Under His Skin (36 page)

Brec shook his head in amazement, hardly believing his ears. He could hear the truth in her words, but still he could scarcely believe it.

“Ana, I would never ask you to give up your skin.” He raised both hands to cup her face. Before he could second guess himself, he took a deep breath. “I love you too,” he whispered.

“Fuck,” the bear muttered.

Brec and Ana both turned to look at him. A small sound escaped Ana’s throat as he threw her fur down in front of them. Brec kept one arm around Ana as he leaned forward and snatched the skin up, handing it back to its trembling owner.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you,” she whispered over and over.

The man sighed and sat down on the bed against one wall. “I was a good man six months ago,” he said tiredly. “I kept to myself, but I was good to travelers who showed up at my door and I never hurt a hair on anyone’s head.” He nodded at Ana. “Seems to me that losing her skin made her into a person she wasn’t proud of, but she managed to pull herself back and become a better person.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I can’t very well let getting my skin back make me into a worse man than before, now can I?’

Brec held his breath as the man shook his head and turned his gaze to Brec’s.

“Take her home.”

“Hold on, Elsie, I’ll just be a minute.”

Ana gave the young selkie woman a smile and patted her back before turning to go downstairs. The poor girl had cut her hand up on a broken seashell and was oozing blood from several tiny cuts. Still, a little rosewater would make her good as new.

A smile pulled up the corners of Ana’s mouth as she reached the lower level of her cabin. The entire far wall was lined with huge shelves and cupboards full of incenses, oils, herbs, and brews. Everything a healer could need to help her people.

I have more herbs than Mrs. Downing now,
Ana mused.

She opened one of the cupboards. Her eyes landed on an empty spot where the rosewater should have been.
Ana frowned.
Narrowing her eyes she stepped back and crossed her arms.

“Nu!”

A few seconds later the pixie landed on her shoulder. He smelled like roses.

“Yes?”

“Nu,” Ana said sternly. “Where is my rosewater?”

Nu widened his eyes, the very picture of innocence. “You mean it’s not in the cabinet?”

“Nu,” Ana intoned, letting her warning echo in her voice. “Where is my rosewater?” she asked again.

“Well that’s a fine how do you do,” Nu grumbled. “Doubting me like that. And after all we’ve been through. Need I remind you, madam, that when we first met I pledged to carry the secret of your skin’s location with me to my grave--in the face of an angry selkie no less! Why,
Tatania
herself would have fainted under such threats.”

“You would have told Brec where the skins were eventually.”

“I swore I would never tell him!” Nu gasped indignantly. “You impugn my honor, Ana!”

“Ah, but you didn’t swear that you wouldn’t tell my front door while Brec just happened to be standing behind you, did you?”

Nu’s jaw dropped and Ana laughed. “One of your little pixie friends came in when her wing was torn in a storm. We had a nice chat while I fixed her up. She had quite a lot of interesting stories to tell about you.”

“Bloody big mouths, pixies,” Nu groused.

“Now, about my rosewater . . .”

Nu flew into the air in front of her, his little face twisted in indignation. “What, you want I should bathe in common seawater? Without anything to soften it, or make it smell as all water should smell? And me with the sensitive skin of a baby--”

Ana closed her eyes and pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to tune out the pixie’s tirade. The headache starting at the base of her skull couldn’t quite keep the smile from tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“Let me guess--missing roses?”

Brec’s voice coming from behind her turned Ana’s head. Now the smile blossomed, as it always did when her husband came home.

“Rosewater,” she admitted. “I’m going to need more.”

She turned to Brec, surrendering herself to his embrace. She looped her arms around his neck as he pulled her against his body. The sight of her fur wrapped around her right wrist--never out of her sight--was just another reminder of everything the man in front of her had done for her.

The press of his hard muscles against her own soft curves sent a delicious thrill up her spine. She tilted her face up, welcoming his kiss. His lips slid over hers and Ana sighed. Pixie or no pixie, roses or no roses, life was good.

Preview of APHRODITE’S HUNT, an erotic paranormal romance by Jennifer
Blackstream

Chapter 1

“Master, there is someone here to see you.”

Grigore’s voice disturbed the relative quiet of the vampire’s study—the crackling in the fireplace the only other sound. Sorin remained still in his chair, staring into the flames. Unlike the large room full of antique furniture, his mind was not lit by the cheery fire. Darkness infused him, body and soul. His heart struggled to beat using only the energy it absorbed from the brownie behind him. The little fey’s life force kept it going—but it wasn’t blood. It didn’t invigorate him, didn’t tempt him. Sorin closed his eyes. Sometimes he wished his heart would give up completely—as he had.

Grigore sighed. The floor creaked as he shifted his weight. The energy flowing from him to Sorin halted briefly before flowing in the opposite direction. Sorin knew what the brownie planned to do before the command left his mouth.

“Sorin, come to the door and greet your guest.”

His name echoed with power on Grigore’s tongue, power the brownie had stolen through their link. Like a puppet on strings, Sorin stood and turned to the door. It should have disturbed him to have his body move without any intention or effort on his part. He didn’t care.

Sorin opened his eyes. His deadened gaze appraised his servant, apathy lying on him like a leaden blanket. Grigore stood less than three feet tall, an average height for a brownie. His brown hair and beard were neatly trimmed, as always, and his brown robe was clean and well pressed despite its obvious wear. He looked more like a tree stump than an alchemist—certainly not the sort of creature who should have any power over a vampire. Sorin shook his head.

“You would use our connection to compel me, Grigore? Am I so reduced that you would make yourself my master?”

“I should be punished, to be sure. Why don’t you punish me, master?”

Sorin knew he should be outraged. The connection a vampire forged with someone he repeatedly fed on was meant to give the undead power over his prey—not the other way around. The fact that Grigore was a mere brownie, kin to the common dwarf, only added to the insult. Any other vampire would have killed Grigore for his audacity.

A voice in his head mocked him, pointing out that no other vampire would have let himself grow so weak that his food could order him about through a perversion of a magical umbilical cord. If he had any self respect at all he would discipline the brownie—severely.

“I will not punish you, Grigore.” Even to his own ears, his voice sounded dull and defeated.
 

“I know, master.”

The sad tone in the small man’s voice pounded into Sorin’s spine like a nail of solid guilt. If he’d had the energy he may have tried to comfort him. As it was, he had to fight just to remain standing.

His gaze wandered to his chair and its soft velvet lining. It would be easy enough to retake his seat. Grigore’s command had been more of a nudge to get Sorin up than a compulsion to make him go to the door. Still, he didn’t want to make Grigore choose between using more energy and giving up. It was a brownie’s nature to serve, not to dominate. He knew what little force Grigore had used to make him stand had likely already made the smaller man uncomfortable. Just because life had lost all meaning for him, didn’t mean he wanted his friend to suffer too.

“You know I hate stealing your energy, my friend. It bothers me to use what little it takes to keep me alive. If I am to move this leaden body of mine very far, I will have to take more and I do not wish to cause you harm.”

Grigore’s eyes flashed with something akin to anger. “I am fey, am I not, master? Do you think my energy so human that taking enough to walk will cause me harm?”

The indignation in his words lashed at his skin like a whip. Sorin winced. He’d only meant to discourage the brownie from insisting he go to the door. Unfortunately, his years of inactivity had apparently injured his manners as well as his strength. He
sighed
his submission and began an agonizingly slow shuffle out of the room.

At the doorway he paused, leaning against it for support. “Who is at the door?”

The question was more a means to distract
himself
from the humiliating amount of exertion it took him to walk, than an expression of interest. He moved so rarely these days, every step took a Herculean effort.
Good. A slow-moving predator doesn’t kill anyone.

“Better you see for yourself, master.”

“I would prefer it if you just told me.”

“I know, master.”

Anger tried to flare in the face of Grigore’s quiet refusal, but it died before it could even change his facial expression. Resigned to going all the way to the front door, Sorin straightened up and stepped into the hall. A draft flowed down the passage, ruffling the curtains that framed the windows. The black paint covering the glass absorbed the light, making each one seem like a shadowy portal to oblivion. The breeze wafted under his nose as it passed.

A new scent slammed into him with all the subtlety of a freight train. He froze, one hand automatically reaching for the wall as an intoxicating combination of rich soil and new grass slapped him in the face. He grasped the wall to reassure
himself
that he was still indoors and hadn’t fallen out an open window into the trees that surrounded his mansion. He raised his nose, sucking the scent deep into his lungs. Under the fragrance of mother earth was a warmer, fleshier scent.
Musk and something else.
Something . . . primal.

The brownie paused and looked back.
“Master?”

The exciting aroma swirled around him, teasing his senses and coaxing him to continue forward. Taking another pull of energy from Grigore, Sorin managed to walk with something resembling a normal pace. Exhaustion still clung to his limbs, but he fought against it as he followed the invigorating scent down the hallway. It seduced him, whispering wicked words in the dark. Never before had a scent held such promise.

His heart beat harder as he flowed to the wooden banister lining the balcony. The feel of the cursed organ pulsing in his chest sent a dull ache through his body. He ignored the pain. In the face of this new scent, this wonderful scent, the pain was irrelevant. To the right, the wide staircase curved down to spill into the front hallway. From this vantage point, he could see the front door and the foyer.

Werewolf
.

The word echoed in his mind even before he saw her. She paced in front of his door, her strong supple body moving with the liquid grace common to her kind. Pale blue jeans hugged the curves of her hips and thighs before disappearing into worn brown leather boots. Every slope called to him, tightened his groin with the need to run his fingers and hands over every hill and valley. The tight fit of her royal blue sweater accented her breasts, filling him with the desire to rip the soft fibers from her body and smooth his hands over the warm prizes underneath.

As if feeling his eyes on her, the woman looked up. Her golden gaze offered a window to her inner wolf and for a moment he could have sworn his heart stopped.
Alpha
.

There was no mistaking the authority in that gaze, the force behind that stare. She looked at him as if he
were
the intruder and it was her home they stood in. There was a sort of defiance in her eyes, a challenge. He wanted to go to her, to answer that challenge. He raised his hands to grip the banister, preparing to leap over the railing just to get to her faster.