Surrender to Darkness (18 page)

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Authors: Annette McCleave

BOOK: Surrender to Darkness
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Because there was no telling how much he’d remember once he actually touched her.
He hovered a millimeter from her lips.
Lord, she was lovely. Since his arrival at the dojo, he’d become quite adept at turning a blind eye to the details of her appearance. A form of self-preservation, perhaps. He’d made a concerted effort to see only the competent martial artist, the serene monklike
onmyōji
, the intelligent young businesswoman.
But this close, her beauty overwhelmed him.
The delicate oval of her face. The bright, clear eyes. The lustrous shine of her smooth black hair.
Damn. He wanted her so badly, his balls ached.
But kissing her was a horrible risk. Maybe he could control his berserker. Maybe it would all turn out okay. But if he went solely on experience, on the very real mistakes he’d made in the past, more likely he couldn’t.
He dropped his hands from her shoulders, but did not step away. He couldn’t. His damned feet refused to budge.
Fearing a loss of his resolve, he closed his eyes to her beautiful face. There was something thoroughly unjust in knowing the one person he wanted most would forever be off-limits, forever outside his grasp.
He sighed …
… and she captured his breath with her mouth. She pressed her velvet-soft lips to his and gave him a gift he had no right to claim—an eager, inviting kiss.
Every nerve ending in his body exploded with pleasure, overwhelmed and at the same time begging for more. A wave of heat rolled over him, leaving beads of sweat in its wake, and the walls of his self-control came crashing down. His hands snatched her to his chest, crushing her soft body against his hardness in response to some primitive need he could not name.
But hot on the heels of pleasure came the beast. Murdoch felt it claw up his chest, choking him, cloaking him, and he made every effort to rein it in.
No. Not
it
.
Him
.
Kiyoko flung her arms about his neck, fueling the bonfire of his need and inviting his berserker to take the lead. The familiar red mist clouded his vision, and his muscles expanded until the material of his T-shirt stretched taut and the waistband of his jeans dug into his flesh.
Murdoch sucked in a shuddering breath.
Hurting Kiyoko was the last thing he desired. If his berserker was truly a facet of his self and not some foreign creature, he should be able to step away. All he had to do was own the beast. Claim it. Assert his dominance over it and …
Let Kiyoko go. Release her.
His hold on her gentled, and a swell of pride rose in Murdoch’s chest. He was in control.
Unfortunately, the moment was short-lived.
Kiyoko’s hips ground against his in needy abandon, and his head swam. A low growl rumbled in his chest and his big hands yanked her body off the ground. He deepened the kiss to bruising force. The berserker wanted more, so much more. It howled inside him, spinning like a tornado in his gut, demanding the last constraints be dropped. Kiyoko whimpered faintly under his assault and a rumble of feral satisfaction rose in his throat.
Murdoch held on, desperately struggling to keep his head above a rising tide of beastly desire.
Open your hands and let her go
.
You can do it, Murdoch. Just—
His berserker froze in taut awareness, sensing danger. A missile sang through the air, breached his shield, and burrowed deep in his right shoulder. Dull pain accompanied it—barely enough to make him flinch, but more than enough to prod the beast into unmitigated rage.
Instinct took over.
In a blink, any pretense of containing the power coursing through him fell away. Murdoch was yanked below the surface in one sharp tug of a mighty dark fist.
 
Kiyoko felt Murdoch jerk and then shudder.
His lips left hers, and a snarl of undisguised fury seared her face before he released her and spun around. Breathless and weak-kneed from his kisses—and her own equally powerful desires—she fell back against the wooden wall. She couldn’t see around his body, but she had a very good idea what faced him. A small army of
onmyōji
warriors.
The dojo was silent.
Indeed, the entire compound had an air of quiet purpose.
And there was an arrow protruding from Murdoch’s right shoulder. An arrow fletched with the black wing feathers of a golden eagle—feathers Sora had painstakingly collected from a nest at the summit of a mountain aerie.
Murdoch drew his sword with a silky rasp of steel. Lost to his ancient and primal berserker, he presented his back to her with no regard for her ability to deal him damage. Rather, his stance was protective, his body forming a sizable barrier, ready to stop any and all intruders.
Kiyoko was not insulted.
There was something oddly sweet about his determination to keep her from harm. But she couldn’t dwell on it. His impenetrable wall of self-control was gone, and the savage pulse of his berserker lay right on the surface, unrestrained. It would require a large outlay of energy, but this was an opportunity that might not soon come again. There was no better time to steal into his auras.
She cupped her hands in meditative repose, stared at the twin rows of silver rivets on Murdoch’s black leather belt, and ruthlessly tamed her ragged breaths into an even flow. Spurred by the tentative nature of the opportunity, she quickly settled into deep meditation—intensely aware of the brewing battle in the courtyard, yet neither frightened nor roused to anger by it.
His auras were a sight to behold.
A moil of red so dark it was almost black, surrounded by a thin shell of glowing gold.
Even though she’d been blessed with an ability to see auras from birth, Kiyoko had never seen the like of these. Most people’s auras were a blend of colors, with the most dominant hue suggesting an overall state of being. Murdoch’s were uniquely focused. They brought to mind a red and black dragon spitting golden fire. A fanciful thought, perhaps, but a surprisingly effective description.
And the image caused her to hesitate.
But only for a moment.
She extended her auras slowly toward Murdoch, the throb of power emanating from his body so intense it lifted the hairs on her arms. That feeling was familiar. But the stinging burn she experienced as she drew closer was not. Unfettered, his energy radiated outward with the strength of a thousand bonfires, frying the fringes of her auras. As the berserker gained more control, the wall around Murdoch’s inner thoughts weakened and then crumbled. She caught flashes of memories—glimpses of battles he’d fought, lives he’d saved, and promises he’d upheld. Even as he scorched her, he won her admiration.
Flatten yourself upon the ground, Kiyoko-san.
The silent message from Sora entered her mind at the precise moment the thirty-two warriors in the courtyard shifted their stances. From readiness to attack.
Alarm tore through her.
And Murdoch reacted to her fear as if he could feel it. He released a savage roar that shook the wall at her back and reverberated in her chest like a clap of thunder. His sword arm swung, the blade whistled, and Sora bled.
“No!”
Panicked, Kiyoko tried to dive under Murdoch’s arm and rush to her mentor’s side. But the berserker-possessed Soul Gatherer would have none of it. His elbow plowed into her gut, sending her flying back against the ceremonial hall. She hit hard, slumping to her knees, dazed and bruised.
Another threatening roar rattled the buildings in the compound, this one aimed as much at her as at the warriors surrounding him, an underscoring of his primitive claim. What was it Murdoch had once said?
What I own, I keep.
“You don’t own me, you dim-witted bear,” she muttered, rising to her feet. “And you’re about to learn that you shouldn’t turn your back on me.”
She tugged her katana free of its scabbard.
But she never got a chance to wield it. Murdoch took a large lurching step back and slammed her against the wall again, knocking the weapon from her grasp. At first she thought it was a strategic if somewhat frustrating move on his part, but as the weight of his body settled upon her with increasing force, doubt formed. The crush of his rock-hard body on her chest prevented her from breathing. And when he stumbled and fell on her, she knew for certain it was unintentional. Even as a berserker, he would never purposely hurt her.
Awareness of her predicament came too late for her to raise a protective shield. The sudden collapse of his full weight atop her and the subsequent three-foot drop to the ground broke ribs. She heard them snap.
Felt
them snap.
Biting her lip against the sharp pain, she pushed at his huge body, trying to free herself. But he was completely limp, and she, crammed awkwardly against the building, was unable to shift him. His muscles were larger as a berserker. Was his weight increased, too? It certainly seemed so.
One small miracle—they hadn’t landed on her katana
.
The sword had rolled to the left when it hit the ground, but she couldn’t see it. She couldn’t see much of anything, truth be told. Except Murdoch’s hair, his bloodstained T-shirt, and increasing numbers of black spots.
It would be rather unfortunate to die suffocated beneath Murdoch’s body. Not quite the illustrious future Sora had hoped she would enjoy.
Sora.
Was he alive?
Kiyoko’s chest burned, her lungs demanding air. She opened her mouth and sucked hard, but got nothing. The black spots threatened to overwhelm her vision. Using her last tendrils of consciousness, she extended her auras, searching for the old sensei. She found Murdoch, his auras slowly returning to a calmer violet. Reaching farther, she found Yoshio and several other warriors, all pale blue. But no Sora.
She withdrew, drained and dizzy.
If he was gone, the blame would lie with her. She had taunted Murdoch to the brink of his self-control, blatantly encouraging his berserker to surface.
The black was a swirling sea now.
Kiyoko fought to stay conscious, hoping that at any moment Yoshio and the others would pull Murdoch off and save her. But the battle proved difficult. Her limbs grew cold and heavy. Weariness filled every muscle, and her eyes drifted shut.
If she didn’t do something swiftly, she would die.
A pointless, pathetic death.
She weakly extended her auras once again, not far this time. Just to the edges of Murdoch’s gently pulsing energy. With her last conscious thought, she sent a silent whisper into his being.
Roll over. Please.
Then the sea picked her up and swept her into the darkness.
10
M
urdoch woke up with his face mashed into the grass, a mouthful of dirt coating his tongue. The most excruciating headache he’d ever had the misfortune to endure throbbed inside his skull, and spitting out the dirt only made the pain worse.
He actually felt queasy.
Sitting up, he rubbed his shoulder, which also throbbed.
His shirt was hard and crusty beneath his fingers, and a thick scab had formed on the skin below it. Narrowing his eyes to filter out the annoyingly bright sunlight, he spied an arrow on the ground.
Someone had shot him.
Who, he couldn’t recall.
He picked up the arrow and studied it. Had to be a mystically enhanced arrow—nothing else could have pierced his skin, not while he was in berserker mode. And he
had
been in berserker mode, that much he knew. Because he remembered every one of those last moments before the beast swallowed him up—the incredible feel of Kiyoko in his arms and the sweet press of her lips against his.
He glanced at the wall of the ceremonial hall.
She was gone. In fact, the courtyard was completely empty … except for her discarded katana, lying a few feet away on the gravel.
He frowned.
Kiyoko, like anyone who bet her life on the quality of her blade, usually took great care of her weapons. Leaving her prized blade exposed to the elements was out of character. Such carelessness implied distraction. But what sort of distraction? If she had drawn her weapon to fend him off, which seemed logical, what would make her toss it aside? The quantity of scuff marks in the gravel around him suggested the confrontation had expanded to include at least a dozen of her young
onmyōjō
warriors. Had he … ?
A heavy lump settled in Murdoch’s belly as he peered at his hands. Yes, there were dark red speckles on the back and fingers of his right hand. Dried blood. He’d injured someone. Perhaps slain someone.
Memories stirred, and the hairs on his neck lifted.
Dear Lord, had he injured
Kiyoko
?
No. He shot to his feet, the pain in his head a mere inconvenience now. He would not have hurt her. Not on purpose, at any rate. But by accident? It had happened before. It could certainly have happened again.

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