The Three Fates of Ryan Love (10 page)

Ryan pushed her past her limits into a free fall of sensation with the gruff mutter of words she couldn't quite hear, the rasp of his fingertips, the brush of his lips and slide of his tongue. A burst of hot breath puckered her nipple before the heat of his mouth made her entire body flush as he moved lower. She understood his destination and the total loss of control he would incite.

His beard scraped her thighs an instant before his mouth opened over her sex and his tongue found the point where it seemed all of her nerves came together. He used his hands to keep the soft, damp heat of her splayed as he licked and sucked and kissed while she reveled in the exquisite torture.

Last night—this morning—he'd made love to her. This, right now, was something altogether different. She felt the anger in him, the loss of his usual control. Instead of fear, she reveled in it.
This
was a Ryan no other woman had experienced. The savage man who fought and won but didn't share. The primal male who dominated and branded what he owned. Every touch made it clear that he meant to own her.

That's what this was about.

He didn't know it, but Ryan wasn't pushing her away. He was letting her in.

Sabelle jerked his head back and urged him to rise. Bending to meet him halfway, she kissed him in challenge. Told him that he might possess her body, but no man—no
human—
would ever own her. In that instant they both saw something meant to be hidden. Sabelle caught her breath, trying to untangle the intricacy of what he'd revealed. She could only hope he was equally confused.

Their eyes locked in a stare that went deep. Naked, trembling,
fierce
,
she refused to let him look away. Slowly she let her body slide down his, exchanging places and power. Her mouth opened to the taste of salt on his skin, to the feel of his rippling muscle against her tongue, the scent of aroused male in his prime. She reveled in the feel of all that bunched muscle and golden skin.

His erection was thick and heavy, the skin stretched so tight that the head felt like heated glass. She took him in her mouth like she knew what she was doing and found that perhaps she did. Instinct previously unknown drove her. Using his body as a guide—the sounds he made, the flex of his thighs, and the pump of his hips—she ran her lips over the satiny head and down the ridged shaft. His fingers dug into her hair and he muttered profanities and endearments in the same breath. Commands, praise, urgent instructions that she followed willingly.

She accidently caught him with the edge of her teeth and he hissed but said, “Easy. Do it again.”

Filled with power, she did, mimicking what he'd done to her. The flat of her tongue, the swirl of it rising, sucking at the tip, humming at the base. “Fuck,” he said again and pulled her up, wrapping her legs around his hips. She kissed him hard, clinging while he took himself in hand, pumped once, and then entered her in a fast and powerful thrust.

The head felt wide, her tissues tender and swollen, but she was wet and ready for him. He stretched her in a rush of heat, took possession of her as he buried himself to the hilt . . .
claimed
her effortlessly with the fury of his lust.

“Say it,” he demanded again.

“Fuck me.”

The profanity on her lips set them both afire. He drove himself deep, fingers anchored tight on her hips as he held her where he wanted and pounded in and out in a rhythm that matched the beat of her heart. That incredible, overwhelming tension gathered inside her and expanded, replacing thought with feeling, sense with delirium. It tore through her, roaring in her blood, in her ears, building as it crested.

She cried his name when she came, feeling the clench of muscle, the hot, slippery feel of orgasm ripping through her, molding her, changing her. Ryan threw his head back with a shout and inside her his seed spilled hot and eager.

“Christ,” he rasped, curling into her, holding her as he shook from the force of it.

She pulled his hair until his head came up and he kissed her. Still hard inside her, but no longer filled with that bewildering fury. He shifted and that small movement was all it took. A second climax rippled through her. Ryan felt it and gave a shaky, masculine laugh before he stole her breath with another kiss. Exhausted, she collapsed against his chest, arms and legs clinging. His fingers skimmed down her spine and slowly he let her feet slip to the floor.

“Come on,” he murmured, voice rumbling against her ear.

“Where?”

Instead of answering, he pulled her into a small bathroom barely big enough for his impressive bulk, her, and the sink, toilet, and shower. They would have had to maneuver to shut the door. They didn't bother. As soon as the water had warmed, Ryan pulled her in with him.

“Ryan,” she asked, now that his touch had gentled. “What—”

“Later,” he answered and lathered his hands, then her body.

Sabelle forgot what she had wanted to say anyway.

T
hey didn't speak afterward, but Sabelle knew that the anger she'd felt simmering inside Ryan hadn't been doused, merely banked. He wrapped her in a soft towel, told her to rifle his closet for something to wear and meet him in the kitchen.

Uncertain what she'd face when she rejoined him, Sabelle pilfered a clean jersey with the number 17 on its back and put it on with her borrowed jeans. She stared into her reflection for a long moment, wishing she had a plan, but Ryan wasn't the kind of man you could plan for.

Bind him to you.

That's what Nadia had told her to do when she'd helped Sabelle escape. Sabelle had been more than happy to comply. Being bound to Ryan was the stuff of dreams. Bind him before Aisa, the most powerful and cunning of the Sisters, could turn him away from her.

At the time, it had sounded simple. What a foolish notion. Nothing to do with Ryan could ever be simple.

The television had been tuned to local news when Sabelle entered the front room, but only Brandy was there to watch it. The big dog opened her eyes and watched Sabelle approach. She wagged her tail once in greeting, but didn't bother to get up.

She found Ryan in the kitchen leaning against the counter, wearing faded blue jeans and an undershirt with a soft gray flannel shirt hanging open over it. The color made his eyes look smoky. He'd shaved while she'd been dressing and now her fingers itched to touch the smooth cheeks he'd uncovered.

He gazed at the television through the wide arch that separated the rooms, but he wasn't seeing it. As soon as she walked in, his eyes shifted to her, lingering on her face before it swept down, over her breasts. She needed a bra, but of course Ryan didn't have those in his closet or drawers any more than he had spare panties. His inspection ended at her feet. He stared at the baggy white socks for a long moment that felt mystifyingly charged.

A glass half full of amber liquid sat on the counter in front of him. An open bottle was next to it with big white letters spelling
RESERVOIR
on the front. Without a word he took a drink before pulling a stemmed glass from a cabinet and a bottle of wine from the refrigerator.

“You're in luck,” he said. “Ruby always steals the good stuff.”

“She steals?”

“From Love's.” He shook his head. “I guess I won't have that problem anymore.”

Now he had new problems. The silence as he pulled the cork from the bottle said it all. He filled the glass and slid it in front of her.

“It's wine,” he said when she stared at it.

“I know it's wine,” she shot back, suddenly defensive. Because knowing what it was and knowing it was wine by the smell and taste, the memory of having it before—those were different things.

The glass she lifted felt delicate. So fine, it skinned the wine instead of merely cupping it. Inside, the clear, pale liquid looked crisp and cold. Ryan watched her hold it to the light.

“Like a pro,” he said.

Did he mean that in a good way?

A rush of flavor and sensation came with her first taste, quick and resonant, waking taste buds and warming her insides.

“Good stuff?” Ryan asked, his voice deep.

She glanced up and he caught her gaze, searching it in that way of his. The one that stripped her camouflage with unfailing ease.

“Yes.”

The breathed word joined in her memory with all the other words he'd liked her to say when he was deep inside her. She knew now that the right ones spoken could turn this moment like a dime. She bit her lip and kept them safe in her very small arsenal for another time.

A few ice cubes clinked in the glass as Ryan took another drink and went back to not watching the television. A newspaper lay faceup beside her wine. The headlines read “3:00 a.m. Wake-Up Call.” A picture of the burned-out street where Love's used to be was beneath it.

She looked up to find him watching her again, his eyes almost the same shade as his flannel shirt now. His gaze slid to the headlines. “Just like you said. They can't decide if the explosion was a leak, negligence, or just a freak accident.” He paused. “Or sabotage. Seems that's a theory, too.”

Had that last been directed at her?

“Are you trying to tell me something?” she said when it seemed he was waiting.

Another searching look she couldn't hold answered her. She wandered to the window and stared out at the yard stretching behind the house. It was unremarkable, but it ended in an open space littered with cactus, spindly desert trees, and stone. The setting sun looked like an explosion through the barren trees, bursting beneath a gloomy, dank sky, swathing the clouds in bruised violet and hot coral. It looked like the sky she'd seen from her bedroom window in the Beyond. Only that view never changed.

In this world, the sky held variances that struck like lightning through the palette of blue, smearing yellow into peach, burning lavender to ash. It was a lovely thing, the sky here. Ever changing. Alive, like the world beneath it. Her sky was a dead façade, frozen in a moment that shouldn't have been captured. As lifeless as the enslaved inhabitants who gazed upon it.

She dropped her gaze to a concrete patio with a wrought-iron table centered in the middle. Positioned directly outside the door, it looked desolate amid the scent of wood smoke and cold, an icon of summer long gone.

She sighed and started to turn away when something long and black darted across the surface of the table. It stopped just short of the edge and raised its tail. Just like the bug she'd seen on the ceiling. She stepped back quickly and bumped into Ryan, who'd moved behind her without her knowing. His hands came up to steady her, but he was staring at the table, too.

“I hate scorpions,” he muttered.

“Is that what it is?” she said with a shudder. “I saw two others on the ceiling over the stairs.”

Outside, the scorpion held its ninja pose. Watching them back. Reaching over her shoulder, Ryan snapped the blinds shut and started opening drawers until he found the one he'd apparently been looking for. He rifled through a chaos of papers, pens, keys, and other odds and ends, finally extracting a hammer. Grimly, he hefted it and headed out the back door, giving Brandy a sharp “
Stay!
”
when she wanted to follow. After a moment, Sabelle heard the hammer bang against the iron table. Hard, loud. Repeatedly. Ryan cursed in between blows with impressive creativity. Finally, there was silence.

A few minutes passed before he returned to the kitchen. He tossed the hammer on the counter and took a drink from his glass. Only then did he look at Sabelle. She could feel his smoldering frustration lurking just beneath the skin. Brandy gave him an assessing look before moving to sit under the table, where she could watch him and stay out of his way at the same time. Sabelle wished she could do the same.

“I had company this afternoon,” he said as if in answer to a question. “My old man stopped by for a heart-to-heart.”

Her gaze snapped to his. “I thought your father was dead.”

“Yeah. Imagine my surprise.”

Dread needled her from the inside out as she moved closer.

“I expected you to already know,” Ryan said, using his chin to point at the headline she'd predicted so accurately. “You didn't see my dad dropping by in your crystal ball?”

“It wasn't your dad, and I told you, it doesn't work that way. I'm not a security camera watching your front door.”

Her answer made his eyes narrow. On any day, Ryan was an imposing man. Size alone would have been enough, but add in the rough edges, the scarred seams . . . all that raw confidence, the kind that came from being the biggest, baddest—and a lot of the time, smartest—man in the room, and it tipped the scales.

Ryan knew how to keep his cool in a fight; he kept it now. Still, she saw the embers burning in those smoky eyes and her dread became something more pervasive and alarming.

He knew.

He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the counter. “Anything you want to tell me, Sabelle?” he asked in flat voice. “And I want you to think carefully about it before you speak.”

How? How did he know?

He held her gaze, brows raised. He might have been enjoying her discomfort; he might not even care. She couldn't tell. Yet she knew for certain that all things great disdained what they could make feel small. It was a fact of life no matter who or what you called yourself. She kept her breathing shallow, her fragile calm intact, her cool as fixed as his.

“What did your visitor say?” she asked boldly.

Stormy green eyes held hers. “My
father
wanted to warn me about you. He figured you hadn't been very forthcoming with the truth.”

“And you believe him?”

“You got a reason why I shouldn't?”

“You know he wasn't really your father.”

“What, with him being dead and all.”

Sabelle took another drink of wine, this one for courage. “What
truths
did he tell you?”

“That you're from the Beyond. That you're not human.” He shrugged. “Little things.”

“You believed that, too?” she asked, anger making hairline cracks in her composed façade. Her own emotions confused her. She wasn't human, and yet it wounded her that he'd be so easily convinced of it.

“I'm listening, Sabelle. Tell me he was lying.”

A simple command spoken low, maybe even a little desperately. She wanted to obey. She wanted to keep going as they'd been, with Ryan thinking her simply a woman who needed his help. A woman who needed
him
. It wasn't so far from the truth.

Except she wasn't a woman. Only a female in a strange land with no one to turn to
but
Ryan.

“Do you believe our lives have purpose?” she asked, staring at the bloodless fingers gripping the stem of her glass.

“Is that a rhetorical question?”

“I don't care for sarcasm, Ryan.”

“Yeah? I don't care for lies.”

“It's good we avoid them, then.”

“Which isn't the same as telling the truth, is it?”

She didn't answer. Instead, she stared back, undaunted. What she was about to share contained no deceptions. She only wished it did.

“Destiny is controlled by the Three Sisters of the Fate, Ryan. It always has been. The Three control the Coven of Oracles. Seers. They use the seers' visions to shape destiny. Yours. The whole world's.”

He listened with that implacable expression she was learning to hate. She might have been reading random words from the dictionary for all the reaction he gave.

“They are very powerful. Even gods fear the Sisters of Fate.”

“I told you I don't believe in fate,” he said.

“And I told you, your belief is unnecessary. It hasn't made a difference so far, in case you hadn't noticed.”

Ryan swirled the amber liquid in his glass and drank it, watching her with that silvered stare. Unconvinced. She didn't know why she was surprised.

“Destiny doesn't care if you deny it, Ryan, because it will call you. And if you don't answer, it simply blasts you out of your complacency.”

His eyes narrowed. A response at last. “You're pretty quick to pass judgment,” he said.

Sabelle blushed. “I didn't mean—”

“I know what you meant,” he said. “But you know what? We had a guy in the pub about a month ago, could bend a spoon with his mind.”

“That doesn't compare to seeing the future,” she answered, bewildered. “It's a parlor trick.”

“Can you bend spoons?”

“No,” she replied tartly.

“Then I wouldn't be so quick to dismiss it.”

She looked away.

“This guy,” Ryan went on. “He said he could bend the spoons because he believed that nothing was what it seemed.”

“And that makes sense to you?” she scoffed, lifting her chin.

“Like you, for example,” he said softly. “You're not what you seem to be. Are you?”

“That depends.”

“On?”

“On what I seem to be to you.”

“See, that's the problem. I don't know. So why don't you just cut to the chase and tell me? What are you, Sabelle?”

“How many times do you expect me to answer this question? I've told you. I'm an oracle. A powerful seer of the future.”

“
What
are you?” he insisted with an angry head shake. “What
are
you? Is that even what you look like? Your face, your body?”

Understanding dawned and with it shame and horror. The demons that had invaded last month and run amok with Ryan's brother and sister had
appropriated
human bodies. They hadn't cared if those bodies were still in use at the time they took them either.

“You think I stole it? You think I've taken possession of someone's body?”