Find Me in Darkness: Mal and Christina's Story, Part 1 Read online

  It wasn’t a nice feeling and not one that I’m keen on repeating, and so I shake myself firmly, then glance back to where I’d seen her only moments before. But no one is there now.

  I feel beads of sweat pop along the nape of my neck, and suddenly I want nothing more than to be inside, safe in Brayden’s apartment. “Can we skip the drink after all? Maybe have something at your place and put in a movie? I’m just—”

  “Tired.”

  “Yes.” I latch gratefully onto the excuse.

  “No prob. I’ve got all sorts of mindless crap we can watch. Or you can just crash. Won’t hurt my feelings.” He points ahead, more or less in the direction where I’d seen the flaming female. “I’m just three doors down.”

  “Great.” I take his hand, feeling stupid for being scared of what had surely been nothing more than a trick of the light. But then something dark and gray shoots past us and I jump about a mile.

  “Just a cat,” Bray says. “In fact, I think it’s Roger.”

  “Roger?”

  “My neighbor’s spoiled ball of fluff. She’s a sweet old lady with a ground floor flat in the building next to mine. It has a tiny patio, and she insists on letting Roger go out there even though she freaks out every time he scales the wall. Hang on.” He pulls out his phone and uses it as a flashlight, shining it into the small service alley between the bar and the next building over. “Hey, Roger,” he says gently. “Come on, buddy.”

  “It’s him?” I’m crouched behind him, my hand resting on his back.

  “Yeah. Let me see if I can get him. We’ll call it my good deed for the year.”

  The alley is about as wide as a car, and as I follow him past a collection of rather pungent smelling garbage cans, we pass a heavy door that I assume opens to the bar’s kitchen. A single bulb above the door emits a dim light that ostensibly illuminates the alley, but really only makes the shadows deeper.

  I hear a rustling behind me and turn, expecting to find Roger. Instead, it’s the flame lady.

  The first thing I notice is that her face looks normal.

  The second thing is the knife in her hand.

  I scream and stumble backward even as the big gray blob of a cat launches itself from the top of a trashcan and connects with her face.

  The knife goes flying, but that doesn’t deter the woman, whose fingers close around my upper arm.

  In that freakish trick of time, everything seems to slow and the world is suddenly more clear than it has ever been.

  I feel the pressure of her fingers.

  I see the cat hissing from behind a plastic crate.

  I hear Brayden calling my name.

  And I see a strange, colorful blade of light slice sideways from behind the woman, neatly lopping off her head to reveal the tall, dark, god of a warrior wielding a sword behind her.

  What the fuck?

  Some part of me thinks that I have snapped. That whatever bit of crazy I have inherited from my mother has battled its way to the surface and is all set to drag me back under.

  Except I don’t believe that. This doesn’t feel like crazy—which is a ridiculous rationalization, when you get right down to it. I mean, if you are losing your mind, chances are you believe that you’re perfectly sane.

  Even so, I am not worried about my sanity. And, frankly, I don’t have time to be concerned about my laissez-faire attitude toward these strange goings-on. Time has snapped back into place, and there is a body falling to the ground, and Brayden has my hand and he is yanking me toward the back of the alley where, presumably, there is another way out.

  We don’t even make it one step.

  The warrior holds up a hand, and the air seems suddenly charged. It rolls toward us in waves, its force knocking us both backward. Me against the brick wall and Braydon to the ground. I see him hit his head, and I cry out, afraid he’s been knocked unconscious, but the air is so thick that the sound can’t even travel.

  Then the wave dissipates and I’m left gasping as the warrior approaches me, that strange, sword-like weapon tight in his hand.

  I tilt my head back, breathing hard.

  I realize with some surprise that I’m not scared. On the contrary, everything seems oddly familiar. Like deja vu on steroids.

  And in that moment, I am certain that the fierce looking warrior with the sad gray eyes is going to kill me. More than that, I’m certain that he has killed me before, which really makes no sense whatsoever.

  I open my mouth to beg him to stop, but that is not the word that comes out.

  Instead, I hear myself saying, “Malcolm?”

  Chapter 3

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  Malcolm.

  I don’t know how, but I am certain that is the man’s name.

  More than that, I am certain that he entered this alley tonight intending to kill me.

  I know it the same way that I know that the weapon he still has pressed against my neck is called a fire sword.

  How I know all that, though, is a mystery, and not one that I need to be solving at the moment.

  Right now, I just need to stay alive.

  “Mal,” I say as my heart pounds wildly. “Please.”

  I force myself to stand straight. To face him.

  He is taller than me, well over six feet with hair as dark as midnight and gray eyes that glint like silver in the dim light.

  Right now, there is heat in those eyes. And something else that I think might be regret.

  Other than his eyes, this man is stone, his face chiseled perfection, all hard lines and angles softened only slightly by the dark shadow of beard stubble. My first impression had been of a warrior god, and I’d been right. This is a man who knows power. Who knows control.

  This is a man who will do what he wants, take what he wants.

  And yet for some inexplicable reason, I am not afraid.

  As if in acknowledgment of that perplexing realization, he lowers the blade.

  This is my chance.

  I should scream. I should run.

  And yet I do neither of those things. I just stand there, feeling a bit like I had on the airplane, as if I’m being drawn atom by atom from one reality into another.

  “Do you know your name?” There is a tightness in his voice, as if my answer is the most important thing in the world.

  “Of course I do.” It’s Jaynie, I think. But that is not what I say. Because that is not my name. Not here. Not with this man. “I’m Christina.”

  The sword clatters to the ground as a shudder runs through him.

  Once again, I think that I should run. Once again, I don’t.

  Instead I stand there, watching the riot of emotion play across his face. Astonishment. Relief. Fear?

  And then those emotions are swept away, replaced by a sensual hunger so powerful that it makes my skin tingle in both anticipation and awareness.

  “Christina.” He says my name sweetly, as if it is a prayer, then clutches my arm and pulls me to him.

  I gasp. There’s nothing sweet now. This is hard and hot. This is power and demand and the insisting press of his body against mine.

  One of his hands finds the small of my back, sliding beneath the thin material of my T-shirt to find the bare skin above the waistband of my skirt.

  The touch is electric, and sparks of awareness ricochet through me, like a supernova in my soul. I don’t understand what is happening. All I know is that I want this. That I need it.

  That I’ve missed it.

  Whatever apprehension I’d felt before is gone, wiped away by the intensity of my reaction to this man. And oh, dear god, is it intense. My skin prickles with need, sensitive even to the gentle brush of air. My breasts are heavy, my nipples hard. My sex is swollen, throbbing in anticipation of his touch.

  But it is my lips that crave him the most. And in a motion that makes me believe that he has the power to read my mind, he swoops down and claims my mouth in a kiss that is wild and hard desperate. I yield willingly, my lips parting in welcome.
In his arms, my body goes limp as I surrender, trusting him to keep me upright as our teeth clash and our tongues mate in a primal frenzy that has my pulse pounding so hard in my ears I can hear nothing else.

  This can’t be reality because there is no way that I can feel this light, this free, this found. And yet I do, and it’s real, and I know by the taste of his kisses and the brush of his hand upon my skin that it’s right. It’s familiar.

  It’s home.

  I don’t understand it. All I know is that I have missed him. I need him. And I have to have him—hard and fast and now.

  Almost violently, he breaks the kiss, pulling back and breathing hard, and I fear that whatever madness has claimed us both is over.

  “Please.” The words escapes me before I have have time to think. “Please, don’t stop.”

  His mouth curves up into a smile so sensual it is almost a caress. “Stop? Lover, we haven’t even begun.”

  The endearment sends shivers through me, and I draw in a breath, overwhelmed by the sensation that there is a whole world just beyond my peripheral vision, and if only I could turn my head, then I could see it. Return to it.

  I can’t think about that, though. Not now while his fingertips are brushing lightly over my forehead, my lips, my cheeks, as if he is memorizing every curve and angle of my face. It’s a gentle touch, but it is driving me wild, and it takes all my willpower to stay still when all I want is the sensation of his body pressed hard against mine. Touching me. Taking me. Filling me.

  “Dear god, how I’ve missed you.”

  I hear the sadness in his voice and want to weep. “Me, too,” I whisper, meaning the words even though I do not understand them.

  “You remember, then?”

  “I—” A tremor of fear runs through me, and in that moment I don’t want to remember. Even if remembering means that I would understand. Even if it means that Mal will fill my thoughts and my dreams and my memories.

  But there are wisps. Tiny threads of memory that seem to float by, almost close enough to grasp. And they are filled with fire and heat. With caresses and passion.

  With Mal.

  I meet his eyes. “All I remember is you.” Warm tears snake down my cheeks as the memories form a tapestry of images and sensations. His lips. His hands. Our flesh, our souls, our very beings entwined in passion. “I don’t—” My breath hitches. I don’t understand what’s going on, not any of it. In that moment, I know only the man. His heat. His touch. His fire.

  I’m lost in a dark mist, but Mal is at the end of a brightly lit path, and if I can just run to him, then I’ll be out of the mist. I’ll be safe.

  And I’m trying. I’m trying so hard. But the mist is gathering closer, filling in the spaces between us and threatening to take him away from me.

  The thought is unbearable, and I reach for him, fisting my hands in his shirt, then levering myself toward him. “Touch me,” I demand. “Touch me, please, before you lose me again.”

  It is as if I have opened a door. Had I thought his kisses were wild before? They were tame compared to this.

  This kiss is frenzied. Savage.

  It is a promise. A confession.

  It’s a reunion—I know it. I feel it. And though I don’t understand it, I go with it. Because right now, this man is all I want. And I am afraid, so desperately afraid, that he is about to be ripped away from me.

  He slams me back against the wall, and I cry out, both in need and in surprise. His hand snakes under my skirt, stroking my skin as he pushes it higher and higher. My breath hitches in my throat, and I bite down on my lower lip to keep myself from begging him for more. For everything.

  “My love.” The tender words are a growl of passion. “I don’t want it to be like this, outside in an alley. But I can’t wait. After so long, dammit, Christina, I have to have you.”

  “Yes. Oh, god, Mal. Please. Now, please.” I am wild. I am frantic. I am lust and need.

  I am his.

  “Please,” I beg again. “I need more. Mal, I need you.”

  He roughly shoves my panties aside, then thrusts his fingers inside me. I am wet—so very wet—and he enters me easily.

  I tilt my head back and gasp in ecstasy as my vagina clenches tight around his fingers, wanting him deeper. Hell, just wanting more.

  I bring my hands up between us, and force his shirt open, not caring that I’m ripping to shreds a garment that probably cost more than I will ever make in a month. I have to touch him. Right now, I am certain that if I cannot touch flesh against flesh, I will shrivel up and die. And as soon as I have exposed his chest, bare except for the vibrant tattoo of a phoenix rising from flames, I press my palm flat against him, and close my eyes as his heart beat thrums through me, keeping time with my own.

  He closes his hands over mine, and I moan a bit in protest, because his fingers are no longer inside me. But when he takes my hands and draws them up over my head, I cease protesting. “Stay like that,” he says, even as he turns his attention to my shirt. He tugs up the hem, then makes short work of the clasp at the front of my bra. Then he cups his hands around my rib cage and closes his mouth over my left breast.

  I sigh with pleasure, craving more, knowing without understanding how long it has been since I have had his touch. Since I have felt this connection.

  “My love…”

  His words are as soft as the lips that trail down my body, making my muscles twitch and shudder in both anticipation and pleasure. Slowly, he eases lower and lower until he reaches the waistband of my skirt. It is a full cotton skirt, with an elastic waist and deep pockets in which I’ve shoved my phone and credit card. It had fallen back down when he’d drawn his hands up me, and now he hikes it up again, using his hands to lift it so that there is a pool of material gathered at my waist.

  “I’ve missed this. Your taste. The sensation of your skin against my lips, my fingers. I don’t ever want to stop touching you. I want to make up for all the lost years—god, so many lost years.” His voice is hard. Urgent. “We didn’t have long enough before they took you—not nearly long enough.”

  “No,” I whisper, knowing that he is right, though I do not understand why.

  He hesitates only long enough to tilt his head back up to look at me, and I draw in a sharp breath, awed by the heat of the vibrant passion I see in his slate gray eyes. And then he lowers his head and kisses me right above the band of the tiny panties I am wearing.

  I tremble with pleasure, reflexively arching up even as I widen my stance.

  “Hold your skirt,” he demands, and I do without hesitation, then almost weep from the overwhelming eroticism of the cool night air brushing my sensitive sex as he eases my underwear to one side. And when he kisses me so intimately, his tongue teasing my clit even as his hands stroke my inner thighs and climb higher and higher, I am absolutely certain that I am going to melt with a pleasure more intense than anything I have experienced before.

  Except it’s not enough. Dear god, it’s not nearly enough.

  “Please.” I drop the skirt, twining my hands in his hair and easing him up. “I need more. Oh, god Mal, I need you.”

  Yes.

  I do not hear the word. I only see the movement of his mouth. How can I hear when my heart is pounding so wildly?

  He picks me up as if I am weightless and clutches me to him as my legs tighten around his hips. He turns around so that his back is to the wall and holds me so that I am sitting on one hand and his other is cupping my back.

  I do not know when he managed it, but his jeans are undone, and his erection is hot and hard between my legs. I close my eyes and bite my lower lip. I want this, dammit. I want it now.

  “Your panties,” he says. “Pull them aside.”

  I start to do that, but he is impatient, and he removes his hand from my back long enough to reach around and tear them free. I cry out, almost coming right then simply from the wild violence of the moment. But that is nothing compared to the way I feel when he tells me to hold on
to his shoulders and lock my legs. When he guides his cock to my core. When he takes hold of my hips and thrusts down, impaling me on him even as he tilts his pelvis up, so that he is deeper in me than I could possibly have imagined.

  I arch back, my fingers laced behind his neck, and my legs locked around his hips. I want to feel him deeper. I want to feel him completely. I want to be filled by this man, body, heart and mind, and as we piston together—as I move in sync and our sounds of pleasure rise like a symphony—I know that finally, finally, we are one, he and I.

  Just as we are supposed to be.

  Even as the thought crashes through me, the world seems to explode, vibrant and alive with light and color.

  I am soaring. I am free. I am alive.

  And I remember.

  Not in bits and pieces or incongruent flashes. But full-on. A flood. Hell, a tsunami of thoughts and memories and emotions.

  Mal and Liam and Jessica and Raine and so many others. My mate. My friends.

  The shock of disassembling. Of leaving our own world, our own dimension. Of traveling so far, so fast.

  The fear that we would be too late—that the fuerie would escape, and we would not only fail in our mission, but would bear witness to the destruction of the very core of existence.

  And I remember the pain and horror when everything shifted. When the rift opened and we were thrust across the void into the wrong place, the wrong time, the wrong world.

  I remember the sensual electric sensation when we merged with the humans and were made flesh, and then the sweet surrender when I fell into Mal’s open arms. Of Mal’s eyes looking deep into mine. Of thinking yes, yes, of course he would take that form, lean and powerful and strong. And I remember the way my new body responded to his, melting against him and merging with him in a wild and wonderful dance of passion and claiming. And—most of all—of love.

  I remember the battle, cold and hard and tenacious.

  I remember loss and capture, torture and pain.