Shadowbound (The Dark Arts Book 1) (29 page)

Eleanor smiled. "I always am."

L
UCIEN WOKE
before dawn and blinked several times, surprised to find himself nestled snugly around a warm, soft weight with the covers thrown over him. He had barely slept since Bedlam, his body unaccustomed to the soft mattresses and the excruciating sensitivity to the world around him. The only sleep he'd managed to snatch so far had come with him stretched out on the rug on his bedroom floor with a blanket and no pillow.

This... This was unexpected.

Lifting his head, he peered down at the black-haired beauty in his arms. Her silky hair was all awry, and her pale cheeks were still puffy from last night's tears, but she didn't move. Only her back rose and fell, her head neatly pillowed on his bicep, trapping him there.

Or not, perhaps, trapping at all. The truth was he quite liked the way her bottom nestled snugly into his hips, pressing against his dawning erection, and the way she had curled her fingers around his. Lowering his face, he buried it against the nape of her neck, breathing in her scent.

If he didn't have a thief to find, then he'd be quite content to spend the day here. Judging from the patter of rain against the window, it would be the best place to stay.

"Miss Martin?" he whispered, sliding his fingertips down the curve of her side, over her hips, then back up again. "Ianthe?"

She was difficult to wake. Lucien closed his eyes, enjoying the glide of her skin. With a murmur, she half turned, her hips flexing a little as he traced small circles there. Lucien's cock became steel. Pressing a kiss against the back of her neck and licking the hard indentation of her spine, he let his fingers trace lower, slowly tangling through the soft thatch of hair between her thighs and delving between slick folds.

Ianthe gasped. He felt her wake, that moment of ‘
where am I?’
palpable along the bond they shared, and then her body relaxed as she realized where she was and sleepy eyes turned his way.

"Good morning," he murmured, curving his palm around her thigh and opening them. Then his fingers delved back into her wetness.

"It certainly is," Ianthe gasped.

He lost himself in her body, in pushing her to pleasure. Within seconds, her soft moans and wicked writhing had distracted both of them. It didn't take long. Ianthe came with a soft gasp, her fingers curling in her pillow as she collapsed. He knew she hadn't reached release last night, and this assuaged the sense of debt he felt.

Panting, she slowly came back to herself. "You stayed the night."

"I must have fallen asleep."

Lying on her back, she circled her finger through his chest hair, but Lucien caught her wrist and subtly disengaged. The sheet covered him, but he'd not expected to wake here. All he could remember was coming to her bed last night when he realized how frightened she was.

A hand lifted to the sheet. "Show me," she said.

Lucien knew what she was asking. Every muscle in his body locked up hard. "No."

His body was a mess, and it was light enough in here for her to see the marks that the demon had left carved all across his chest and hip. Sitting up, he slid his legs over the side of the bed, but she came too. Her breasts pressed into his naked back, her arms locking around his throat and shoulders to hold him there.

"I could demand it," she said. "It's daytime now."

"You could." He tensed. With such a demand came the obliteration of their truce.

Ianthe kissed his neck. "Please, Lucien. It was the demon, wasn't it? Let me see what the creature did to you."

Nostrils flaring, he turned his face away, but those breasts brushed against his back again, dragging his attention elsewhere.

"You've seen mine," she whispered. "Let me see yours."

Hers? Lucien frowned, but her wicked mouth was gliding over the muscle of his trapezius, her teeth biting him neatly there. The sensation streaked through him, tearing a gasp from his lips.

"Hell, woman."

Slowly those arms were dragging him backward. And he went. He actually went. Hitting the mattress, Lucien stared up at her as she draped a thigh over his hips and straddled him.

Both of them were naked. The light in here was meager, just the gray tint of dawn peaking from beneath the curtains, but his eyes had adjusted and he could see every inch of her. Those lush, round breasts and that narrow waist that flared to wide hips... The strip of dark hair between her thighs.

As she could see him.

It was more difficult than he'd imagined. Lucien looked away as her hands traced one mark, then another.

"I'm sorry," Ianthe said, and sadness lurked between them.

"For what?"

"For the pain you went through. For this." A finger dragged over the worst one, the fire-slick burn that still seemed to ache sometimes.

Except now. Her touch felt like a brush of silk against an exposed nerve. Not quite painful, not quite pleasant, but intense. His hips shifted.

Ianthe leaned over him, her tongue darting out to lick one of his scars. Her eyes never left his, however. Slowly, she moved lower and lower, taking care to caress and kiss each one... Lucien swallowed hard. He couldn't help himself from sinking his hands into the mess of black hair and guiding her lower.

"So demanding," she whispered, but she went. Pressing a kiss against the hollow of his hip, she let her hair drag over the sensitive tip of his cock.

Fuck.
His hips jerked.

"I believe I owe you a cock sucking."

Her pink tongue rasped over the head of his erection, and Lucien shuddered.
Jesus
. He couldn't stop himself from thrusting up into her mouth, his hands stroking her hair, curling in the thick, silky mass of it, and bringing her lower.

Ianthe hummed in her throat as she swallowed him deep, and the sensation streaked all the way through him. Hell. He was totally undone. Couldn't think. Could barely breathe. Just needed... Needed everything.

Teeth rasped over his sensitive cock as she paid homage to him with her wet mouth. Lucien groaned. "Devil take it, woman. Stop teasing me."

As if to torture him, her tongue curled around the very head of his cock, and then she followed it with her hot mouth. Swallowing him down and then sliding back up his length, her fist curled around the base of him and squeezing.

Hot pleasure spilled through his abdomen. "Ianthe," he breathed. "I'm going to come."

The sucking intensified. Clearly this was just what she intended. Lucien's eyes rolled back in his head, his spine bowing as he lifted half off the bed. The sheets were gone, but he didn't care anymore what she thought of his scars. How could you care—
how could you think
—when a woman was doing this to you? And suddenly it didn't matter, because
she
didn't care about the scars. He felt unveiled for the first time in years, completely given over to her. And then pleasure roared in a hot rush through his veins as he came.

Everything became blinding heat and pressure. The world narrowed down to the feel of her devilish mouth working him as though she wanted to drink him down. Every. Last. Drop.

Lucien collapsed back on the bed, panting and sated. "Bloody hell," he breathed. "You can see my scars anytime you like."

Soft laughter chased him. A warm, lush weight came into his arms, and then she rested her head on his shoulder, her hair tickling his face, but not annoying him. No, it was a sweet feeling indeed. Fully sated, sleepy again, with his arms full of warm woman, he felt like he could spend days here. Just like this. Not a worry in the world.

"You have nothing to be ashamed about..."

His good mood evaporated. "I hate them," he admitted roughly. "I feel nothing but pain when I think about them."

A pair of bright blue eyes came into view as Ianthe propped her chin on his chest and examined him. "And when you use sorcery? Do you feel nothing but pain then too?"

An explosive breath left his chest. There was nowhere to hide, however. "Ianthe."

"You don't use your sorcery. I'm only trying to get to the bottom of why."

"It's nothing," he growled, sitting up. Ianthe tumbled onto the pillows beside him as he threw his legs over the edge of the bed, intent on getting out. This discussion was over.

He was halfway to the edge of the bed when a hand locked around his wrist.

"Can I tell you something?" Ianthe whispered.

Lucien paused and looked down at her fingers. "Of course."

She opened her mouth, then suddenly pressed her hands to her eyes and groaned. "This is almost embarrassing."

"I'm fairly certain we've shared enough of our pasts to be beyond such things."

"No, but... I
am
embarrassed. I remember everything, and yet I'm fairly certain you have no idea."

"Now you're intriguing me," he admitted, turning and lying down beside her. "You have to tell me now. I've spilled my secrets."

"Some of them."

He gave her a steady look. "Are you the pot or the kettle?"

Ianthe let out a huff of air. "That's fair." Her gaze sharpened. "I think we both have enough secrets, do we not?"

And it was only now that they had begun to trust each other that such secrets were being revealed. Lucien stroked his fingers lightly down over her shoulder and the curve of her hip. "True, but it seems to me that you owe me one if I'm doing my math correctly."

She covered her face with her hands. "Do you remember when I told you that I'd had two lovers before you?"

"Ye-es." He maneuvered like a man traversing a field strewn with mines. "I'm the third."

"Technically, that's not entirely correct." Ianthe took a peek at him from between her fingers.

"I—" His mouth shut. "No. I actually have no idea how to answer that."

"You're going to make me say it, aren't you?"

"Absolutely," he told her, resting his head on the same pillow she shared. "I'm not walking into that heavily baited statement unarmed, especially considering that you could tie me in knots right now, and there's not a damned thing I could do to stop you."

"Oh, ha," she said drolly, then her amusement faded. "You were the first man that I lay with," Ianthe whispered. "Almost ten years ago now."

For a second, he thought he'd heard her wrong.

"
What?
I'm fairly certain that we've never..."
Are you?
asked a rather pertinent part of his brain, and a half dozen faces sprang to mind, none of them hers...

Ianthe cleared her throat. "I was seventeen. I don't know how old you were. It was the Summer Solstice of 1884, and the Rites were being held at Lady Haringay's Brighton home..."

Instantly, Lucien was assailed by memories; a sultry summer breeze, a garden party with pretty lights strung all through the trees, and
her
. Gowned in gossamer white with a filigreed gold mask and an aura of nervousness. He'd been drawn to her like a magnet. They'd danced, smiled, kissed... all with barely a word between them. Until Lucien had taken her by the hand and led her from the grove, just as the solstice rites began.

"
You
were my mystery lady?"

"I'm glad those are the precise terms you used."

A smile caught him by surprise. "I drank rather a lot that night. I didn't realize your hair was so dark." His gaze lowered. "And forgive me for being indelicate, but I'm fairly certain you didn't have those back then..."

Ianthe tucked the sheet closer around her breasts primly. "I wasn't finished growing. I was only seventeen."

"Hmm." Lucien tugged at the sheet. "I might have to refresh my memory."

"Lucien!"

The word was muffled by the sheets, which he'd burrowed his face into. Ianthe shoved him aside, and he went, with a laugh, which quickly turned into a frown.

"Is that why you barely gave me the time of day when I was formally introduced to you?"

"It was a shock to see you again," she admitted, "and it was quite clear that whilst I knew who you were, you had no recollection... of what lay between us."

Kneeling over her, he looked down. "All this time, I've wondered what the bloody hell I ever did to you. You hated me."

"It wasn't hate." She scowled back at him, then swallowed. "You've always been woven into my life, Lucien," she whispered. "It feels like I can never escape you, like we were... destined to find each other again."

"You sound as though that's a bad thing." His heart skipped a beat. "Is it?"

"No." Her eyes were pools of shadow as all of the humor vanished from this moment, leaving behind those sad watercolors that danced over her skin.

Secrets. They lay between them, and he knew it.

He finally understood that yellow-green emotion that flashed over her face sometimes, for he could feel it within him now as their bond strengthened. There had always been sadness and pain and fear... But he had never understood the other emotion, the one he couldn't quite place. Until now.

Guilt.

It had been there on her face when he first tried to scry for the Blade in Drake's home; it was there every time she said the Prime's name, and now, when she told him they'd been lovers before...

The thought struck him like a cascade, unleashing others—her unnatural patience regarding the relic, as if she was waiting for something, her nightmares, her lack of action regarding this hunt...

Only someone whom Drake trusted could have stolen the Relic. Someone who knew Drake's wards, such as... an apprentice.

Someone whom no one would ever suspect.

Shock lanced through him. No. No, it couldn't be.

But it all made sense.

That was when he knew who the thief was.

CHAPTER 17

C 
LEO THREW her breadcrumbs to the ducks. She was alone, and for the first time in years, she wasn't content with the situation.

Sebastian hadn't returned. He hadn't contacted her. She was beginning to think his threat to stay away from her until the wedding, scheduled for later this afternoon, was a real one. There was also no indication that the Prime had received her letter. She didn't know what else to do. She couldn't just sit here and play damsel-in-distress for the rest of her life.