Find Me in Passion: Mal and Christina's Story, Part 3

  Find Me in Passion

  A Dark Pleasures novella

  Mal & Christina (Part 3)

  By Julie Kenner

  Copyright © 2015 Julie Kenner

  Kobo Edition

  All rights reserved

  juliekenner@gmail.com

  http://www.juliekenner.com

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  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Excerpt from Caress of Darkness

  Excerpt from Tainted

  Excerpt from Carpe Demon

  JK’s Booklist

  About Julie

  Chapter 1

  ‡

  Pain.

  It is like a living thing, moving around me. Through me.

  Hot wires that slice flesh, that pulverize bone.

  Torment rising, torture pushing.

  Filling me. Hurting me.

  And though I try to turn it off—to hide inside myself someplace deep where the pain cannot get to me—it is futile.

  Another wave of agony tears through me, and I try to fight. I try to run.

  But I am bound here, lashed to a wooden post. Forced to do nothing but stand and endure.

  Stand, and fight the weapon inside me.

  But I won’t be able to fight much longer.

  I can feel it—a wild power rising. A violent explosion.

  A weapon, hidden inside me against my will.

  A weapon that I have tried to learn to control. But I know now that I have failed, because no matter how much I fight, the power just builds and builds and builds, and I can feel my body heating. My skin tingling with the force that is going to burst out of me.

  I cannot do this alone.

  I cannot do this at all.

  I cry out for Malcolm—I need his help. I need his strength.

  But he is not here. They’ve taken me.

  This is it. This is the end.

  And as that horrible truth tears through me—as the fire starts to burst out of me—I scream and I scream and I scream.

  Chapter 2

  ‡

  “Christina! Christina!”

  I open my eyes, my body tense, my heart pounding so hard in my chest that I fear I will crack a rib.

  At first, I can see nothing. Just a blood red haze of fear. Then my vision clears, and there he is.

  Mal.

  The relief that sweeps over me is palpable. Mal is here, and that means that I am safe.

  I look at him, cherishing the sight of him. His face is chiseled perfection softened only by the shadow of beard stubble on his jaw and chin. His dark hair gleams in the pale glow of street lamps filtering in through the window. Even here in bed he appears calm. In control. A man certain of himself and his surroundings.

  Only his stormy gray eyes reveal his worry.

  I wrap my arms around him and hold him tight. My love. My mate. The man I have known for thousands of years.

  The lover I am only beginning to know again.

  My face is buried against his shoulder, and I breathe deep as the remnants of the nightmare fall away. He is shirtless, and his skin is warm against my cheek. The lingering scent of soap from our shower before bed soothes me, and I keep my eyes closed, hoping that the longer he holds me, the more distant the dream will become.

  Tenderly, he tips my head back, then looks into my eyes. As always, I am awed and humbled by the depth of emotion I see on his face. By the intense passion that is directed solely at me. “You’re fine,” he says. “You’re safe.”

  “I know.” My words are thin. “I do.”

  He strokes my cheek, then kisses me softly. “You’ve had nightmares for two nights now. What can I do?”

  “Right now, just hold me.”

  “I’m already doing that.”

  I nod, because he is. And in his arms, I do feel safe. But even Mal cannot soothe my deepest fears. Because I know too well what is inside of me.

  More, I know that it cannot be controlled, no matter how badly both of us might wish otherwise.

  There is only one way to make sure that the weapon inside me causes no harm, and that is to kill me.

  At the thought, I tremble in his arms.

  “Tell me,” he whispers. “Tell me the dream so that I can help.”

  When I don’t answer, he strokes my hair. “Was it me? Did I come to you? Did I kill you?”

  The pain in his voice rips me up inside. “Don’t,” I say. “Don’t ever feel guilty for doing what you had to do.”

  I mean the words, and I know he understands, but that doesn’t erase the torment or the sadness I see in his eyes. And for that, I can hardly blame him. Had our positions been reversed, I don’t know how I could have survived the long years of torture. The horror that started over three thousand years ago.

  We’d come to this world accidentally. Mal and I and all the other members of the Phoenix Brotherhood. We’d left our own world to chase a vile enemy who had stolen a horrific weapon with the power to destroy the very fabric of the universe. But an accident had steered us off course, the brotherhood and our prey. We’d been thrust into this dimension, this world.

  And though we had left our home as creatures of pure, sentient energy, this dimension cannot support such life, and we found new form in willing humans, merging with them and becoming immortal in the process.

  But while the brotherhood’s new form was acquired peaceably, our prey’s form was not. The fuerie did not merge, but took. Possessing humans, burning out their souls, and using the bodies for their own dark purposes.

  And one such purpose was to hide the weapon. Like us, it had to be bound in this world. So the fuerie assaulted and took me, and then made me their vessel for the weapon.

  Mal and the rest of our team fought to rescue me, but it was too late. The damage was done. And when Mal realized the nature of what had been done to me—when it became clear that I couldn’t control the weapon inside me—he did the only thing that he could do.

  He killed me.

  He killed me to save me. To save the world.

  At the time that he did it, he believed that I would come back to him. We were immortal creatures, after all, and I should have been born again in the phoenix fire.

  But the weapon had changed me, and I did not come back. Not for many hundreds of years, until I was reincarnated into the body of an Egyptian girl.

  And, once again, I carried the burden of the destructive power that hid deep inside me, though I did not know it. And I didn’t remember Mal, either.

  Once again Mal did his duty. And again after that and again and again and again.

  He killed me so many times throughout the ages that it is a miracle he was not driven mad.

  But in the end, he could do it no more.

  This time, when I came back, I remembered him. Not all of it—hardly anything, really. But enough that I knew him. That I could say his name.

  And that was all it took.

  He defied his duty.

  He risked the world.

  He brought me home.

  And though I am horrified by and terrifie
d of this weapon inside me, I know that Mal has had the harder time of it.

  “It wasn’t you in the dream,” I say, finally answering his question. “It was just me. Me and the weapon and the pain.”

  “Tell me.”

  I look at him. “It was like the last time. I was tied to a pole. And they were hurting me.” My voice starts to rise and crack with the memory. “And the pain made the weapon bubble up in me. And I couldn’t stop it—I couldn’t—”

  “Shhh.” He presses a finger to my lips, and just that simple touch calms my panic. “You’re safe. It was just a dream.”

  “This time.”

  I see the shadow on his face, and regret my words.

  “Christina…”

  “No. Mal, I—” But I can’t find the right words to soothe him, and so I just kiss him. Soft at first, and then hard and desperate as the need rises in both of us.

  There has always been passion between us, but it is different now—a combination of familiar comfort and new discovery. Because though we both wish it were not true, my memories have not fully returned. And even if they had, I cannot deny that I am different than I was.

  I have lived hundreds of lives, and the imprint of all the women I have been is now part of me. Over the last few days, I’ve been remembering bits and pieces of them. Slave girls and noblewomen, mothers and sisters, criminals and even a saint. Now, I am Jaynie. Jaynie Hart, who grew up with a crazy mother who told her the devil lived inside her.

  Jaynie Hart, who was always more comfortable playing a role.

  Jaynie Hart, who still isn’t sure if she is Jaynie or Christina or someone else entirely. The one thing I am sure of is that the only place I feel truly safe—truly me—is in Mal’s arms.

  I pull back, breaking our kiss, my lips tingling. I meet his eyes and see the heat there along with the question. I want to tell him that I am fine. I’m good. At least for right now, with him, there is nothing else that I need.

  The words don’t come. Instead, all I can manage is his name, low and rough with passion. “Mal.” It is a plea. A prayer. And he does not disappoint.

  In one wild, violent move, he covers me, laying me out flat on the huge bed that dominates the master bedroom in his six-story brownstone. I gasp, surprised by the unexpected motion, but also overwhelmed by the feel of him, naked and hard and heavy on top of me.

  Like him, I am wearing nothing, and now I close my eyes and succumb to the glorious sensation of skin against skin. His entire body is warm, as if he generates heat like a furnace, and I writhe with pleasure as his hands stroke me, sliding over my skin and easing up my rib cage.

  He cups my breasts, then teases my nipples with his thumbs, pinching lightly and sending hot coils of desire looping through me, firing my senses and pooling between my thighs.

  I arch up, relishing the pressure of his erection against my lower abdomen, but wanting so much more than that. I shift my hips so that the hard length of his cock rubs against me, and I smile with satisfaction at his low moan of pleasure.

  With my arms around his neck, I tilt my head up, only to be humbled by the look of adoration I see reflected on his face.

  “Close your eyes,” he whispers, “and tell me what you need.”

  His fingers still stroke me, and he trails kisses down my body.

  I tremble under his touch, craving so much more than he can give me. I want him to take me all the way to the edge, yes. But I also want to go over—and that, we cannot do. Even now I can feel passion curling through me. Heating me. Boiling within me.

  And soon, I know, we run the risk of boiling over.

  “Mal. We can’t. We—”

  “Shhhh.” He bends to brush a kiss over my lips. “Trust me,” he says. “Trust me to take you as far as we can go, but no farther. Trust me to take you right to the edge and then hold on tight. Can you do that?” he asks as he slips his hand between my legs and strokes me.

  I’m wet and open to him, and I gasp as his fingers enter me. “Can you?” he asks, his voice rough against my ear.

  “Yes.” My back arches up. Damn the risk; I want more. So much more. “Please.”

  “Please, what?”

  “Don’t stop. I want more.”

  Slowly he kisses his way down my body, leaving a tingling trail of desire his wake. “How much more?”

  “Everything.” My voice breaks as pleasure wars with need. And then, as he spreads my legs—as his fingers open me and the tip of his cock presses inside me—the churning sensations rise up again and need gives way to fear.

  “No,” I say as I press my thighs together then pull my knees up as I try to roll to my side. “Mal, please, no.”

  He is off me in a heartbeat, then at my side, his face so close to mine that I would have to be blind not to see his concern.

  “What happened?” he asks. “You weren’t there yet. Not even close.” He strokes my cheek gently. “If we’re going to practice control, we have to push the envelope, and you have trust that I won’t let it go too far.”

  I shake my head. “I told you I needed everything. That I want everything. And I do, Mal, I really do. But don’t you see? What I want, I can’t have. And what I don’t want is to be the Exploding Woman.”

  “Oh, lover.” His voice is full of pain, and I know that it is all the worse for him because this is something he can’t give me. That he can’t fix. “That’s why we’re working on control, remember?”

  I close my eyes as he pulls me tight against him. “I don’t want to have to work on it,” I admit. I just want the pleasure of his touch. And I don’t want to play games. Not unless those games are just for us.

  Bottom line, I don’t want the fate of the world tied to my romance with Mal.

  And the truth is, I know that it isn’t. Not really. Because while the weapon might trigger if I get too excited, teaching me control can only go so far toward saving us.

  I open my eyes to find him focused on me, his brow furrowed with worry. “You’re thinking very loud.”

  I smirk. “Sorry about that.”

  “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

  I hesitate, then say boldly, “It won’t work.” He says nothing, so I continue on gamely. “I love the way you touch me. The way you make me feel. Controlling myself, holding back, submitting to your demands and instructions—it’s exciting.”

  “But?”

  “But that’s all it is. Just lovers’ games. It’s not the way to win the battle, Mal. And it won’t save the world.”

  “It will.”

  I shake my head. “They drugged me. I have no defense against that. All the control in the world won’t help me battle back narcotics.”

  “But you have to be awake to trigger the weapon, and when they wake you, you can control it.”

  I smile sadly, then curl my fingers with his. “We both know I didn’t control it—I couldn’t control it. You took the brunt of it. You saved us, Mal. Me, you, the entire world. And if you hadn’t been there…” I trail off, letting the words hang.

  “It was too soon. But with more practice, more skill…”

  I shift on the bed so that I am straddling him. I want to see his face. I want to touch him. I want him to understand what I’m saying. “I have no defense against that level of pain. It was brutal, Mal. Horrible.”

  I see him flinch, and I know that my words hurt him, too, but I press on, because it’s important he understands. “What you’ve done—what we do—it makes sense, but it’s not enough. And you could up the ante, I know that. You could spank me, flog me. And I wouldn’t object. Hell, even without the weapon and our training games, I wouldn’t object,” I finally say, admitting the secret desire I’d kept hidden. “But it wouldn’t be enough. It wouldn’t be nearly enough.”

  I see understanding in his eyes and continue. “Don’t you see? What I’d want you to do doesn’t go far enough. And what might be enough isn’t something I’d be willing to do.”

  “It’s okay,” he says. “And it’s
not about the level of pain, but about control.”

  I make a face. “How much I hurt ties directly to how much control I have. And how long I can maintain it.”

  He slides out from under me so that he is sitting up in bed, leaving me beside his legs and facing him. I grab a pillow and hug it to me, both for warmth and because this conversation has left me feeling exposed, even to Mal.

  “The truth is,” he continues, “it’s not really pain or control or even the weapon that are the issue.”

  “No?”

  “Do you trust me?” he asks.

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Wholly and completely?”

  “Yes.” I frown, because I have told him this before.

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Dammit, Mal, you know that I—”

  “Do you think I didn’t see your face?”

  I close my mouth, confused by his words. “My face? What, now?”

  “Tonight, yes. And after the battle. After Asher agreed with me that it makes no sense to kill you. Even with the weapon, you’re more use alive.”

  I hug the pillow tighter. A recent side effect of the weapon inside me is the unexpected but undeniably handy skill of seeing our enemy. And I mean literally seeing them spread out on a map in my head. Which means I’m pretty much the best intelligence the brotherhood now has as to the location of the fuerie. And that makes me very useful indeed.

  I know Mal’s decision to keep me alive didn’t hinge on that parlor trick, but I can’t deny that it rankles when he says it that way. From Asher, I expect cold calculation. From Mal, I just want love.

  Which is why I sound a bit prissy when I say, “So?”

  But he just looks at me. And then he repeats, “Tell me what you need. Show me that you trust me, and just tell me.”

  I sigh. Because he is right. I do need something from him. For that matter, I’ve probably even made a face a time or two. “All right,” I say. “If it comes to it, I need to know that you will stop trying to save me and just kill me.”

  I am sitting cross-legged, and my knee rests on his thigh. I feel him tense in response to my words, but he says nothing.