An Immortal Valentine's Day (3 page)

But he didn’t. He knew Martina wouldn’t want extravaganza on top of extravaganza. She had once belonged to the highest levels of the rich and famous Roman society and didn’t have fond memories of that period. She preferred normality, above all else.

“I don’t need jewels and silk sheets. Only you, by my side, on the grass under the night sky,” she told him recently when he had proposed an exotic gateway.

One day, she would accept his need to lay the world at her feet, but for now he contented himself with teasing her mercilessly. He slid one hand around her back and from over the thin fabric of the jacket found the bump of the bra’s closure hoop. Mentally, he thanked modern technology for a winter coat that had the consistency of a slip but kept Martina warm.

Her eyes widened and her step faltered as he unhooked the clasp and caressed her back.

“I was thinking we’d visit the Coliseum on our way home.” He was pleased to hear her small gasp at the mention of the Coliseum—a longtime fantasy of his to take her there and make love to her in the arena. She was familiar with this particular fantasy because he had talked to her about it, in great detail.

“Samuel.”

“Hmm.” He let his hand wander lower to the small of her back where he pressed his fingers, feeling the outline of the lace thong. Finding the heart charm dangling from the small bow decorating the panties was easy. He had chosen that set because he imagined how pleasant it would be to pull at that charm with his teeth. A ragged breath escaped his mouth before he could hide his reaction.

“Samuel?” She looked up at him and giggled.

“I think we’re heading back now.” He swore. One look at the crowd all around them, and he realized
now
wasn’t going to happen for at least another hour, if they were lucky. Even leaving the congested grounds and walking the entire length of the underground Metro to reach the parking garage and their SUV wouldn’t shorten their ambling.

By the time they reached the Coliseum, his need had reached such a proportion where making it romantic for her would not be possible anyway. She held some of the fault for his lack of control. Once she had entered the car, after running to the garage—he was in a hurry, after all—she complained her heels were killing her and removed the sandals, only to drop her delicate feet on his lap. Yet, he drove, threatening her all the while. “You wait and see. I’ll find a nice column and show you how much I want you.”

Eventually, instead of stopping for some fresh-air delight, he drove her straight home, ran up the five flights of stairs dragging her behind him and barely closed the door behind them before pinning her to the wall. Her clothes found their way to the floor in rapid succession and in several states of shredding and tearing.

“Slow down.” She laughed into his ear as his hand lowered to the string of her panties. “I want you to look at your gift on me.”

He groaned, but gathered her legs around his waist and stomped toward their bedroom. Carefully, he placed her on the gray sheets and took a moment to admire her. “I love you,” he whispered, his voice choked. No matter how many times they made love, it always felt like the first time for him. Soft and slow or hard and fast, every single time he had her, Samuel was reminded of his luck.

“I love you, my angel.” Martina reached up and wound her arm around his neck to lower him down to her for a passionate kiss.

Hard and fast it was.

The cell phone rang again and Samuel propped up on an elbow. Their limbs in a tangle, he slowly freed his legs from hers and lowered his wings to cover her naked body.

She burrowed closer to his chest. “Take the call.” She sounded sleepy and appeared ravished.

Technically, he didn’t need to sleep—which helped with keeping a job—but he liked lying beside Martina for a spell when she did. Every morning, he kissed her good-day before leaving for the office, and she closed her eyes, a smile on her face, usually after hours of kisses and intimate caresses. They were shifting to nocturnal life by baby steps. His beautiful, brave Martina had been a vampling for almost a year and was starting to show the first signs of transformation into a full-fledged vampire.

A week earlier, she had screamed when the afternoon sun reached the skin on her hand and a big welt had formed. Warned by Diana that hypersensitivity to light would happen soon, Samuel had promptly applied a handmade ointment Marcus had prepared for Martina. The family recipe, which Diana swore was a lifesaver for vampires, had arrived with a tale that somehow involved Alexander. Right away, Samuel’s medical ministrations had morphed into caresses. The caresses had become more intimate, and both he and Martina forgot all about the welt on her hand. It had already disappeared anyway.

“Are you free for a few hours?” Marcus asked.

He looked down at his beloved and couldn’t help but wonder, yet once again, at his good fortune. “Yes, the office is closed today and I have a few hours to spare. What did you have in mind?”

“Alexander wants to go to Wolf’s Haven to pick up flowers for tonight’s party. Ravenna’s orders.”

“And he only remembered this today?” Samuel laughed and his rumble roused Martina. He leaned to kiss her pink mouth and whispered, “I’ll be back by this afternoon.”

She nodded and drifted back to sleep. He stepped out of their bedroom, his former bedroom, where he had secured all the windows with stainless steel panels, custom built in Germany. He gave Martina one last look before closing the reinforced door behind him. Her long, dark tresses fanned over the gray silk of the pillowcase, and she wore the most adorable expression on her face. For a moment, he thought of excusing himself with Marcus to go back to Martina and cradle her in his arms. He would cocoon her under his wings until she woke later in the evening.

“Hey, sleeping beauty. Are you still there?” Marcus asked. “So, we need your big ass SUV to haul the floral bounty the Greek has promised Ravenna.”

Samuel sighed and stepped away from the bedroom door and into the hallway. “You have an uncanny ability to guilt trip people into doing whatever you want them to do.”

“Manipulative and cheerful,” Marcus said, his tone sarcastic.

“What are you talking about?” Samuel grabbed the car keys and exited his apartment.

“Nothing. I’m downstairs. Hurry.”

“You are the worst.” Samuel took the stairs and ran them two and three at a time, only to find the centurion waiting for him at the center of the foyer with a tray full of pizza. Samuel recognized the logo on the waxed paper covering the tray. Marcus had had the good taste to stop by The Eagle bar to buy their breakfast. “I forgive you because you bought from the best.”

“The best pizza is by my house, but this will do.” Marcus offered him a pick from the tray as they exited the building. “So, have you heard? Ophelia’s back.”

“Yes, she texted me from Heathrow saying they were on their way back home.” Samuel had been ecstatic to hear from his friend.

Marcus wolfed down two slices of pizza before speaking again. “I’m glad things worked out the way they did among you four.”

As usual, the burly Roman never ceased to surprise Samuel with his thoughtful and sensitive insights. “You knew.”

Marcus snorted. “Everybody did but you.”

“And I still wouldn’t have known had Martina not explained it to me.” He sighed. “I’m an idiot. I never saw Ophelia as anything other than a good friend, a sister to protect and make fun of maybe. But never as a lover.” The word felt wrong on his tongue.

“Don’t sweat it. If I didn’t have Diana by my side, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself. And look at Alexander. If it weren’t for Ravenna, he would still be wasting his life on beautiful women and expensive cars—”

Samuel couldn’t help but laugh out loud. “For a moment, I believed you were going to say something smart.”

Marcus shrugged, but Samuel could see the Roman’s lips twitching. They had reached his car, and he noticed that traffic had intensified in the last half an hour. “Driving across Rome on a Friday, the day before Valentine’s, is crazy.”

“Tell the Greek.” Marcus slipped into the passenger’s seat.

“I will.” Samuel eased the car into traffic and braced himself for a long drive among crazy Romans rushing around town, late to buy their flowers, chocolates, and stuffed animals. “Did Ophelia tell you where she and Peter are going to live?”

Marcus looked up from his cell phone’s lock screen with a smile on his face. “She told Diana they’ll stay at Ophelia’s for the time being but spend the summer at Peter’s cottage.”

“She’s thinking about living in the country?” Samuel swerved the SUV around a scooter with three teenagers on it, balancing colorful bags and a bouquet of heart-shaped balloons between them.

“Only during the summer, but, yeah, for her to even think of that is something big. But I guess they both had more than their share of wild city life. I mean, Ophelia and Peter rivaled Alexander when it came to parties and partners.”

“Love has a way of changing people’s priorities.” Memories of the intimacies he had just shared with Martina made Samuel long for her presence by his side.

Marcus shook his head and laughed. “Look at us. Waxing poetic about love.”

But despite his words, Samuel noticed his friend wore a faraway expression on his face only a moment ago. “Nice shot.” Samuel pointed his chin down at Marcus’s hand carefully holding his cell phone.

Marcus turned toward the window. “I’ve taken up photography.”

Samuel nodded. “That black and white portrait of Diana and Daniel is beautiful.”

He thought of his photography collection. It had taken him decades to put together all the images of Rome throughout the years. He had commissioned the very first shot ever taken of the city. “You should bring the camera with you tonight and shoot a few portraits.” He would have loved a picture of Martina to frame and hang in his office. During next Monday’s hearing, he would have something beautiful to look at while he listened to the interminable list of complaints the Roman paranormal society dumped on him once a week. The only positive side of those meetings was going home to Martina and recounting the outlandish requests he had to listen to for hours.

Not even midmorning and Rome was already congested.

They reached Alexander’s an hour later but had a good chat in the meantime. Samuel liked the centurion’s frankness and his brusque ways, and since he had become a family man, Marcus’s edge had softened, making him a pleasant person to be around. Whereas, pre-Diana and Daniel, Marcus’s temper had been legendary. The centurion had chosen to be a renegade to spite the Immortal Council and seek vengeance on his own against Claudius. Looking at him now, listening to him talking about diaper changes and formulas, one would never know Marcus had such a dark past. Samuel wondered if he too had changed so much. He felt like a different person, his own tainted past exorcized by Martina’s presence.

Sitting before Ophelia, Peter dangled his right glove in front of her as she made a series of phone calls. In his left hand, he held a long feather. He used it to brush her nose, her lips, her chin, and then the contour of her ears.

Ophelia raised her eyebrows at him but managed a smile. She had been talking non-stop with her friends since they landed at Leonardo Da Vinci, the Roman airport. Earlier that morning, in London, she texted them that she would be back home in less than three hours. They were now at her apartment, their home, and he couldn’t wait to try the oversized California King he had ordered from the same people who built the bed for Samuel. It arrived the same day they left for their honeymoon, and he never had a chance to experience the comfortable-looking mattress.

“Stop it,” she whispered to him, her eyes lit by his own fire. She was sitting on her red leather loveseat, legs folded beneath her as she played with her blouse, popping and locking the small clip buttons on the front. Apparently, she enjoyed giving him glimpses of the black bra underneath that too opened in the front.

“Say you’ll call later.” He angled the tip of the feather toward the swell of her breasts.

Her eyes widened and he watched her chest rising and straining against the tight shirt.

His lips curved up and he tossed the glove he was swinging with his finger to the floor, then lowered his naked hand toward her throat. He hadn’t touched her, but she moaned in anticipation, inclined her head slightly to the side, and soon after gasped, bringing one hand to her mouth. Peter loved to play that game with her. He never tired of seeing her lose her cool and beg him to touch her. And he especially loved to tease her when they were around other people.

“I hate you, demon,” she mouthed as he removed his other glove. A heartbeat later, Ophelia shivered and said out loud, “Malina, I must go. Will you stop by later at Ravenna’s to help her with the party?”

A pause and Peter took full advantage of it by brushing her throat with the softest of touches. Light as the feather he had been using on her, his fingers trailed along the side of her long neck. Her mouth opened in a silent “O,” and he knew pleasure was already building inside her.

“Okay. See you later then.” She ended the call and jumped at him, her legs straddling him, her chest pressed against his as she bit his lower lip and opened his shirt while tugging it free from his pants. Then she passed her finger under the buttons on his jeans and pulled them down.

In almost a year together, there had never been a dull moment with her. He began wearing thicker gloves after they moved into her apartment. Otherwise, day or night, nothing would have been accomplished. He couldn’t bear a moment without having her close, and a mere casual touch sent them scurrying to the closest dark corner, no matter their location.

He didn’t know how they had managed the whole flight back from the States without touching, not that they hadn’t thought of finding a way. But they were both too tall, and he was definitely too big to fit inside the small lavatory without alerting everyone on the plane that they were making love, not counting the fact that they were loud, and sometimes she scratched him and growled.

At least, the flight from London had only taken two hours to reach Rome. Besides, they had found a secluded corner at Heathrow, but it hadn’t been enough. With Ophelia, it was never enough. Then there were the full moon runs with her wolf. Adorable, loyal, pure-hearted Wolfie who loved him and had chosen him even before Ophelia had realized what her own heart desired. His sweet Wolfie who waited four weeks for one single night with him, without demands or recriminations, happy to run alongside him.

While on their honeymoon, they chose to visit national parks so around the time of full moons, he and Wolfie had hectares of forest to roam at pleasure. Last summer, when staying in Seattle, they spent time at Mount Rainier because they had read there would be a Super Moon. The experience had been enchanting and Peter treasured the memory of Wolfie howling at the big yellow disk hanging low in the silvery sky.

After leaving Washington state, they rented a Harley and traveled south to the Grand Canyon. Out there, roaming on the trails no one else ventured, he ditched his gloves altogether. The experience felt raw and exhilarating and all kinds of right. They made love on the scorching sand any time they could, always needing more. Wolfie had loved the canyons and the full moon they caught there as well.

Ophelia’s cell rang and Peter growled, rivaling Wolfie in his displeasure. “Do. Not. Answer.”

“I would only do it to spite you.” Ophelia laughed, her mouth on his chest, traveling down, her hands on him, caressing him with soft strokes that made Peter forget himself.

Per her orders, he didn’t wear briefs anymore. The garment had proven in the way once, and she had lowered it with her stiletto heels, hooked the briefs’ band at the end of the heel and tore the fabric without even brushing him. The memory still caused him to hold his breath. They had some wild lovemaking in his Jeep soon after.

The damned cell kept ringing. “Silence it, or I swear I’ll stomp on it.”

Ophelia lowered her lips where her hands were and chuckled against him. It tickled and aroused him at the same time. He sighed and tuned out the incessant ringing. She was good at that, at making him reach a whole different plane of existence, simply by touch.

Eventually, they made it to the new bed and cuddled.

“Do you mind if we go to the Reserve?” Ophelia asked, a catch in her voice. “I shouldn’t have decided without consulting you—”

He kissed the top of her head. “Of course, I don’t mind. You don’t have to ask me permission to go see Quintilius.”

She turned to face him. “I know, but—”

He leaned closer to take her lower lip with his teeth, then softly kissed her mouth. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

But Ophelia was right to be worried. Despite the fact that Quintilius had officially accepted him—and couldn’t do otherwise unless he wanted to lose Ophelia—he didn’t make an effort to hide his dislike for Peter.

The first time Peter and Quintilius had found themselves alone, not by chance, but per Quintilius’s machination, the werewolf had given him the
talk
. Ironically, Peter and Ophelia had thought the Summer Harvest Party—held at the Reserve—the perfect occasion for Peter to talk with Quintilius about them. He had joked about meeting the parents, but took great care in grooming himself for the occasion. His beard was freshly shaved and his long hair pulled into a ponytail. Ophelia had chosen a suit and tie that were appropriate for an outing in the country. Or so she had told him. Suit and tie to a harvest party had appeared as overkill to him, but Ophelia had insisted and he realized, from how much she fussed around him, that she was nervous too. During the ride to the estate, situated an hour north of Rome, she quizzed him on werewolf laws and customs.

Soon after they arrived at the Reserve, Quintilius asked Peter, “Would you accompany me to the cellars?”

“Sure.” He and Ophelia moved at the same time, but Quintilius smiled at her and said, “Could you do me the favor to check on Cook? She’s fussy about the roast, but I need it done in half an hour. Convince her it’s perfect as it is, no need for more spices. Would you, sweetheart?”

“Of course.” Ophelia blew Peter a kiss and sauntered toward the
casolare,
but not before giving him a worried look. Peter was concerned too.

Already on edge, he walked alongside Quintilius for at least fifteen minutes in the deep recesses of the Reserve, trying to figure a way to ask the alpha the big question. He looked nervously right and left. Somehow, not one shifter was near. When they arrived, the place had burst at the seams with people. Not that he worried about his safety, although the werewolf was big even for the standards of his species, Peter still dwarfed him. He worried about displeasing the man his soul mate adored, and the fact that they were nowhere near the cellars wasn’t lost on him. So, as per werewolf etiquette, he waited for Quintilius to state his thoughts.

Eventually, the wolf spoke. “If you ever hurt my princess, I’ll kill you, slowly.”

Quintilius’s words stung, but Peter could understand the man’s reasons for saying that. Not only was Peter a demon, which in the paranormal world was condition enough to mark him as undesirable, but he also had a reputation for being a womanizer. In truth, he would never have hurt a woman or disrespected her in any way. His conquests had been always as eager and hungry as him. They never expected more than some good, old-fashioned bed sport. He would have never touched Ophelia if she hadn’t declared her love for him. In fact, when it became evident she only wanted him for the same reason the other women had, he decided to leave Rome and put as much distance between them as possible. Fortunately, that decision lasted less than a day and fate decided otherwise for them.

Peter stared at Quintilius a long moment, then slightly lowered his head. “I love your daughter, and I’m here to ask for your blessing.”

The werewolf blinked. “Isn’t it too soon?”

Peter opened his mouth to utter the first thing that came to mind, but raised his hands to the side instead and sighed. “We’ve been living together for a month already.”

Quintilius’s eyes became dangerously dark and Peter wondered if the man had any intention to hit him. And, in that case, what he was supposed to do? Take the punch and thank the werewolf or fight back?

Instead, Quintilius shook his head and turned in the direction of the
casolare
. But as he passed Peter, he said, “I don’t think you’re good enough for Ophelia.”

“That makes two of us, sir.”

They walked in silence all the way to the main house and Peter was relieved to see Ophelia waiting for them by the well.

“Lia, a word if you please.” Quintilius took her hands in his and kissed them, then patted her cheek and took her under his arm, steering her away from Peter and along the pathway that wound around the brick building.

Peter was left wondering what Quintilius would say to her. When they reappeared from the other side of the
casolare,
he was a mess. He didn’t move away from the well, but waited for her to reach him, and studied her expression as she walked side by side with Quintilius. She looked skittish, and Ophelia was not a woman prone to giving in to nerves. His heart plummeted to his stomach when she avoided his eyes and continued her conversation with Quintilius in hushed tones. At the well, the two stopped in front of Peter and he raised one eyebrow at her.

“Let’s go eat something. I’m starving.” She pinched the fabric at his elbow and dragged him inside the
casolare
, then to the big dining room that encompassed the majority of the first floor. At the very center of the room lay a long banquet table covered with ivory linens and decked with food. People milled everywhere.

Peter’s eyes skimmed the content of the table with disinterest. “Are we okay?”

Ophelia’s lips turned up, but she didn’t manage a smile. “I love you.” She tilted her head, exposing her throat to him, her hand lowering to his.

He stepped away from her reach. “Are we okay?”

“As long as we are together, we’ll always be okay.” She moved aside to let him see Quintilius behind her, and Peter realized her show of submission had been for the werewolf. “I’ll always choose you.”

The werewolf stood still at the other end of the room, staring intently at them. A woman in a wheelchair stopped by his side and patted his arm.

“I don’t want you to have to choose.” Peter closed the distance between them but didn’t dare touch her in front of so many people.

She stepped closer to him and whispered, “Let’s leave tomorrow. Book the first available flight anywhere in the world.”

And he had bought round trip tickets that had kept them away from Rome for nine months. The best nine months of Peter’s life. Now, they were back, but the situation remained the same with an adoptive father to please into accepting him as Ophelia’s soul mate.

****

Quintilius saw the big SUV enter Wolf’s Haven from far away and hurried down the path to check on the visitors. A cold wind had cleared the sky from the clouds and the sun shone bright, blinding him. He raised one hand above his forehead to shield his eyes from the glare, but even squinting didn’t help him recognize the car. Then three men exited it and he smiled, redoubling his pace to greet them.

“Hi, Quintilius.” Alexander Drako was one of the immortals Quintilius liked best. The Greek was an uncomplicated man who lived life to its fullest and that was something Quintilius respected.

A nagging voice inside his head told him Drako wasn’t that different from Peter, but he promptly quieted it. When it came to the demon, Quintilius couldn’t use logic. Ophelia was in love with Peter, but he was too worried the demon would hurt her. At first, he had even joked with Ophelia about her infatuation with Peter, but then her wolf had chosen the demon and that scared the father in Quintilius. The rest of the world saw his Egyptian princess like a self-assured, intimidating woman, but he knew her. He had rescued her from the gutters of Rome and knew better.

The day he first met Ophelia, Quintilius had just had a fight with his lover and was storming out of his own
taberna
, looking for a brawl, a game of dice, fresh air, warm lips to soothe his rage, and not necessarily in that order. Consumed by his thoughts, he passed a small heap of rags and bones by the side of the road and went to the Forum. Hours later, he found his way back to his establishment having lost a week’s worth of
sesterces
, entertained himself with a street fight and some cheap sex afterward, but none the calmer. The beggar was still there, in the same exact spot, unmoving. Quintilius groaned. He didn’t want his clients to see a goner before they put in an order. It spoiled appetites and tightened purses.

He peeked inside his
taberna
and called for one of his servants. “Caius, come here and clean this up.”

Caius hurried outside, gave his master the briefest of glances, taking in the bloody knuckles and the sour temper Quintilius knew he exuded from his every pore. “I’ll take the cart.”