Chapter 8
Where she clasped him, his chest heaved, and he turned in her arms.
The soft light of the bedroom painted him in shades of gold and shadow as he stood before her, his shirt gone, his shoulders a landscape of muscle and old battles.
When they touched the other’s chakana, the ancient cross of her fallen empire, the blood that thrummed in her own veins, the bridge between worlds, her skin tingled.
Her eyes traced it and then moved higher to where the impossible became real.
Faint as heat shimmer, a pair of spectral wings rose from his back, the feathers a cascade of white and bronze, woven through with the impossible red and blue of a nation's flag.
They weren't solid, but they were there, a manifestation of his soul, a star-spangled eagle riding the air above him.
Awe, sharp and potent, pierced through her, followed by a wave of possessive heat so intense it made her dizzy.
Her hands rose with reverence. One palm pressed flat against the hard planes of his chest, the other lower, her thumb brushing the chakana, then the trident. He had woven his brotherhood straight into the heart of her ancestry.
Her pulse stumbled, roaring in her ears. It was a declaration of absolute alignment. In addition to asking her to join his journey, he had carved her soul into his flesh to keep her close.
His skin was warm, alive, and she felt the steady, heavy thrum of his heart against her touch.
She leaned in, her lips following the path her fingers had taken, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the center of the symbol.
He sucked in a sharp breath, his hands coming to rest on her hips, his grip tight.
She let her hands explore, tracing the ridges of his abdomen, feeling the muscles jump and tense under her touch.
Her gaze drifted lower, past the chakana to the hard ridge straining against the denim of his jeans.
The thought of sinking to her knees, of undoing that button and slowly pulling the zipper down, of taking him into her mouth and feeling him get impossibly harder against her tongue, was a siren's call of pure, unadulterated craving.
She wanted to taste him, to hear the raw sounds he would make, to worship him with her mouth until his control shattered.
But not yet.
Instead, she rose on her toes, her hands sliding up his chest to curl around the back of his neck.
Her mouth found his, and this kiss was different, slow, deep, and exploratory.
She tasted him, savoring the unique flavor that was his, her tongue delving, stroking, claiming.
His response was a low groan that vibrated through his chest and into hers, his hands tightening on her hips, pulling her flush against him so she could feel the full, hard length of his desire.
It was a kiss that wasn't about forgetting the world, but about creating a new one, built from the sacred ground between them.
Her fingers found the button of his jeans, the small metal disk cool against her heated skin.
With a flick of her wrist, it was open. The rasp of the zipper lowering was the only sound in the room, each tooth releasing its hold with agonizing slowness.
She slipped her hands to his lower back, delving beneath the denim to curl over the hard globes of his fine butt, dragging the denim and cotton over his hips.
The fabric pooled at his ankles, and he stepped out of them, kicking them away without a glance.
He stood before her, bathed in the soft light, and the air left her lungs in a silent rush.
He was all lean muscle and corded sinew, a body forged by discipline and carved by combat.
His legs were powerful, dusted with dark hair, leading up to thick, hard thighs.
But it was the sight of his cock, jutting away from his ridged belly, that made her mouth go dry.
It was as beautiful and formidable as the rest of him, thick and heavily flushed, the head already beading with moisture.
A prominent vein pulsed along its length, a testament to the raw, unbridled want thrumming through him.
It was a visceral promise of the pleasure and the power he held in check, and the thought of taking all of that, of having it fill her, was a dizzying, wanton, and utterly thrilling prospect.
He was looking at her like she'd struck him, and in a way, she had.
She'd struck him with the truth of their shared, impossible reality.
The raw, wounded awe in his eyes was her undoing.
She closed the distance between them, her hands coming up to frame his face, her thumbs stroking the rough stubble of his jaw.
She kissed him. She poured everything she couldn't say into it, her fear, her relief, her bone-deep recognition of him.
His lips parted on a sigh, and she deepened it, her tongue sweeping in to taste him, to claim him.
His hands, which had been hanging loosely at his sides, rose to her back, his palms flattening against her skin, holding her close as if he were afraid she might disappear.
Slowly, she broke the kiss. Her hands slid from his jaw, down the corded muscles of his neck, across the broad expanse of his shoulders.
She felt the subtle shift in his breathing, the way his muscles tensed in anticipation.
Her gaze held his as she sank to her knees, the movement fluid and deliberate, a silent promise.
His eyes widened, his breath hitching in his throat as he realized her intention. His hands came up to her shoulders as if to steady himself, his fingers digging in slightly.
She settled on the floor before him, her face level with the hard, heavy proof of his desire.
She looked up at him, her expression one of pure, unadulterated want.
She reached out, her fingers tracing the powerful muscles of his thighs before gently cupping his balls, feeling their weight and heat in her palm.
He let out a choked groan, his head falling back.
She leaned in and pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the velvety skin of his shaft, just below the head. His hips jerked, a helpless thrust. She smiled against him, then took him into her mouth.
The taste of him was clean, salty, and utterly intoxicating.
She swirled her tongue around the head, lapping at the bead of moisture there, eliciting another ragged groan from deep in his chest. She took him deeper, her lips stretching around his delicious thickness, her hand wrapping around the base of his cock to stroke what she couldn't take.
She set a slow, deliberate rhythm, a sensual torment that was as much about her pleasure as his.
She loved the power of this, the way she could unravel this strong, controlled man with just her mouth, the way his breath hitched, and his muscles trembled under her touch.
She looked up at him, watching his face as he lost himself to the sensation, his eyes squeezed shut, his jaw clenched, a beautiful, devastating surrender.
“Jae,” she whispered. “Watch me take you.”
His eyes snapped open, and his breathing was ragged, open-mouthed, those gray eyes nothing but black, his pupils blown, his will in her hands, his need for her in every line of his delineated body.
Her tongue traced him, and his guttural groan sent shivering sensations down to her core, into the tips of her breasts.
“Please, Killa.” His begging was powerful, and it made her feel wanted, needed, everything he desired was in those two words.
She took him again, deeper, his hands going into her hair, riding the rhythm of her mouth, his rasping response so damn stirring and sweet.
She sent her hands up his body, the left going up his hip, and clawing down over the sensitive skin of his lower abdomen.
He groaned through clenched teeth as she lost herself in the tactile feel of him, her body on fire.
Her hands went higher, but the moment the pads of her fingertips met his scar tissue from where Herrera’s goon had stabbed him, the room tilted, then shattered.
The scent of him, cinnamon, soap, and warm skin, vanished, and the world tore open around her.
She smelled smoke and resin, the reek of a city burning and something terrible in that smoke.
Scattered images filled her mind, and threaded through it all was the terror of being hunted, a horse’s heavy breathing and hoofbeats, the screams of the dying, and a wound that was draining the life from her.
Everything was a chaotic jumble, amber torchlight lurching off cold stone, blood on her hands, sticky and metallic, too much of it.
Running, her breath tight in her lungs. A blade in her hand.
The silhouette of a…a…conquistador folded toward her, the source of that terror, too close.
The wet give of him against the sharp edge of the knife in her hand.
The only clear part, a stone basin in an ancient glade, and her heart knew exactly where it was, filled with sacred water going dark. A name screamed in anguish. She watched the light leave a pair of eyes an arm's length from her face.
Sobbing, hopelessness, a lost love so deep she thought she would die, ritual words and dimming light, then collapse.
Death crawled over her, black and patient.
Failure sat thick and acid on her tongue.
In her gut, in the deepest part of her, a dread grew and consumed her.
She had done something she couldn't take back.
Had she just sealed the fate of all humankind?
“Cisco!” Lechuza screamed as she reeled back, crawling away from him, sobbing, her chest heaving as she sucked in the cold air of the 21st century, the world she’d just witnessed falling into shadow, but the feelings and the memory were so vivid.
Anguish traveled through her like repeated strikes of lightning.
“Babe!” Flash said, moving toward her, but she held out her hands.