Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
“Ready?” Sterling asked, sitting cross-legged within the circle as candles flickered at each nexus point.
“Ready,” Edwina replied, sinking onto the cold floor in front of him, and placing the ring between them.
A shiver of nervousness lit through her, despite the fact it was wrapped in a handkerchief that had been drenched in blessed water.
“The priest and sexton have left the building, the Willoughby’s should be home by now, and evening is falling. ”
The soothing effect of the ritual took hold.
Edwina stilled her mind, casting out all manner of doubt and nerves. Holding her hands out, she laid them in Sterling’s.
“Open yourself to the link,” he whispered.
Blowing out a deep breath, she lowered her psychic wards and reached for him.
There were three types of bonds that the order used; a wellspring bond, where one sorcerer drew strength from another; the Anchor and Shield bond, which was somewhat more reciprocal; and a soul-bond between lovers that could never be broken.
She and Sterling had used a wellspring bond on several occasions, and she reached for him now, trying to take control.
Telepathy was what was needed in this situation, and although Sterling had spent years studying the mental arts, it was her natural affinity, not his.
It required absolute trust on behalf of the wellspring, and she’d always been surprised at how easily he offered her his strength.
“Wait,” he said, opening his eyes.
Edwina blinked in disarray.
“Anchor and Shield,” he told her.
“Anchor and….” She reined herself in in surprise. It was far more intimate than a wellspring bond. And of course, he’d be the Shield, but—
“We’re dealing with a psychic entity,” he replied, “and a powerful one at that. I need to be able to control some of my power so I can ward off any attacks. You can break the spirit’s hold on the ring.”
It made sense.
His skillset ran more to offensive work. But….
“I’ve never been an Anchor before,” she blurted, her cheeks heating. Her mentor, Mr. Scartleberry, had held rather strong opinions on the crossing of certain lines between master and apprentice. He’d talked her through the application of it, of course, but had never dared link with her.
“Never?” A hint of a smile touched Sterling’s mouth.
She shook her head.
“First time for everything then.” And then he paused. “You did bring an inkpot, didn’t you?”
Heat flooded through her cheeks. Of all the eventualities she’d prepared for…. “I have paint.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. You are not painting pink runes on my chest.”
“Gird your loins, Sterling. I’m the only one who’s going to see it.”
Muttering to himself, he began to strip his coat off.
“Good grief,” she said, kneeling in front of him with the tin of paint. “If the sexton returns and catches me drawing pagan runes on you, he’s going to suffer apoplexy.”
Sterling began to unbutton his shirt. “And in a church too. You’re such a heathen, Miss Sheffield. Blood to bind.”
“I know.” She bit her lip, reaching for the athame and slicing the tip of her finger. It wasn’t the blood that made her uneasy, but the way he slipped his shirt off his shoulders.
Good lord.
She’d always known he was sculpted of muscle.
She’d caught glimpses of him boxing in the salon with his friend, Adrian Bishop, before she very deliberately looked away. His shoulders were broad enough to throw a mule over them. And every inch of him was sleek and solid.
Golden tan lines disappeared at his elbow—he did so enjoy rolling up his shirtsleeves and he wasn’t averse to manual labor—but his chest was as pale as chiseled marble.
Once again she was remined of Guillaume Geefs Lucifer statue.
Dipping a finger in the paint—the one without the blood—she began painting binding runes all over him. His skin was warm, and muscle flexed beneath her touch like a cat leaning into a caress.
“Edie,” he prompted, his eyes twinkling merrily. “Saliva next.”
She stuck her cut finger in her mouth and suckled on it, intent on painting the blood across his throat, but he caught her wrist and slowly lifted it to his mouth instead.
The hot suction of his mouth speared through her.
Edwina stilled as the beginnings of the spell caught hold.
Warmth washed through her lower abdomen—magic stirring, thick and heavy in her womb. She could feel him now, his soul melding with hers. The heat of his own magic was like a blazing corona.
Her magic was of middling range, but Sterling could shatter the entirety of London if he wished it.
Edwina’s breath caught as his magic slid under her skin like lips trailing up her arms, across her collarbone and lower, toward her heart.
“You are going to get me in so much trouble,” she whispered.
“Always,” he promised, pressing a kiss to the tip of her finger. “You need a little trouble in your life, Edie Marie.”
“Sterling—” This wasn’t the time. Nor the place. But—
“We’ll discuss it later.”
Now he wanted to talk about it later. She almost threw her hands up in the air.
“My turn.” Heat smoldered to life in his blue eyes. “Unbutton your gown.”
“You just want to get me out of this dress so you can burn it.” But her fingers lifted to the row of buttons that began beneath her chin.
“I’m going to get you out of your dress at some stage, Edie. But I think I might be too distracted to even think of the fate of your gown.”
“Flatterer.”
“An honest man. I want you, and I won’t pretend I don’t anymore.”
Every button she unleashed brought a chill of cool air prickling against her. Or perhaps that was the weight of his gaze, pebbling her skin and hardening her nipples. She felt not at all herself.
“Hold still,” he murmured, dipping his finger in the paint.
The first brush of his index against her collarbone made her shiver.
The faintest of smiles touched his mouth. “You are shockingly receptive to a man’s touch, Edie.”
“This is new to me,” she argued.
“I like it. I can’t wait for it to be my mouth.”
The way he said such things…. She shivered again, and then his finger was tracing lower, painting his familiar bindrune in the valley between her breasts.
“Blood to bind,” he whispered, slicing his index finger on the athame.
Blood mixed with the paint, and Edie squirmed as slivers of delicious heat spread through her.
It felt like he had his fingers inside her.
“Saliva to mark the spell,” she breathed, expecting him to pop his finger in his mouth, as she had.
Instead, he captured her face in both hands and kissed her. The second their tongues touched, the magic between them ignited.
Her hair was torn free of its pins as wind whipped through it.
She could feel him in her skin—under her skin.
Their magic was a molten torrent gushing between them.
Edwina couldn’t help shifting into him, yearning for more. But he drew away with a shaky breath, his eyes holding a promise.
Later.
And for the first time, she knew there would be a later. It was inevitable: As inevitable as falling for him had been.
“Are you ready?” he asked, sounding like the old Sterling. Cool, crisp, professional.
“Ready,” she replied, taking the ring and placing it in the center of the circle.