Soul Kissed (18 page)

He deepened the kiss again, and she focused on the sensation of his mouth against hers—the firm rasp and seal and broken gasp of his touch. The past few days had tormented her with sensations; now she wanted fulfillment. She wanted
this,
wanted to be able to lose herself, just once as she’d never allowed herself before, and this was the man with whom she could.

“Cari,” he murmured against her.

She nodded, breath broken, in answer. Just Mason.

He initiated a conversation in an old language she didn’t know, but in spite of the thumping of her heart, found she could understand perfectly. His mouth said,
I want you. I need you. I’m hungry for you.
And she responded by wrapping an arm around his neck and repeating the words back in her own feminine dialect.

This was just the beginning. She knew it. Every nerve was sparkling, her blood going golden again in anticipation.

And with the currents of energy came a dark stirring, like a panic. Cari lifted herself above it. Denied the surge of Shadow. Closed herself viciously to any unwanted company. No magic tonight. Not that kind, at least.

She gave him her body with an upward arch, and took his, an arm around to his back, nails scoring for purchase, a hand fisted in his hair. She wanted one night away from her constant companion. A night with someone she knew she shouldn’t trust, but did anyway.

And he lifted her, his mouth sliding to her neck. His teeth snagged her ear and she cringed and giggled.

“Ticklish, eh?” He said it as if storing up weaknesses to exploit.

“Don’t you dare,” she warned.

He laid her across the bed the wrong way, and she wondered how he thought this was going to work with half his big, long body hanging off the side of the bed. But he was cleverer than she, because with one push of his arm the blanket and sheet fell off the foot of the bed.

“I’m always cold,” she told him. A girl sometimes needed an artfully-placed sheet.

“I’ll cover you.”

Oh.

Thwarted. Now there was no way to hide the worst of her healing scars. On a man they looked like heroic bullet wounds, and his were even faked. Hers were just ugly.

He must have noticed her nerves. In one fluid gesture, he stripped off her sweatshirt. The sudden change in temperature made her nipples harden. Of course he noticed that, too. Mason noticed everything.

He stroked the underside of one of her breasts with the back of his fingertips. She tensed. Exposed. She was used to hiding in so many ways. Shadow was her refuge. But then he bowed his head and blew warm air across that same bit of sensitive skin, and her tightened muscles quivered. Her core fluttered, an ache beating between her legs.

He looked up again, black gaze sharp, assessing. One side of his mouth curled in satisfaction. “Interesting.”

His mouth moved down to her hip. The heat from his breath warmed her, but when he raked his teeth down a dip beneath her belly button, she surprised herself by whimpering aloud.

His gaze flicked up to assess her again, lingering on her lips before his own stretched into a wide grin. “Excellent.”

And then she knew what he was after, and it was too late to back out, to get him to stop, to throw up walls between them. What had she been thinking? This was Mason. He was going to unlock her body’s every secret, find her out, and then there’d be nowhere she could hide. He was after mastery.

He slid a little lower and blew heat onto her bare abdomen. She clutched inside, wet and hot already, effortlessly, and barely noticed that her sweatpants and underwear were gone. He was moving again. With one arm under her shoulders, he maneuvered her onto the pillows, semi correcting their position. But she understood now—the bed no longer had an up/down orientation. The covers were gone, the pillows soon to be askew. This place was merely a soft tableau upon which Mason would know her. And by now she’d fully realized he planned to investigate her thoroughly.

And if she had an iota of sense or courage left, she’d learn him too. Mason Stray, hers for the night. She couldn’t believe it. This kind of thing didn’t happen to her, and yet, she was pretty sure it had been her idea. She’d lost a chance once, she wasn’t about to lose it again. He’d get as good as he gave.

She went for the base of his neck, where flexed muscles met and crossed, and she stroked with her mouth. Kissed him there, more tentatively than she’d have liked. Made herself tremble, but his breathing cut off, mid-inhalation. A small victory, but hers nonetheless.

He lifted her arm and heated the tender skin on the inside of her elbow, just above one of her recent scars. The touch made her ache differently, to feel so beautiful, when she was obviously flawed in that spot. He was smiling as he dragged his mouth up her arm and began a dual exploration—breath at her nape, which she knew was a tactical diversion, a hand skimming down low across her belly, to the curve of her hip to coax her closer.

She found herself straddling one of his legs, her hot core flush against his thigh. Shocked, she rocked her hips in protest and collusion, perilous beats of pleasure traveling to her toes and collecting deep.

He remained braced above her, discovering with heat first, then a rough hand on willing skin. She didn’t tense when he tried the underside of her breast again. She inhaled and lifted into his palm, which earned her a groan from him. He was careful with her hurts and possessive of her secret places, priming with soft strokes that incited recklessness.

She grabbed hold of his hair and possessed him, too, by kissing him deep and hard, with the pent-up yearning of years. His weight came down and his torso went flush with her bare breasts, sizzling with impossible heat. She might not have the bedroom skills others did, but when he finally drew back, his eyes were dark and hungry, as if he’d gone without for too long himself, maybe his whole life. He looked at her with the longing of a hundred years.

It was his fault—she fought angry tears—because he’d stayed with Liv. He’d chosen Liv, when Cari had wanted him more than anything.
She
would’ve run away with him. She would’ve left House and family behind just to feel like this. How could he know just how to touch her now and not know that she’d been crazy about him?

He adjusted his position and she was sorry to lose his thigh pressing at her most intimate place, but then his body centered, and a scorching hot weight dropped between her legs. But it was the expression on Mason’s face, the thoughts behind his eyes that told her he was no stranger to regrets, and he was bent on settling some old scores right now.

She was shaking, slick with want, and perspiring with the fight against it. Her breath was ragged, her body willingly opening up to him. She licked her lips to tell him,
wait,
but his mouth came down and spoke against hers again, so fluently she couldn’t mistake his meaning. His kiss said,
You’re mine. And I’ll have all of you. We’ve been waiting too long.

She agreed, and told him so by lifting a knee to bring him even closer. Shockingly close, because this was Mason, who knew her darkest secret and still touched her like that.

His hand worked her hip to a tilt. In one deep stroke, he assumed the weight of her frustrations and worries, the many cares that burdened her life, so that all that remained was startling brightness and pleasure. She clasped him tightly to her, fisting her hand in his hair, and rode him right back. His flushed, primal expression told her that he was just as affected. Higher and higher he drove them until they were well past any firework atmosphere. He took her to the brink of the world, the elemental fire of beginnings and endings. He rocked with her, strained with her, groaned as her leg curled around him to take him even deeper. She’d never felt more powerful. The bliss was sweet and dizzy, her flesh simmering on the brink.

A soft brush of his mouth on her temple, a harsh breath, as it occurred to her that he was waiting for her. That he’d wait forever for her, like this, until she fractured. The night would turn into an eternity, and she would spend the rest of her existence speared by him, by hope, by ecstasy. He would be right there, inside her, surrounding her, surging without end.

“Come, Cari,” he said.

And a white starburst of sensation lit her from the inside. It wiped her mind clean of anything but the fullness within her, the heat and heartbeat of the man above. She buried her face in the crook of his neck and quaked against him, holding on for dear life. With a final groan, he poured himself into her, and she wrapped both legs around him to take it all.

 

 

Mason was trying not to crush her, so he heroically hefted himself onto his forearms and considered summoning the will to move away from her to let her breathe. He glanced down to see if she was still alive. Her eyes were closed, but she wore a drugged, lopsided smile.

He absolutely, unequivocally loved her mouth.

After the birth of Fletcher, this was the best day of his life. He’d thoroughly satisfied Cari Dolan. He was the king of the world. There was nothing he couldn’t do.

He grinned down at her. “How about a shower?”

She didn’t bother to crack a lid. “I don’t think my legs can hold me just yet.”

“I meant a shower together. I won’t let you fall.” He nuzzled her and nipped at an earlobe.

She stretched under him, just a little, as if considering. “It’s warm here.”

It was; he was still inside her, but he wasn’t near finished. He kissed her pretty neck. She tasted salty. He used his tongue to make her shiver. “The shower will be hot. I promise.”

Her hips moved, testing, and he could feel the results in a tightening within her. She brought his head down and kissed him, slow, languorous, tasting him and sucking on his tongue. And his hips moved involuntarily, too. A seeking movement.

She made a sound, which—Shadow save him—he took for agreement. They weren’t done. Not nearly. Not until he had her in every way and tasted every hollow. One night was all he had to discover her.

The kiss went dark as he shifted, collected her in his arms, made for the bathroom. He blindly found the shower lever and set it full blast on hot, though Cari’s skin was already misting with heat, her legs wrapped around his waist. He caught sight of their shapes in the mirror—a primal clutch of his-and-hers shadows—and realized that whatever the circumstances of their births, tonight they were the same.

Cari woke, naked, but cocooned in covers and instantly missed Mason’s thermal spooning. Then she just missed Mason. She tested her body, flexed her feet, and stretched her legs. She wanted a massage. Somehow she was sure his hands could ease her sore spots, though the rest of her felt lighter than ever. There was nothing to do but find him.

She sat up and instead found a note on the bedside table.

The clock said 10 a.m.; it was way past time for her to get up. There was so much she needed to do—call home, check her e-mail, touch base with Brand—but she figured she’d get a better gauge on the day if she located Mason and put that strange man Custo’s theory to the test regarding Segue’s change of heart about her.

She dressed and wandered downstairs in search of the kitchen, but was waylaid by the light streaming through the windows on the main floor, the way they warmed and stirred the errant dust curls of Shadow.

With little warning, a pack of small boys came racing through the wide, connected rooms, laughing and disappearing at the end of the stretch. She figured she couldn’t be in too much trouble if children were free to encounter her. Pushing the still-swinging door from the pantry, she let herself into the kitchen. Again, several people—Adam, whom she’d met last night; his wife, so fair compared to her father; a couple others whose names she couldn’t remember; some dark-haired girl was prepping to make an omelet; Mason, who made her blood rush—were standing about. The heady scent of coffee was in the air, the plate of sweet buns empty.

Mason was speaking with Adam. They both looked very serious, and Mason gestured for her to come over, without breaking their conversation. She’d hoped for more of a welcome from him, so she gathered her hopes up, just in case she needed to stow them away. The night was well over.

But Mason took her hand and pulled her close to his side. Felt surreal to have his fingers lacing through hers. Erom had never held her hand like that.

She went serious too when she heard Adam mention “feeding tube.” Then she followed Mason’s gaze over to where a boy sat. The child had to be very young—f ive maybe. He was beyond cute, beautiful, with Adam’s coloring. He had big blue eyes fringed by extraordinary lashes, but his gaze was lost—not vacant—rather looking somewhere at something that she couldn’t see unless she drew from her umbra, and she wasn’t ready to stir Maeve yet.

“We just don’t know what to do anymore,” Adam said. “He hasn’t responded for a few days now. It’s happening more and more often.”

They were speaking as parents, which instantly caught her attention. In the next few years, she’d have to face this prospect on behalf of her House. And she really wanted to know this side of Mason.

He studied the boy. “What does Khan say?”

“That he’s a child of two worlds, and he’s not interested in this one.”

“He’s not interested,” Mason repeated.

This world could not compete with what Cari knew of the Other—Twilight was dreams and fantasy, or else abject nightmare and madness. If this child could really perceive what existed beyond Shadow, he’d be lost to this world. No contest.

She pulled herself closer to Mason to ease the tightening around her heart.

Adam scrubbed his worn face with his hands. “Ever feel like your kid can’t grow up fast enough—so that they can be safer, better able to cope, to fight—and yet you still try to hold on and protect their innocence—keep them little—at the same time?”

“I know the feeling well.” Mason sighed vocally, and Cari could feel the roll of it in his chest.

He brought her hand up for a kiss, then let her go to reach for an already-read newspaper on the kitchen’s island. He walked over to the table where the boy sat and took a chair opposite him.

“Hey, Michael.” Mason opened the newspaper and tore a page out from the rest.

The boy didn’t react. Cari darted a look at Adam, and was surprised to see wary hope in his expression, the concentrated slant of his eyes. What did he think Mason could do?

Talia had halted in her conversation with another woman. She watched Mason and seemed to be holding her breath.

Mason began folding the strip of paper, the smoke of Shadow looping and trailing from his fingertips, as if stitching together whatever he was creating with magic. His hands did a graceful, practiced dance as they worked the paper. A twist here, a crumple there.

The boy’s head cocked slightly, as if interested, though his gaze was still distant. It was something, at least. A response.

Mason’s clever hands pinched and ripped the paper in his hand. The kitchen grew quiet as everyone watched. Cari found she was holding her breath, too.

And then with a little push, Mason set his creation—a man made out of newspaper—walking across the table. The little man strode over to Michael and tapped the child’s hand with its own paper one, a blunt fold with a triangle for a thumb.

The boy looked down, and the paper man affected a deep bow from its waist, its arm sweeping low to its waist.

Michael looked up at Mason, now with bright, clear eyes, and laughed out loud. “Is Fletcher here?” The paper man climbed onto Michael’s hand and began a trek up the mountain of his arm to the summit of his shoulder.

“Fletcher couldn’t come this time.” A tone of heartache, if one knew to listen.

Cari had wanted to see Mason-the-father, and now she almost regretted it. Felt like a knife got stuck up under her ribs, making breathing excruciating. And this kid wasn’t even his.

She never should’ve slept with him. And yet, night couldn’t come fast enough for her to do it again. Could they stay here longer?

Talia dove to kneel at her son’s feet so that she was eye level with him. She brushed the hair from his forehead. “Hey, buddy. Where have you been?” There was no mistaking the relief in her tone.

Mason slid out of the seat and backed to the counter next to Cari.

Talia snapped her fingers behind her, and Adam had a carton of ice cream and a spoon ready. “How about some of your favorite?”

Ice cream in the morning? Cari guessed they were willing to do anything to keep the child in this room with them.

The little paper man leaned in to Michael’s ear and whispered a secret.

Michael laughed out loud. “He wants some, too.”

Cari leaned over to Mason. “How’d you do that?”

The little man sat down on Michael’s shoulder and crossed his legs.

“Used to do it all the time with Fletcher.”

That’s not what she meant. “How did you
know
to do that?”

He shrugged and grabbed a mug from a tray. “Just thought it might interest him, too. Want something to eat? You slept in.”

Heat rushed her face, recalling last night. “I was pretty tired.” She looked back at the little boy, wanting to watch him play with the newspaper man.

But Mason’s strong arm went around her waist, and he kissed her, right there in front of everyone, who yes, seemed to accept her solely on the basis of his companionship, regardless of the fact that she harbored a mad fae queen inside her.

When she drew back, her heart was locked up with feeling. She’d been asking herself for days how Mason could’ve possibly earned the notice of the Council or someone like Khan, but she understood it now. And the knowledge came painfully, because deep-down, she’d already known. Protector and father—that’s what his horrible life had taught him. He’d become everything he hadn’t had himself. That’s how he could come here, and on the strength of his word, she would be welcomed. And she actually liked these people, with the exception of Khan. They seemed dependable, in a completely erratic way. They seemed true.

Mason was the kind of ally her House needed.

Which meant—this realization was a hot, sick rush—that Dolan House was on the wrong side. Brand was supposed to be an enemy, the mage that the Dolan was supposed to topple from the Council Seat, and Cari had shrugged off an opportunity just last night. Further, angels were to be reviled—one had thrown a spear at her—but she kind of liked that Custo. Dolan had kept its bloodline pure, but it seemed that for the modern age, strength was in a different kind of unity.

Oh, sweet Shadow, she was in trouble. This was probably the most dangerous of all—she was shifting her loyalties.

Centuries worth of the careful cultivation of allies, and she had to undo it. The Dolan’s duty was to see to the strength of her House . . . and it wasn’t with Vauclain or Martin or Walker. The Walkers were stupid not to have snatched up Mason when they could, but Webb had been smart. He’d even taken in Mason’s son to raise with his own. Very clever.

She’d have to think which to approach first. She was suddenly feeling a little dizzy at the prospect.

“You’ll want something to eat before our chat with Khan.” Mason put a mug of coffee in her hand. The omelet the brown-haired woman had been making materialized in front of her, too. “Eat up. The Dark Lord is waiting.”

 

 

Maeve crouched, her fingernails lengthening to scratch out the crow’s eyes.

Shadowman.

How she hated him. He’d gone into the service of Order ages ago, ferrying souls from this world to the great gate of the next. Of course he would take up with angels at the first opportunity. Fool. No matter how he groveled at their feet, he would never be one of them. No light for him, unless he stole it and ate it.

 

 

Mid-day on Segue’s mountaintop was prickly and sweet with pine scent, but the chirping bugs stayed away from the main buildings. Mason sat across from Khan on the terrace, keeping Cari at his side. He didn’t want her in the direct path of Death’s fury again.

Khan was looking out into the trees, his dark, almost alien eyes peering into the greenery.

Cari took an audible deep breath to get his attention. “I want to thank you for meeting with me.”

Mason bowed his head to hide his smile. Trust Caspar’s daughter to take control of the meeting at the outset, even against the likes of Khan.

Khan’s attention didn’t waver. “The wild creatures are moving, drawing nearer, attracted to still greater wildness.”

Mason turned in his seat to look too, but couldn’t see anything. There were bears up here. Wolves and coyotes, too. Maybe even mountain lions. “Dangerous?”

Khan regarded Cari, his keen eyes slanting to assess her. “Certainly not more dangerous than she.”

Cari sat up a little straighter, to go head-to-head with Shadowman. Mason didn’t want her to wear herself out already, so he flung an arm on the back of her chair and tugged her shoulder back. Nothing to worry about.

“I am dangerous.” She stated it like a fact, with a little whatcha-gonna-do-about-it? thrown in for flavor.

Mason liked her so much. He played with the ends of her hair with his fingers, relishing the wide silky loop of a natural curl. Wanted to brush her hair off the back of her neck and kiss her there. Again.

Khan didn’t seem amused. “I have been chastised at length throughout the night. I see no hope for you, regardless of whether the Maker is at your side or not, but I will acknowledge the possibility, however slight, that the world might survive you.”

Mason felt an inner tug at hearing the word “Maker.” Khan had taken to referring to him that way over the past year, and yeah, Making was the kind of magic Mason specialized in. It must have been the aptitude of whatever House had given him a drop of their blood. He liked to work with his hands.

Trust Cari to pick up on it. “Maker?”

“Bah,” Khan growled. “If you don’t even know what Mason is, the world is indeed doomed.”

Cari’s shoulders went back, offended.

“Khan!” Layla’s voice came from behind them, on the other side of the patio doors.

Mason smiled. Khan’s wife was just as bullheaded as Cari. Khan must face his own doom every other day.

The Grim Reaper regrouped. His eyes twitched. “The world might survive you, Cari Dolan, though the possibility grows ever slimmer.”

“Bra-vo,” Mason said.

Khan’s black eyes burned. “My woman is due to have our child soon and I have upset her.”

Cari looked stunned. “I’m a little lost. Maker?”

Mason craned his head back over his shoulder. “Take a load off, Layla. We’ll be all right.” Then to Cari, “It’s just what I do—make things. Like the little newspaper guy for Michael.”

“Makers are rare.” Khan gave him a vindictive smile. It seemed if he was going to be uncomfortable, forced into making uncomfortable admissions, then Mason was, too. “They are born only at the rise of Shadow, and sit on the right hand of kings.”

“I’m a friend to mage royalty,” Mason said. At least as long as that “friendship” lasted.

Khan’s lip curled. “You do not take Mab seriously enough.”

“Who’s not serious?” The voice came from behind. Custo prowled out, uninvited, to join them. He leaned on the stone banister near the table. The angel looked like one dangerous motherfucker, especially when he had that wolf grin stretching across his face.

Cari didn’t seem to object to his presence however—Mason recalled they’d formed a club last night while everyone else was fighting. She leaned toward Death. “And Makers are mages?”

Mason closed his eyes. He knew what she was asking. The human thing again. She wanted to know if Khan knew, and what he thought about it. But this wasn’t supposed to be about him. Makers make. Done.

Khan sat back, crossed a leg, enjoying himself at Mason’s expense. “Makers are Shadow and Light. Such is the requirement to create anything that lasts, that can hold. Michael is still playing with that puppet.”

“By the way, the other kids are getting jealous,” Custo put in.

“I’ll make more. I used to make a whole collection for Fletcher.” Just thinking of his son made him worry. There’d been no contact since yesterday’s text about the Lure. If not for a phone appointment with Webb in an hour, Mason would be going out of his mind.