The Ophelia Prophecy (29 page)

She grabbed a towel to dry her face and studied herself in the mirror.
You should have cut your hair a long time ago
, her father had said. She tossed her head, liking the way the shorter locks moved, and the way their ends turned up to frame her face. She’d cut it in her darkest hour, and she’d really made a hack job of it. Her mother had insisted on fixing it, but she hadn’t paid any attention to it—or anything else about her appearance—since her father had vanished.

She turned from the mirror and dug through the bag of clothes, finally settling on a silky, faintly iridescent lavender nightgown. The gown and most of the other clothes were backless or had complicated adjustable straps. Like everything else in the temple it was easily the most glamorous garment she’d ever worn, and clearly made for someone who had appendages protruding from places she did not. She found a blue shawl, soft and nearly weightless, and wrapped it around her shoulders before exiting the bathroom.

The bedroom had gone dark now except for a few of the glass lamps she’d seen in both bathrooms. Pax looked up as he set one on the stand next to the bed.

“I think there are enough pillows that we can make you comfortable,” he said.

“I’d say so,” she replied, eyeing the mountain he’d transferred back to the bed. “Are you going to bed now?” What she really meant was, “Where are you sleeping?” and she was sure he had no trouble reading that.

“I’ll sleep on the sofa. I’ll be up a lot, but I’ll try not to wake you.”

“Wake me in a while and I’ll take a turn watching,” she said. “You need to sleep too.”

He nodded, but she knew that he wouldn’t. The sun would be rising in a couple of hours.

She climbed onto the bed, feeling her heart sink a little. When he knelt down beside her to help arrange the pillows, she watched her hand reach out and take hold of his wrist. He froze, and she couldn’t bring herself to look at him.

They sat for a long moment—it seemed to stretch out, elastic, through time—until finally he pulled his wrist free. Embarrassed, she tried to sink away from him, but he hooked an arm around her. He stretched out on the bed and pulled her down with him, so she snuggled against his side on one hip. Then he lifted her elbow, gently tugging until she rolled toward him and draped over his chest, her back now free from the surface of the bed.

Her heart was awake, pounding so hard it vibrated every nerve ending, every tiny hair, every cell in her body—banishing any idea of sleep.

His hand came to rest in her hair.

“Are you in pain?” he asked.

“I—”
Pain?
“No.”

“I’m sorry for what he did to you. I’m sorry for what
I
tried to do to you.” His fingers traced over the wrist that had been injured in their struggle, and a warm, liquid sensation spilled from her chest down into her belly, flooding the space between her hipbones. “You must miss your quiet life back in Sanctuary.”

“I don’t,” she replied truthfully. “But I wasn’t as sheltered as you might think.”

His head shifted, and she felt the heat of his breath in her hair. Her body responded without any direction from her brain, subtly pressing against him.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

She let her thumb brush lightly against the strip of transparent mesh across his abdomen. With her ear against his chest she could hear and feel the change in his heart rate.

“I used to sneak out to the desert at night. On clear summer nights I’d go into the rock labyrinth—do you know it?”

“Mmm.” He nodded.

“I liked to stand with my hands on the walls and stare up at the stars. When I was a kid I’d pretend I was holding them up.”

“Were you ever frightened?”

“Sometimes. I’d imagine I heard animals—a cougar, or coyote. Once I twisted my ankle and was afraid I’d have to spend the night outside. The nights are very cold there.”

“What happened?”

“My father liked the desert at night too. He found me and carried me home.”

His fingers stroked through her hair, raising chill bumps along her neck. “And now you’ve found
him
. The two of you are close.”

She thought about her last six months in Sanctuary. “When he disappeared … it was like all the color drained out of my life.”

Her words hung in the silence, until finally he said, “I was the one who transported him. I’m sorry, Asha.”

She raised her head. “You remember him?”

“Not very well. They had drugged him and there was no interaction.” He reached up to brush a lock of hair from her forehead. “Do you know why he was sent away?”

She let her head sink back down to his chest. “It was my mother.” The flatness of her tone surprised her. She felt the same way about Miriam as she did about Beck—numb. “He found out the truth about Sanctuary, and she forced him to go.”

“
They
aren’t close,” Pax observed.

“No. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive her. And yet, really, it was a gift.”

She could feel his shock in the tight stillness of his body. “What do you mean?”

“We aren’t living a lie anymore. We aren’t asleep.”

“You wouldn’t want to go back?”

“I could never go back.”

He moved his resting hand from the bed to her waist. Her attention narrowed to that spot of warmth. Of connection.

“This is not a safe place for you,” he said.

“It doesn’t seem like it’s a very safe place for you either.”

A laugh burst out of him and his fingers shifted, squeezing her hip. The sound of his laughter made her feel happy. Especially the fact that she had caused it.

“You’re right about that. I guess I’m used to it.”

“You’d die of boredom in Sanctuary.”

Their laughter settled, and she added, “I wouldn’t go home again, but I may not be able to stay here. Not if your father declares war on humanity again.”

“It can’t come to that. I’ve never crossed my father, but … it can’t come to that.”

“Why do you say so?”

His fingers lightly stroked the curve of her waist as he considered her question. She’d all but forgotten it by the time he answered.

“I can’t change what happened in the past. The long years of blood and struggle after the forced migration, and the plague that followed. I don’t even feel comfortable judging them for what they did, people like Cleo and my father. But humans are no longer a threat to us. Killing them out of fear … Micah was right. It’s just repeating the mistakes of the past. We should be better than that.”

She raised her head, resting it on her fist. “How long have you felt like that?”

“Since I came of age. But the conflict with Cleo raised doubts. I made it personal, when the truth is it’s bigger than my family and our problems. I suppose I’m making it personal again.” He pushed another lock of hair back from her face, and her heart pulsed. “But I still believe it’s the right thing.”

“And your father knows how you feel?”

“He knows. But I don’t think he takes me very seriously. He’s military. He thinks I spend too much time reading. He dismisses much of what I say as idealism. He thinks I’m impractical.”

She smiled. “You did run off with a prisoner into the city with no plan for what you’d do if she escaped.”

“True. Except that I’d already stopped thinking of you as my prisoner by then.”

She rubbed her lips together, studying him. The intensity of the return scrutiny made it difficult to string words together. “How, then?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t stay around long enough for me to figure that out.”

“Mmm,” she replied guiltily.

“Yes,
mmm
. For just a moment in the alley I thought I might get a chance.”

Her gaze shifted to his lips and back, and her body quivered. His hand tightened on her hip.

“I ran away.”

“Again.”

She felt a pang of regret about Beck as she remembered her escape from Banshee, and how amiably he’d greeted her. Then she remembered how he’d threatened to cut off Iris’s wing.

“It was your own fault,” she said, banishing dark thoughts. “If you’d warned me about the sagrada I’d never have had such a perfect opportunity to escape.”

“It was a trick, then, what happened in the alley.” His hand slid up a few inches, coming to rest on her lower ribs. “You’re admitting it.”

“I admit no such thing.”

The fingers of his other hand rubbed the back of her head. “You don’t have to. I know it was.”

“You can’t possibly know that.”

“You deny it?”

“Yes. Absolutely. I deny it.”

He smiled. “I don’t believe you.” Now his gaze flickered to
her
mouth. “Unless you have some kind of proof.”

The warmth swirling from her chest to the well between her hips had gone molten. She pressed her hand against his chest, raising herself. Transferring her weight to her other arm, she lifted her hand, rubbing her thumb over the fullness of his bottom lip.

A half-groan, half-sigh rose out of him, and she leaned closer.

His body nudged against hers, his hand pulling at her waist. But she remained suspended above him, enjoying the feel of the soft, purplish skin beneath her fingers. She glanced down at his chest, watching the thrashing of the prisoner inside.

When her eyes moved back to his lips, they parted, and she ran her thumb lightly over his teeth. He drew a ragged breath, and the next thing she knew his hand was pulling her head forward.

She had teased him, and there was nothing gentle in the way he repaid her. Their lips met, and he took her face in his hands so she couldn’t escape.

But she didn’t want to escape. His lips insisted that hers open, and she complied. She moaned softly as his tongue found hers, and she clutched a handful of shirt in her fist. He sat up slowly, holding her against him, and his lips pressed harder, forcing her head to tip back.

She slipped a hand into his shirt, fingers gliding up his flexed abdomen, and he shuddered and groaned.

He pushed the shawl from her shoulders, fingertips caressing there before brushing down her arms.

She raised her hand to one of the thin straps of her nightgown, sliding it off her shoulder.

*   *   *

The flimsy fabric fell away from her breast, and Pax’s breath stopped. His eyes fixed on the perfect, raspberry red floret, and his thumb followed, rubbing until she gave a little cry. Then he bent and replaced his thumb with his tongue. Breath hissed through her teeth and her back arched.

“Asha,” he whispered, and he slipped the other strap off her shoulder. His gaze moved over the milky whiteness of her, from swell of breast to dip of waist and curve of hip. He ran one hand from her throat, down and over the rest of this silky landscape, through sheer force of will staving off the explosion at his groin.

As he teased the skin above where the nightgown had gathered at her hips, he noticed she was trembling.

He raised his eyes to her face. “We can stop.”
It’ll kill me, but we can stop.
“Have you done this before?”

She bit her lip—he fought the urge to tug her against him—and replied, “Yes.”

His fingers moved to caress her cheek. His thumb traced her lightly freckled nose. “You had boyfriends back home? You must have.”

She gave him a nervous smile and shook her head. “Not really. It only happened a couple times. He was a good friend.”

A couple times?
He stared at her. “When was that?”

“When I was seventeen.”

He swallowed, letting his hand fall away. “You’re what now? Twenty-two? Twenty-three?”

“Twenty-five.”

Lord of the flies, Paxton
. She was broken, exhausted, and practically a virgin.

Her eyes shifted away from his face. “There was no birth control. Pregnancy was encouraged, but I didn’t want to lose my job.” He could feel the heat from the blood in her face. “I’m not un
educated
. There’s plenty of information in the Archive…” She trailed off, embarrassed.

With a regretful smile, he lifted and replaced the straps of her nightgown. “I’m honored that you offered me this.”

“But?”

“But you’re tired. You’re…”
Inexperienced
. “I’m…”
On fire, and incapable of going slow.

She stared at him, confused. “You don’t want…”

“I
do
want.” He groaned and shook his head.

“I don’t understand.” She scooted close again, lightly kissing him on the lips, then on the cheek, then trailing them down his neck. He fell back helpless against the headboard as she worked her way down, lifting his shirt so she could start on his chest.

“I’m not a child,” she murmured against his breastbone.

“Believe me, I’ve noticed,” he breathed.

“Then I’m not sure I see the problem.” Her voice gained confidence—even took on a teasing edge—as his own resolve weakened. “Is there something I need to know about you? Are you…” He gasped as she nipped at one of his nipples. “…
different
somehow?”

“That’s the least of my concerns.”

“What’s the
most
of your concerns?” She swung a leg over him and settled onto his lap. His heart tried to beat its way out with a sledgehammer.

Gritting his teeth against the messages firing from his groin to his brain, he forced out, “That you’re not used to this and I’m just about to explode.”

Reaching up, she released her straps again and leaned in until her breasts pressed into his bare chest. He gripped her hips, and she moved her lips to his ear, whispering, “Explode.”

The red veil came down over his eyes, and he pushed past her fumbling fingers to rip open his pants. Pressing her hips between his hands, he raised her over him. Her breathing was quick and light, whether from excitement or fear he didn’t know and was too far gone to sort it out. He pulled her down onto him, groaning as he buried himself in warm, wet silk that contracted around him.

*   *   *

He entered her in a single quick thrust that made her gasp. It hurt at first, having him so deep inside her, but she adjusted her body until the angle felt right. His hand came to her breast, squeezing at first, then lightly tracing the nipple, and her hips led her in a rocking motion against him.