Beyond the Darkness (27 page)

“I need a shower.” Cheveyo climbed off the bed and turned to hold out his hand to her.

She let him pull her to her feet, and into him. He kissed her, soft and sweet, and then led her into the bathroom where he turned on the shower.

She took off her clothes and stuffed them into the small garbage pail, remembering how he had done the same thing so long ago. Now she understood why. She felt dirty and grimy in so many ways. He was looking at her in the mirror’s reflection. He walked over, running his hands over her breasts, but more in an exploratory than a seductive way.

She looked down. “What?” Her reflection revealed nothing strange.

“You had a scratch here.” He ran his finger along the side of her breast. “It’s gone. Pope must have healed it.”

“Pope saw me naked?”

He chuckled. “No, but I vaguely remember telling him about it.” His smile disappeared when he saw the weal on his chest. “Petra . . .”

She came up behind him, her hands going around his waist. “I know, you’re mad at me for healing you.”

He turned to her. “Mad.
Mad
. You threw your life away to heal me. Something I told you not to do.”

“I couldn’t let you die.” The thought of it, even now, tore through her heart. “But it was more than an impulsive emotional decision. Even without your abilities, which you might lose because I healed you, you still have a much better chance of getting these guys than I do.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “It was a practical decision.”

He brushed her hair from her face, his expression dark and serious. “You have found your other archetype, the one I hoped you wouldn’t discover. You, too, are a warrior, when you’re willing to sacrifice your life for others, when you’re able to make logical decisions in the face of trauma.”

She, a warrior? The word rumbled through her. “It wasn’t totally logical. The thought of you dying nearly killed me. And Baal . . . he was going to rape me. In the face of all that, dying wasn’t a hard choice.”

“Baal’s dead.” His eyes darkened and his voice grew gruff. “Did it hurt you?”

She shuddered, not wanting to know what he’d seen and what he’d done. “Baal saw us kissing. I think it was after we’d missed Yurek at the first finestra.” She wrapped her arms around her chest at the memory. “He . . . he was trying to be a human. He wanted to do everything he saw us do, and he wanted me to like it.” Her voice hitched on that last word. She stared past him, back in those horrible moments. “He couldn’t understand why I didn’t respond like I did with you. He thought . . . I should enjoy him licking me, touching me . . .” She was trembling now, and he held her tighter. “After I healed you, I drifted off. I don’t know what he did after that.”

“Your clothes were still on, so it didn’t do much.” He stroked her back.

She closed her eyes, sinking into the feel of his strong body holding hers. “I made him a deal: I’d cooperate if he would let me say goodbye to you. I was so scared that you were already . . . gone.”

“Oh, babe.”

“I don’t want to think about that anymore. I just want to wash myself, twice, three times. I want to wipe away any trace of him.” She scrubbed her fingernails up and down her arms.

He stepped into the shower, and she went with him. It was big enough for both of them. He took a washcloth and lathered it up, running it down her back and then over her shoulders, gently around her breasts. The hot water created a cloud of steam around them. He focused on what he was doing, as though performing surgery. Then he squirted shampoo into his palm and scrubbed it through her hair. She lost herself in the feel of his fingers tugging through her hair and rubbing against her scalp.

When he was done, she poured shampoo into her hand and worked it through his thick hair, luxuriating in the feel of it. Damn, washing his hair felt as good as when he’d washed hers. After he rinsed out the lather, she took another washcloth from the shelf and lathered it. She loved the feel of it moving across the planes of his hard body, down his muscular thighs, around the thickness of his erection. He had closed his eyes when she started, sinking into the sensation. She set the cloth down, running her hands across his chest as the water rinsed away the suds.

“Another scar on your beautiful body,” she said, not really intending to say it aloud. She ran her fingers across the smooth weal. “I thought maybe your father might have healed you, like he did before.”

“I asked him. I couldn’t stand the thought of you being captured by them and me being helpless. I would never have asked otherwise.”

“And he refused?”

“He said he couldn’t alter the physical world anymore.”

Those words grated on her, somewhere deep inside. “He was right, about you dying because of me. You almost did. Would have. Which means that’s not hanging over our heads anymore.”

“You dying is always hanging over my head.”

And she hated that. “Can you become cat?” she asked, tucking away the discomfort of that assertion. “Have you tried?”

“Yes, and no, I can’t become cat.”

“It will probably only last a week or so. I hope.”

“Me, too. It’s like part of me is missing. We only have one enemy now, but we have no real defense against him, other than my knives. And he has some kind of über-weapon. I’ve got to ask Pope about that.” He faced her. “Petra, I appreciate you saving me, and I understand where you were coming from. But you can’t do that again. You have to stop saving me.”

“When you stop trying to save the world.”

His expression hardened, but before he could say anything, she said, “You told me I was a warrior.”

He placed his hands on either side of her face. “You are, but you’re motivated by your Healer. So don’t get any crazy ideas about fighting my wars with me. I almost lost you once. I can’t go through that again.”

“I know how you feel. Seeing you with that hole in your chest, it was like the hole was in me, too.”

She’d almost lost him, and she would never, ever forget how the sight of him lying in that trunk had made her feel.

Now he was here, she could touch him, and love him. She fell against him, throwing her arms over his shoulders and kissing him. He pulled her tight, their bodies melded, their mouths lost in each other’s. She knew he was feeling that same sense of urgency, of near loss, of wanting to absorb each other. He braced her against the smooth stone wall, and the feel of his erection pressing against her stomach sent desire shooting through her.

Water hit his back, sending spray all around them. His hand slid down her hip, thigh, and then around to her intimate places. She was already wet, so ready for him. Dimly she remembered that Pope was fixing them breakfast.

“Fill me,” she whispered. “Right here.” She wrapped her legs around his waist. “Now.”

As soon as she felt the tip of him against her opening, she pushed down, gripping his wet shoulders, arching her head back. His fingers clutched her waist, moving her up and down, long steady strokes. It didn’t take long for everything inside her to burst forward. And in that explosion of light and sensation, she saw a golden staircase . . . him reaching for her . . .

I love you, Petra. It’s not time, dammit. I was supposed to die, not you.

And then looking beyond her, pleading with God Herself.

I was supposed to die! It was my time! Take me. Me!

Then he’d lunged for her in that surreal space.

Her eyes snapped open at the desperation and pain in his words. He was staring just past her, caught in a memory.

“Did you see a staircase?” she whispered.

He nodded, still struck by the vision.

“You pulled me back. You risked your soul to pull me back, because you love me.”

He looked at her now. “I would do anything for you because I love you.”

She closed her eyes and breathed in the words. A moment later she looked at him, seeing that love, that devotion, and the pain that went with it. “I love you, Cheveyo. I know you didn’t want me to love you, that you wanted to protect me from that, too. But don’t you see, we were meant to be together. I want to be with you. I can’t not be with you, not now, not anymore. I’m a warrior. I want to be your partner.”

She had faced death, and if being with him meant facing death again, she would do it.

His expression hardened, and he pulled out of her and set her on her feet. “No. Get that crazy idea out of your mind.” His fingers, still clutching her shoulders, tightened painfully. “You will not be part of my darkness. Or my life. I will protect you from that. Despite what we feel, what we’ve been through. This ends now.”

He cut the shower and stepped out, handing her a towel without looking at her.

She grabbed it, following him out. As he pulled another towel from the pile, she clamped onto his arm. “So brave, my warrior. Except for your heart.”

He pulled away from her, drying himself as he walked into the bedroom. It hurt, his walking away, but she knew it was part of his way of protecting her—and himself. She followed him, kneeling down to her bag where she’d left the rest of her clothing. He’d already put on jeans and was yanking a shirt down over his head. His wet hair dampened the blue material on his back and shoulders.

With her clothing clutched in her hand, the towel held together with her other, she stared at his back. “You accused me of not facing my feelings. You were right. I am angry at my father for selling me out, for turning in Eric. And I was jealous that everyone got their happy ending but me. Me, the one who wanted it the most. But I’m not going to deny what I feel for you or that the thought of you being alone your whole life rips my heart out. Not when I’m standing right here . . . loving you.” Those last words had come out in a whisper.

He walked to the door, paused and took a deep breath. Without looking at her, he said, “I realized that keeping myself away
was
as much to protect myself as to protect you.” He turned to her, and she saw a mask of pain on his face. “You are my greatest weakness, Petra. I lose control when I’m with you. I let my feelings overtake my senses. When I saw Baal touching you, I went blind with rage. Fighting that way will get me killed. And if you’re with me, it will get you killed, too. You can’t heal me again, and whatever happened in that place, with the staircase . . . I won’t be able to keep you here again. You can’t stop yourself from healing me. Together, we die. That’s the bottom line. I’m not willing to give in to my feelings at that price. Are you?”

She paused, taking in everything he’d said.

He walked out, letting in the scent of toast coming from downstairs. She returned to the bathroom, running a comb through her hair, staring at her reflection and seeing not the princess anymore, but a strong woman. A woman who loved a man so much it ached through every cell, every bone in her body. He was right, of course. They couldn’t be together, not unless he gave up fighting evil. He would never do that. The drive was too deep, fueled by loss and revenge and a father who would never let his son go.

She settled into the thought of Wayne Kee. Why couldn’t he heal his son? The question bothered her. Even more, something about Wayne himself bothered her. When she had gone to plead for him to release Cheveyo, the man had been cold at the mention of Cheveyo’s son dying.

That was indeed regretful. But necessary. The boy child was leading Cheveyo astray. Softening him.

Necessary. An odd word to use. How could a boy’s death be necessary?

She put on the rockin’ vest she’d bought at Suza’s boutique, along with the matching earrings, but her mind was working rather than enjoying the process. She ran eyeliner beneath her lashes but lost interest in the rest of her routine. Something much more important loomed in her mind. It didn’t make sense, but she had to check it out.

Cheveyo’s cell phone sat on the dresser, probably where Pope had left it. She picked it up and went down the stairs to the china hutch in the dining room.

Pope’s voice carried to her. “Human emotions are so hard to understand.”

Tell me about it.

“I thought you would be happy that you and Petra survived. I felt great affection flowing between you earlier. But now . . .”

“Human emotions are our devils,” Cheveyo said. “They tease us with things we can’t have, torture us with feelings we can’t act on. They cause physical pain.”

“Yes, I . . . felt pain, here, when I saw the pictures of you and Petra. When my father died, I felt empty. But this pain was new.”

She opened the drawer, finding the pictures he kept there. Pictures to keep his pain fresh. Cody’s picture was on top, where she’d left it.

“Emotions cause physical symptoms,” Cheveyo said. “When your heart is broken, it’s called a heartache. When someone annoys you, they’re a pain in your ass. Which, of course, goes back to what you were saying about using anatomy in our language.”

She turned on the phone camera and took a picture of the picture. She tucked the phone in her pocket and closed the drawer as quietly as possible. Then she walked into the kitchen. “I used to think it was better to bury my feelings,” she said. “To deny them. I thought it wouldn’t hurt that way.” She looked at Cheveyo, sitting at the counter in front of a plate of untouched toast. “But when you suffocate your sad feelings, you also smother the good ones. You have to know sadness to know joy. And once you’ve felt fear, the relief is so sweet it brings tears to your eyes.”