Anew: Book Two: Hunted (14 page)

I already am. The hot friction of our bodies straining
together drives every other thought out of my mine. There’s only Ian, his big,
hard body so close…

“Inside me,” I gasp. “Please, now, I want to feel you--”

My breath leaves me in a rush as he releases my hair and
slides down my body. Taking hold of his cock with one hand, he spreads my
thighs further and plunges into me with a single long thrust that slams his
balls up against my ass.

“Like this, baby, is this how you want it?”

“Yes! Don’t stop! Don’t--”

Seizing my hips, he pulls almost all the way out and drives
into me again. I tighten around him, drawing him even deeper, my hips rising
and falling with his rhythm. He’s giving me everything I need, holding nothing
back. Heat ripples through me, building swiftly. I moan, bearing down, impaled
by him.

He grinds against my inner walls, finding exactly the right
spot. Light explodes behind my eyes. As though from a great distance, I hear
myself sobbing his name.

“Ian!”

Everything--all the fear and horror of bloodied bodies and
exploded buildings, old sins and precarious futures--fades away. Only Ian
exists, in me, above me, possessing me. Even as I possess him. This is the
power we share, what we are together, able to focus completely on one another
in a way that I am convinced means we can withstand anything.

Convincing him of that will have to wait. My inner muscles
spasm, the onset of orgasm burning through me. White. Hot. Bliss. He holds my
gaze, holding me captive, my body, my mind, my soul, all his. As he is mine.

I rear up, drawn to the bead of sweat trickling down the
ripped muscles of his torso. My tongue spears out, lapping at him. The taste of
his skin explodes on my tongue. It’s a drug I will never get enough of and it
tips me over the edge. The orgasm that tears through me is the most powerful
I’ve ever experienced, fueled by terror, anger, and above all, the defiant
decision to embrace life.

I cling to Ian as he joins me, his breath hot against my
skin, both of us coming as one, alive and free.

Amelia

W
aking, my eyes still
closed, I reach out instinctively for Ian. My hand fumbles on cool sheets. His
side of the bed is empty. I’m alone.

I sit up gingerly, aware of the delicious soreness in every
inch of my body but especially between my thighs. I wince just a little but I
can’t help smiling until I remember how hard I pushed Ian to take me to his
bed. It’s all well and good for me to tell myself that we are better off facing
his demons together but I have an urgent need for reassurance that in the cold
light of morning he feels the same.

Anxious to find him, I dart out of the bed and into the
shower. Twenty minutes later, dressed in a soft cotton blouse and matching
short skirt that must have been brought down from the palazzo, I venture out
into the vast apartment. I’m standing atop the tallest building in the city in
which several tens of thousands of people work and live. Yet the world feels
eerily empty until I hear the hiss of an espresso machine coming from the
kitchen.

I head toward the sound only to stop in my tracks when I see
the silver-haired gentleman standing at the stove. Hodgkin is formally dressed
in dark trousers, a matching vest, and a pin-striped shirt. A charcoal gray
apron is wrapped around his waist. It only serves to emphasize his military
bearing, the legacy of an earlier life.

Hodge, as he’s better known, was introduced to me as the
steward of Ian’s estate north of the city, the palazzo where I first awoke.
Since then, I’ve come to realize that he’s much more. The soul of discretion
but also of compassion and quiet understanding, he’s played a pivotal role in
Ian’s life, guiding him away from the father who did him so much harm and
toward the military that was the making of him. He’s always been gracious to me
but I still feel more than a little self-conscious at encountering him now.

He sees my reflection in the stainless steel backdrop of the
stove and turns. His normally hang-dog face creases in a warm smile that gives
every evidence of being sincere.

“Good morning, Miss Amelia. I trust you’re hungry?”

Before I can respond, my stomach growls. The scents of bacon
and coffee override every other consideration, at least for the moment.

“I’m starving.” Remembering my manners, I add, “It’s nice to
see you again, Mister Hodgkin.”

“Please, miss,” he says, “Hodge will do. Mister Ian asked me
to give you his apologies, he’s been called away to a briefing but he should
return shortly. In the meantime, may I suggest breakfast on the terrace? The
wind has died down and it’s a lovely day.”

I swallow my disappointment at Ian’s absence and nod. “That
sounds lovely, thank you.”

Doors from the soaring great room lead out onto the terrace
that wraps all the way around the lower floor of the penthouse. A table is set
for two facing the harbor but before I sit down, I walk in the other direction
until I am looking north toward the park.

I don’t know what I’m expecting to see but the scene takes
me aback. If I squint, I can make out a few vehicles on the periphery of where
the Crystal Palace stood hours before but I’m not even sure that they belong to
the MPS. A strange normality has taken hold in stark contrast to the chaos and
death of the previous night. Elsewhere in the city, the same holds true.
Traffic moves smoothly through the streets below. No more than the usual number
of surveillance drones are aloft. I’m so high up that the people look like
small specks but even they appear to be moving around the city as though
nothing out of the ordinary has happened.

Surely, they know what occurred. They must be talking among
themselves about it, probably with great fear and dread. But where are the
crowds that should be gathered, watching the authorities go about their
investigation, and sharing theories stranger to stranger? Have they been
banned? Is there some grand delusion at work? Or is what I’m seeing evidence
that people are too afraid to show any reaction to the catastrophe that has
made a mockery of their carefully nurtured illusion of safety?

I’m still puzzling about that when I return to the table.
Hodge is setting out my breakfast.

“There you are, miss. Would you like coffee or do you prefer
tea this morning?”

“Coffee, please, the stronger the better.”

He pulls out my chair for me, then fills my cup from a
silver pot. “Will there be anything else, miss?”

I look down at the plate where an omelet oozing with cheese
nestles besides several slices of crispy bacon. “This is more than enough
but--”

I don’t want to eat alone. The servants at the McClellan
family residence keep a careful distance that rebuffs any possible overtures of
friendship before they can be offered. But Hodge is different. I sense that he
could unbend if I just give him the opportunity.

“Would you join me?” I ask.

He looks surprised but not displeased. “I’ve already eaten,
miss. However, I’ll be happy to keep you company.”

He doesn’t take a seat but he does lean against the balcony
railing, cross one ankle over the other, and smile. He looks courteous and
professional, but approachable. I suspect that Hodge is one of the very few
people who knows the truth about me. That Ian trusts him completely inclines me
to do the same.

“I hope the events of yesterday evening did not upset you too
much?” he says.

A memory of immense shards of shattered glass raining down
from the sky flares across my mind. I shy away from it and shrug. “It’s the
first time I’ve gone to a party where the building has blown up. Is there very
much about it in the news?”

“There was initially but the coverage has rapidly
transformed into an outcry against the scavengers, demands that they all be
driven from the city, and so on. About what one would expect.”

He’s lost me. “What do the scavengers have to do with it?”

Hodge raises a brow. “Why they’re to blame, miss, didn’t you
know? Apparently, a group of scavengers attacked the Crystal Palace with the
intent of taking the city’s elite hostage. A valiant group of MPS officers
fought them off but was, alas, unable to prevent the explosion that, purely
coincidentally destroyed most of the evidence of what had actually happened.”

I think of the ragged children I saw and of everything else
I know about the people who are consigned to the city’s underbelly. While they
may certainly have motive, I don’t believe for a moment that they could have
the means to carry out such an assault.

“That’s ridiculous. Nobody with half a brain could believe
that the scavengers are responsible for what happened.”

“With all respect, miss, people can believe anything they
choose to when they’re too afraid to confront the truth.”

The weight of his words resonates within me. I know from my
own experience how easy it is to embrace denial. When Ian told me the truth
about myself. I fled rather than accept it. But I couldn’t flee from the
terrifying memories that I’m not supposed to have. They are inescapable. I fear
and loath them but as horrible as those periods of self-awareness are, they are
proof that something of me existed before I received Susannah’s imprinting,
something that is entirely my own.

The implications of that are profound. I haven’t even begun
to understand them but I sense that when I do, I will find within them answers
to many of the questions I have about myself.

“Miss?” Hodge is staring at me. “Are you all right?”

Jerked back into the here-and-now, I just manage a nod.
“Yes, of course. Forgive me. You were saying that people are afraid--”

“Not without reason. After all, someone
attacked the
Crystal Palace. The Council can blame whoever they like but they’ll be doing
everything they can to find out who was really responsible.” He pauses for a
moment, then adds, “In the meantime, all the emphasis is on a speedy return to
normality. It’s already been announced that Carnival will proceed as
scheduled.”

I can’t hide my surprise. From everything I’ve heard,
Carnival is a time of frenzied pleasure-seeking. Crowds throng the streets,
mind-altering substances of all kinds flow freely, and every inhibition is cast
aside.

“Will people want to participate given what’s just
happened?” I ask. “And even if they do, surely it isn’t wise to draw them out
into the streets where they could become targets for another attack.”

“I share your doubts, miss,” Hodge says. “But regrettably
the Council does not. They are concerned only with maintaining the image that
they are in control. We can only hope that whoever really was responsible for
the attack on the Crystal Palace is found and contained quickly.”

I remember my grandmother’s warning that suspicion could
fall on Ian. A shiver runs through me. “Do you think Ian can find out the
truth?”

“Oh, yes, miss, I’m certain that he can. Mister Ian has
never let any obstacle stand between him and an objective.”

I can’t help but smile. No one has to tell me that Ian’s
will is formidable. I’ve experienced it for myself on more than a few
occasions.

“You’ve known him a long time, haven’t you?” I’m not sure
where I’m going with this or how far Hodge will let me get but I have to try.
Ian loves his mother and sister but I don’t for a moment believe that he has
ever let them know the details of what drove him away from his father. Hodge on
the other hand-- Hodge was there, he intervened, he changed the course of Ian’s
life.

“A dozen years,” he says quietly, “since Mister Ian was
sixteen.”

“He didn’t…get along with his father, did he?”

It’s now or never. Hodge will answer me or he’ll blow me
off. Either way, I’ll know where I stand with him.

He takes a breath, lets it out slowly, and says, “No, miss,
he didn’t. Marcus Slade was a brilliant man in many ways. He could have made a
difference in the world for the greater good. Unfortunately, he lacked anything
remotely resembling a moral compass.”

From the little Ian has told me about his father, that’s
putting it mildly. Marcus Slade was a misogynist who enjoyed hurting women. He
used that to exploit other men’s weaknesses and perversions, and advance his
own ends. The amount of damage he did to those who fell into his grasp is
incalculable.

“He wanted Ian to be like him,” I say. My throat tightens at
the thought of the boy Ian was--brilliant but achingly vulnerable, wanting so
desperately to please his father.

“It has been my observation that good people want their
children to grow up and have fulfilling lives of their own,” Hodge says
quietly. “Others, like Marcus Slade, are incapable of seeing a child as
anything other than an extension of themselves, a way to extend control beyond
the limits of their own mortality. Fortunately, Mister Ian had the strength to
break away from his father and make his own life.”

“You helped him to do that.”

“I merely showed him what was possible.” He pauses for a
moment, studying me, before he says, “He’s an extraordinary young man who has
achieved a great deal against enormous odds. But he still lives under the
shadow of the past. I would like nothing better than to see him put that behind
him once and for all.”

So would I but I’m cautious all the same. When it comes
right down to it, I’m operating on sheer instinct. If I made a mistake in
agreeing to return to Pinnacle House, Ian is likely to pay the price.

“You don’t think it’s better sometimes to let sleeping
demons lie?”

Hodge’s smile is gentle. “Dogs, Miss Amelia. The saying is
to let sleeping dogs lie, which is good advice. A man’s demons are a different
matter altogether. Either he controls them or they control him. There really is
no middle ground.”

It occurs to me that Hodge is speaking from personal
experience. He spent his youth in the military. In all likelihood, he saw
things that he would rather forget. But he’s found a way to live with them.

Softly, I say, “I’m afraid that being with me forces Ian to
confront the past in a way that hurts him.”

His nod is sympathetic but he doesn’t pull any punches. “He
was hurting before you ever came into his life, Miss Amelia. You can’t make
that worse and there’s a chance that you could make it better. Do you really
want to turn away from that?”

The thought of Ian in pain is a knife through me. I don’t
trust myself to speak. All I can do is shake my head and pretend interest in my
breakfast. Hodge gives me a few moments to compose myself before he tops off my
coffee and slips away. I’m left alone on the terrace, the city spread out below
me in all its brittle beauty.

After a time, I pick up a link and scroll through the news.
I’m on the private net available only to the city’s elite residents, many of
whom must have been present at the Crystal Palace. But not even they can be
allowed to read the truth about what they experienced. In addition to the
absurd claim that the MPS fought off the attackers--a lie that makes my blood
boil--the entire incident is framed in terms of nobility versus brutishness,
sprinkled with vignettes in which the valiant guests rush to each other’s
assistance, men in evening dress carry fainting ladies to safety, and angels of
mercy in gowns comfort the wounded.