Eternal Rider (25 page)

But he couldn’t ask about it now. She was too weakened from the healing, and she would have enough to deal with when she discovered that the
agimortus
had faded. Just a shade, but when every change was another shovelful of grave dirt, it was a blow.

He’d covered his reaction, had let himself admire her perfect breasts, her flawless skin, her narrow waist, and in a heartbeat, he’d felt a wrenching reversal in his emotions. It shouldn’t have happened—he’d cut himself off from tender feelings a long time ago. But something about this woman was hell on his instincts, and he liked it as much as he cursed it.

Caring about her would be stupid. Either she was going to die soon, or she’d transfer the
agimortus
and still die. If Pestilence learned that Ares cared about her even a little, he’d kill her solely to cause Ares pain. Besides, just being close to her was a drain on his strength and senses, so what would full-on sex do?

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m going to do nothing more threatening than tuck you in.” He scowled at the blood on her hands, arms, and legs. “You stained my jersey.”

She sniffed. “With
your
horse’s blood.”

“You have my thanks. And Battle’s heart, I think,” he added wryly.

Her fragile smile made his own heart skip a beat. Pale and exhausted as she was, she was still beautiful, and her weight felt good in his arms.

Fierce admiration swelled in his chest as he set her gently on the bed. He could admire her without caring about her, right? But the way he’d torn into Thanatos, telling him to never touch her again, had nothing to do with admiration. He’d hated the sight of Than’s hand on her, and Ares, who had never been jealous in his life, had wanted to rip his brother apart.

Yeah, this woman was definitely hell on his senses.

“Do you want to clean up?” he asked, anxious to get her settled in so he could get out of here.

She practically purred. “I would never turn down an opportunity to use your amazing shower.”

“You can use it whenever you want,” Ares said, his voice hoarse, because now he was picturing Cara there. Naked. Soap suds streaming in bubbly tendrils over her breasts, stomach, thighs… that private place between.

“Don’t say that. I might just move into it.” Once again, her smile did bizarre things to his insides. And outsides. This was bad. “And I like it when you smile. You don’t do it often, do you?”

He didn’t like that she’d ascertained that about him, even though it didn’t take a rocket scientist to see it. “I haven’t had much to laugh about since I learned I wasn’t
human,” he said simply. Even before that, he’d been intense, at ease only with his sons and brother.

“How long has that been?”

“Five thousand years. Give or take a couple of centuries.”

Her eyes shot wide, giving him another rare laugh. “You don’t look a day over twenty-nine.”

“It’s my healthy lifestyle,” he said lightly, because oddly, this conversation with her was the most normal thing that had happened to him in what seemed like forever. Usually females wanted one thing from him, and it wasn’t talk. When they did talk, either it was to heap praise on him in a suck-up-fest, or they wanted to hear about his exploits. They didn’t want to hear about
him
.

“Well, sign me up.” She shifted on the bed. “Why are there no pillows?”

“Comfort makes a man soft.”

“Hmm. I’d think comfort would make a man happy. You should try it.”

She was teasing him, and he experienced the strangest euphoric feeling inside. It felt good, the way he felt after downing a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, but without the loss of clarity. “So all I’m missing from life is a pillow?”

“Hardly.” She patted the mattress. “You could use a softer bed, too.” Before he could comment, not that he knew what to say about this female suddenly wanting to take over his bedroom, she gestured to the dresser. “Can I borrow another shirt from you?”

Hell, yeah, he wanted her to wear his clothes. There was something incredibly sexy about her wrapped in his clothing. But she needed more than his oversized T-shirts and sweats that would have to be duct-taped around her
waist. “While you’re showering, I’ll pick up some things from your house.”

“Thank you.” She stood, swayed, and plopped back down on the mattress. “A little woozy.”

Guilt wasn’t something he felt often, but now it moved in and made itself at home like an unwanted roommate. Sort of like what
she
was doing. “Hold off on the shower. I’ll bring warm water and a washcloth.”

“And give me a sponge bath?” Cara graced him with a
yeah, right
look. “I don’t think so. If I get dizzy, there are plenty of places to sit in there.”

True, half the shower was lined with heated benches set into the marble. He sometimes turned on the steam and the stereo and lounged in there for hours. Cara could easily wash while sitting down. And there he went, picturing it.

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 fuck, 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 breasts, the deep cleavage 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 breasts 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.

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 naked 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.