Carpathian 04 - Dark Magic

believe it. After all, he thought it wasn't true chemistry, that he had managed to manipulate their joining. She knew better.
    She had known it when she shared her life with the wolf. Maybe not in her head, but in her heart and soul. She had known it when she reached into the black void, into the darkness, and pulled him back to her. She had known it when she shared her body with him, as innocent as she was, as inhibited as she had felt. She feared him, but she knew he was the one. Her heart and soul recognized him.
    "The dawn approaches, chérie ," he said softly. "It is best if we get some sleep." It would be best for her.
    His body was raging at him, wanting the feel of her skin next to his. He needed to hold her in his arms and shelter her close to his heart. For one brief moment, he could pretend he would not be forever alone.
    She would keep the darkness at bay for him long enough to get him through another day.
    Her hand slid down the length of his arm to his hand. Her fingertips brushed the contours of his muscles.
    Just a skimming sensation, but his entire body clenched with hot desire. It poured into him, raged at him, molten lava surging through his blood and filling his body with piercing heat. In her innocence, she didn't notice what she was doing to him. Her fingers laced in his trustingly.
    "What about Peter? What do you think we should do to minimize the risk? Because you're right, the press is going to give me a hard time. They follow me all over, those ratty little tabloids." Her enormous eyes were staring straight into his silver ones.
    He couldn't look away, couldn't let go of her hand. He couldn't have moved if his life depended on it. He was lost in those blue-violet eyes, somewhere in their mysterious, haunting, sexy depths. What was it he had decided? Decreed? He was not going to allow her anywhere near Peter's funeral. Why was his resolve fading away to nothing? He had reasons, good reasons. He was certain of it. Yet now, drowning in her huge eyes, his thoughts on the length of her lashes, the curve of her cheek, the feel of her skin, he couldn't think of denying her. After all, she hadn't tried to defy him; she didn't know he had made the decision to keep her away from Peter's funeral. She was including him in the plans, as if they were a unit, a team. She was asking his advice. Would it be so terrible to please her over this? It was important to her.
    He blinked to keep from falling into her gaze and found himself staring at the perfection of her mouth.
    The way her lips parted so expectantly. The way the tip of her tongue darted out to moisten her full lower lip. Almost a caress. He groaned. An invitation. He braced himself to keep from leaning over and tracing the exact path with his own tongue. He was being tortured. Tormented.
    Her perfect lips formed a slight frown. He wanted to kiss it right off her mouth. "What is it, Gregori?"
    She reached up to touch his lips with her fingertip. His heart nearly jumped out of his chest. He caught her wrist and clamped it against his pumping heart.

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    "Savannah," he whispered. An ache. It came out that way. An ache. He knew it. She knew it. God, he wanted her with every cell in his body. Untamed. Wild. Crazy. He wanted to bury himself so deep inside her that she would never get him out.
    Her hand trembled in answer, a slight movement rather like the flutter of butterfly wings. He felt it all the way through his body. "It is all right, mon amour" he said softly. "I am not asking for anything."
    "I know you're not. I'm not denying you anything. I
    know we need to have time to become friends, but I'm not going to deny what I feel already. When you're close to me, my body temperature jumps about a thousand degrees." Her blue eyes were dark and beckoning, steady on his.
    He touched her mind very gently, almost tenderly, slipped past her guard and knew what courage it took for her to make the admission. She was nervous, even afraid, but willing to meet him halfway. The realization nearly brought him to his knees. A muscle jumped in his jaw, and the silver eyes heated to molten mercury, but his face was as impassive as ever.
    "I think you are a witch, Savannah, casting a spell over me." His hand cupped her face, his thumb sliding over her delicate cheekbone.
    She moved closer, and he felt her need for comfort, for reassurance. Her arms slid tentatively around his waist. Her head