’m a toothless crone and you a wrinkled old man.”
Putting down her wineglass, Honor rose to slide into his lap and memory and reality collided in a kaleidoscope that made his head spin. Her lips touching his only escalated the fracture of time, the taste of her hot and sweet and painfully familiar even as it was not. Stroking his hand up to the back of her neck, he forced himself to hold her with conscious gentleness as she opened her mouth over his and explored him with slow, sinful decadence.
The tenderness of the moment destroyed him, singing to parts of him he’d thought long dead. The scent of her, wildflowers in bloom, the feel of her under his hands, the way she laughed, it all fit him like a key into a lock. Ingrede had been so very different on the surface—a woman who loved home and hearth, who wouldn’t know how to use a blade except in the kitchen, but she’d had the heart of a lion, his wife.
So did Honor.
“Yes,” he said to her when she broke the kiss on a soft suck of sound.
Honor angled her head in a silent question.
Locking his eyes with those the shade of mist-laden forests, he very deliberately ran his hand down to close it over her breast. “Now, Honor.”
Her heartbeat thudded against his hand, her voice raspy with the storm that had just passed . . . and with a passion that flushed her full lips until he wanted to use his teeth on her. “The windows,” she whispered.
This high up, there was no chance of being overlooked . . . except, of course, by immortals with wings. “Close the blinds.” The quiet command slipped out.
Honor’s lips tugged upward at the corners. “As you wish.”
Knowing he was being teased and quite content with the state of affairs, he watched her rise and walk to shut the blinds, enclosing them in the soft intimacy created by the quiet shield of rain beyond the glass. “What do you need?” he asked when she turned back to face him.
It was the first time in centuries upon centuries that he’d put a lover’s needs above his own. Oh, he’d never left a bedmate unsatisfied, even if the pleasure he’d been inclined to give had been a razor-edged thing almost brutal in its intensity, but care . . . no, he hadn’t taken care of a lover since the day he left his wife with a promise to return.
If Honor asked him to temper himself, he’d find a way to do it. But what she said was, “I won’t break,” and it was a solemn statement.
He thought of how she’d gone mad in his arms, her mind trapped in a nightmare. Fractures existed inside of her, and tonight, bastard that he was, he’d helped widen them. But they would heal—because Honor had come out swinging. Raising his hand to his jaw, he rubbed the tender bruise. “You almost broke me.”
A smile, slow and heartbreaking in its beauty. “You deserved it.”
He felt his own lips curve. “I did.” Scanning his eyes up and down her body, he said, “I still intend to have my wicked way with you,” in a deliberate attempt to gauge how far she’d allow him to go.
“No kinky stuff till later.”
Surprised she’d even entertain the thought after what he’d done, he lifted his gaze to her own—and saw an understanding that stunned him. She knew she had power over him, this mortal who was so much weaker and yet who had brought him to his knees. Honor wasn’t like him, hadn’t been turned cynical by an experience that would’ve twisted many only toward bitterness and hate, would never use that power in a malicious way. But the knowledge, it allowed her to play these games with him.
Good.
Pushing back his chair just a fraction, he crooked a finger.
She kicked off her boots before crossing the carpet to straddle him. Her hands lifted to the buttons of his shirt. “I love the color of your skin,” she murmured, leaning forward to press a kiss on the bared skin of his breastbone.
It was the sweetest of caresses, and it made him weave his fingers into her hair and insist on another. Laughing, she peppered his chest with kisses, the shirt gaping to his waist now. “Such beautiful, pretty skin. Does the shade change over your body?”
He tugged at the bottom of her top, waited until she raised her arms to pull it off over her head. “I told you. You’ll have to”—clenching his abdomen against the impact of her—“wait and see.” It was his turn to lean forward, press his lips to the sun-kissed honey of her skin, his hands possessive on her hips.
“I have scars.”
Those responsible for creating those scars would pay for decades to come, because Dmitri had no mercy or forgiveness in him. Not for this crime. “I see only you.” Another lingering kiss before he drew back. “And you’re my own personal addiction.”
Cupped in black lace, her breasts were lush curves that made his mouth water, his fangs aching to sink into that sweet flesh. He wouldn’t do it, not until she issued the invitation, but that made no difference to his cock. It was as rigid as rock, blood pulsing hot and thick. And that was before he allowed himself to think of the tight, wet sheath of her core.