A close examination of her scalp in the mirror revealed no evidence of injury, although Simone found some flecks of dried blood in her hair. She had a blurred memory of Korvel wounding himself as he took away her copper dagger; the blood was likely his. That would explain her missing injury, if he had offered some of his blood to heal her. She brought a few strands to her nose and breathed in his scent.
She stepped into the shower to scrub the assassin’s sweat from her body and the smell of Korvel from her hair. Once she dried off, she combed out and wove her hair into a long braid, tying off the end with a piece of ribbon from the basket.
Calmer now, Simone put on one of the clean, fluffy white robes hanging by the shower and readied herself to face Korvel again. Now that she had defined what was happening to her, she could pass through it and move beyond it. Desire was hardly different from a knife wound; both simply caused weakness and pain. Given time and care, both faded and were forgotten.
She stepped out into the bedroom to see that he had drawn all the drapes and switched off the lamps. It took her a moment to locate him where he lay on the bed. She moved silently until she could see his face, his brilliant eyes closed now, his chest barely moving.
He had fallen asleep.
Deciding she was relieved, not disappointed, Simone retreated to the broad, curved lounge by the windows. She sat on one end, where she could see Korvel and the door. The padded armrest made a somewhat comfortable pillow for her head, and when she curled up the robe covered her bare legs and feet.
Simone closed her eyes, clearing her thoughts of everything but the need to wake in a few hours, and then drifted off.
Chapter 9
K
orvel watched the nun fall asleep. His own need to rest remained, a sullen weight inside his head, but it could not overcome the stronger, more immediate demands of his body. While she had bathed he had struck a bargain with his conscience: When she returned to the bed, he would determine whether she was aroused or frightened by him. If she feared his attentions, he would take his rest in the other room. If she wanted him, he would show her every pleasure that convent life had denied her.
Now she slept ten feet away, and his curiosity remained unsatisfied.
Because Simone was mortal, Korvel could not enter her dreams, or lure her into his. Nor could he bind her to him as his sygkenis. Although it would have been easier, he was glad Simone remained immune to his abilities and influence. If she ever chose to come to him, to give herself to him, it would be of her own accord.
He reached down to palm the bulge beneath the front of his trousers. His penis felt like an iron club, his pulse hammering beneath the head, and it showed no signs of subsiding. Korvel almost released it to deal with it himself, until he imagined the depths of the hell he would burn in if the nun woke to find him watching her as he stroked himself.
His cock thought it a fair trade and swelled another inch.
He got up to move into the next room, and Simone shifted, turning slightly. The white robe she wore fell open just enough to show the bend of her knee and the curve of one thigh. The fragrance of her body altered as well, growing deeper and sweeter, like herbs covered in dew at the first touch of dawn’s light.
That is not the scent of fear.
Korvel moved to the lounge, easing down beside her, not certain of what he meant to do but unable to stop himself just the same. He reached for a fold of her robe so he could cover her legs, and watched his hand draw it back, exposing more of her thigh. She had strong legs, smoothly muscled, the pale flesh sheened by tiny, almost invisible blond hairs. Like the women in the time of his mortal life, she must have never put a razor to her legs.
Korvel wanted to feel that sweet velvet against his cheek, his lips, his belly. His dents acérées slid slowly into his mouth, full and aching, demanding another taste of her, and he had to look away until he could master the beast inside him.
Simone made a soft sound, drawing his attention back to her, and he saw that her eyes were open but unfocused. “Captain?” she murmured.
“Yes, sister.” He bent over her, releasing his scent so he could see her eyes go dark. “It’s me.”
She reached for him, finding his wrist, bringing his hand to her cheek. “Thought you were sleeping.”
If she only knew what had kept him awake, she would run from the room shrieking. “I must go. I will return soon.”
“Don’t.” She held on to him. “Don’t leave me again.”
He could release himself from her grip with barely a flick of a muscle; yet he felt as bound to her as if they were chained in copper. “The drugs are still affecting you.”
“No.” Her eyes, clear and bright now, held his. “Not anymore. It’s you. You make me feel this longing.”
Her scent did not change; she was speaking the truth. He wouldn’t allow himself to take her, but he could attend to her needs. “I want to touch you and give you pleasure. This will please me as well. If you do not want this, I will leave and see to my own needs. You have but to tell me what you want, my angel.”
Her hand left his wrist, and Korvel started to rise. He stopped as he watched her hands move down to the belt of her robe and untie it.
He felt a moment of shocked uncertainty, as if she had stripped the centuries away and made him mortal again. Perhaps it was fitting that a nun who had never known a man could reduce him to the state of an awkward adolescent with his first woman.
She pulled apart the robe, baring her breasts and belly and thighs to his gaze. He wanted to open the drapes and allow the dawn to illuminate every inch of her so he could see her skin in sunlight. He didn’t care that it would further weaken him, but such a thing would doubtless embarrass her. He wanted her to remember this interlude with nothing but delight.
Afraid he would lose his head and pounce on her, Korvel moved from the lounge to kneel on the floor. She turned toward him, shifting down to pillow her head on one arm and stretch out full-length.
“You do not belong in this world.” Using one fingertip, he traced the ridge of her collarbone, following it up to her shoulder and down the side of her arm. “In my time men would have taken up the sword and the lance to win your favor.”
“No need,” she murmured. “You have mine.”
Korvel found the end of her braid and removed the ribbon, unwinding the long, thick cable until he could drape her with the vibrant strands. He felt her palm graze his cheek as she curled a strand of his short hair around her fingertip.
She had such an absorbed look on her face that he had to ask, “What are you thinking?”
“The red in your hair is fading,” she murmured. “Soon it will be blond again. If you were human, our babies would all be fair.”
The thought of his child swelling inside her made him feel a surge of regret. “As I am, I cannot give you children.”
She glanced down and touched two of the slanted ridges on her belly. “Even if you could, I can never conceive.”
He covered one scar with his hand. Given the circumstances of his own birth, he had never regretted being rendered infertile by the change, but he knew most mortal females desired children. “I am sorry to know that.”
“Don’t be.” Her eyes shifted to his. “What do you want me to do?”
“Close your eyes.” When she did, he brushed the ends of her hair across her lower lip. “Do you feel that?”
“Yes.”
“That is what I want.” He let her hair sift through his fingers before he put them to her face, following the sweep of her brows around to the arch of her cheekbones, the slant of her nose to the cusp above her upper lip. Her mouth parted for his fingers as he traced its contours before he feathered a caress along the line of her jaw and down the hollows of her throat.
Korvel saw her lashes flutter as she felt his breath on her body. “Tell me what you feel.”
“I ache inside. It feels like fever, but I’m not sick.” She dampened her lips. “I want to open my eyes.”
“Not yet.” He bent his head, stroking his tongue over the swollen peak of her breast before he blew a breath across it to watch the damp tip bead. “You ache here, don’t you?” When she nodded, he curved his hand around the flushed mound. “This is what you need.”
He put his lips to her hard nipple, working his tongue over it. As he suckled, he moved his hand down to her waist, and then to her thigh. He stroked the tight muscle in time with the tug of his mouth, until her legs relaxed and her hips shifted. The scent of her arousal rushed over him as he brought his hand to rest over the curls of her mound. When he parted her with his finger, she jolted, her breast escaping his lips and her hand curling into his hair.
Korvel kept his hand where it was and turned his face to kiss her palm. “You feel the ache there, beneath my hand, don’t you?”
“If I say yes,” she asked, her voice low and tight, “are you going to put your mouth there?”
“You have to say yes to find out.” He stroked his fingers between her folds so that she heard the sound of her own slickness. “I want to feel you on my tongue.” He bent his head, and she felt his words against the skin of her belly. “Say yes, Simone, and I’ll make the aching go away.”
She trembled and covered her face with her hand, but finally she whispered to him, “Yes.”
Korvel slid his hands under her hips, bringing her to his mouth, stroking her open with his tongue and tasting the sweet wetness of her need. Her position on the lounge prevented him from spreading her thighs, so he took his mouth away and dragged her down to the carpet, pressing her knees up and back as he settled between her legs, his head dipping so he could get at her sex, his tongue licking at the tight ellipse at her heart before he laved his way to the hard knot of her clit, nudging back the tiny hood to expose it before he caressed and sucked.
Her nails scored the carpet, and she made a low, wailing sound, but even as her body writhed, her hands curled in his hair, tightening with every lash of his tongue. Korvel felt her foot brush the pulsing ridge of his penis and reached down, tearing open his trousers to free his cock. He caught her foot and brought it to his shaft, using the delicate arch of her instep against the tight sheath of his foreskin.
