Guild Hunter 04 - Archangel's Blade

moan.
    “Liar.” A rolling move of his hips, and she was rising toward him, her hands caressing his chest, his arms.
    He had endless patience, and he wasn’t about to give her what she wanted this time. Not until half an hour later, when she was sucking on his throat, scratching his back, and threatening to use a blade on him. That was when he pulled out his cock to her frustrated scream, spread her thighs wide, and bent that dark head to suck her clitoris into his mouth.
    The erotic shock was so intense, it seared her nerve endings, had lights exploding behind her eyes. She was fairly certain she lost consciousness for a blinding second. When she lifted her drugged lids at last, it was to feel her beautiful, dangerous Dmitri sliding into her in a primal thrust that was pure possession.

38
     
    Freshly showered, they spoke sitting in bed, Honor lying against Dmitri’s chest, her body soft and warm andhis. Absolutely, categorically his .
    “I couldn’t hide this from you,” she said as he ran his fingers through hair he’d dried as she sat slumped against him, lazy and sated, “but I was prepared for utter disbelief, thought it might take me years to prove it to you.”
    Taking her hand, he spread it over his heart. “Some part of me knew from the start.” She was inside him, her soul forcing his own back to life. “I just wasn’t ready to consciously accept it.” Honor was the brave one, the one who had taken that leap of hope.
    Her hand fisted. “I know this will hurt you so much, but I need to have this question answered.” Eyes iridescent with tears, jewels in the rain. “Misha . . . what did they do to Misha?”
    A searing burn on his chest, the scent of burning flesh and muscle and his body’s silent screams. But his mouth he kept shut, though it cost him a piece of his sanity.
    “There now, lover. You will never forget me.” Isis’s red lips pressing over the burned and scarred flesh, her tongue digging into the still painful wound. “Always, you will carry me within.” Her flawless face stayed serene as she took up the branding iron and pressed it to his flesh a second time to make certain of her words.
    Blackness engulfed him and when he woke, his chest was ridged with a scar so heavy and thick, he thought nothing would ever erase it. Looking up, he saw Raphael staring at that brand with a cold intensity that spoke of death. The angel said nothing, but when their eyes met he jerked the chain that held his left hand cuffed to the wall. It took Dmitri’s dazed mind a moment to see, to understand.
    The stone was cracking. A year it had taken him, but Raphael had weakened his bonds enough to snap them—now, Dmitri simply had to survive, become strong again. So he did, though Isis had almost broken him. But he didn’t do it to kill her, though that need was a fever in his blood. He did it so he could hold his son again, the only one of his family who remained.
    “Shh, Misha,” he said, his throat cracked and raw when his son screamed and convulsed, his tiny body attached to the wall by a cuff around his neck. “Papa will be there soon and he’ll make it all right.”
    He’d kept his promise. He’d given his son peace.
    The guilt of what he’d done clawed him bloody. “Isis tried to Make him.”
    A horrified sound. “He was too young.”
    “Yes.” Dmitri couldn’t put this pain into words, but when Honor’s hands came up to cup his cheeks, he bent his head toward her, let her press her lips to his closed eyes, to his lips.
    “I understand.” Her voice was a husky whisper. “It is all right, Dmitri. It was the only thing you could’ve done.”
    Dmitri hadn’t cried, not for near to a thousand years. But the remembered agony of cradling his son’s body in his arms, of looking into those trusting eyes fevered and full of suffering and a madness that had already made Misha gnaw at his own flesh, of holding that gaze untithe very end, when he ended the life of his brave, beautiful boy . . . it tore through him now, creating cutting rivers of pain.
    He would’ve drowned but for the woman who held him through the storm, whose tears mixed with his own, whose gentle hands gave him forgiveness for a crime for which he’d never forgiven himself. “I was their father,” he said at long last. “Caterina, Misha . . . I couldn’t protect either of them. I couldn’t protect you.”
    Honor shook her head. “You fought for us. You surrendered your pride, your body, your freedom.