“You know, that makes complete sense. He probably went into the future streams hunting for exactly that, a secret stash of Seers or something.”
“So you can hunt by subject?”
“Sure. I mean, mostly you hold the image of a person in your mind until you find their corresponding ribbon of light, but you can also do a subject. At least I could and no doubt Stannett can, although I think I might have been better at it, which is why he used me when I was locked up in the Convent.” She pursed her lips. “But there’s something more. Stannett would have had the power to get through this strange mist. Most Seers wouldn’t be able to even see it.”
Thorne held his arm out. “Shit. I’m sorry.”
Marguerite’s gaze slid over streaks of red over his arm and black wrist guards. There was at least one black feather stuck to him, but it didn’t bother her. She’d been with him plenty of times after he’d battled all night.
But he turned to her and said, “The thing is, Marguerite, it doesn’t matter what Stannett does, or Greaves. You’ve got to face the fact that you’ve got emerging powers. You’ve got to start dealing with them. Otherwise it’s just going to get worse and I think you know that. You’re the righteous red variety of obsidian flame, and you can’t run from that.”
“I’m not running.” She twirled a lock of her hair around and around her finger. She could feel her brows pinch together.
“Looks like running to me.” He shifted to stand in front of her—and truth? She liked that he was straight with her. She’d never been a gentle flower. She never would be.
She leaned her head back into the cushion and looked up, way up. Jesus, he was tall. “I’m running toward something, Thorne, you know that. I want my freedom. I want to live how I choose, new powers or not. That’s the least I deserve after a century in that shithole.”
His shoulders did a little dip. “I know. Why do you think I’m not screaming at you?”
She narrowed her gaze at him. “This must be killing you.”
“What?”
“Being away from the warriors, from your duty? I know that much about you.”
He shrugged. “You’re right. I’m hating every minute of this because I abandoned my post, except for one thing.”
“What?”
The man almost smiled. “You’re worth it. I mean, your temper isn’t and sometimes I want to strangle you, but a warrior takes care of the woman he loves. Simple.”
“You are such a bastard to be so nice to me.”
Thorne reached down and took her hand. “Come here. Come shower with me. The hell if I’m going to keep talking to you with death vamp guts all over my chest.”
Life is full
Of a thousand firsts.
Savor each one.
—Collected Proverbs, Beatrice of Fourth
Chapter 5
Marguerite laughed. She shouldn’t have, not when he spoke of death vamp guts. She didn’t know why she wasn’t squeamish, but then she never had been. What he said should have made her puke. Instead this all just felt so normal. After he lifted her to her feet, she led the way into the back bedroom. The cabin was fairly small, three and a half rooms total.
The bathroom had a roomy shower but no tub.
Thorne moved to the shower and flipped on the water. He got rid of his clothes with a wave of his hand. He still faced the shower so she had a fine view of his ass. She tilted her head and sighed.
His skin was golden in color like it was permanently tanned, and there wasn’t a line on him. His hair hung down his back. She loved his long warrior hair, always had.
He stretched out his hand beneath the water, testing.
His left butt cheek flexed and his hamstring tightened; his calf muscle, too. She wasn’t sure but her jaw may have just trembled. The man was gorgeous.
He stepped inside and turned toward her, a beautiful profile view. His c**k was partially erect and in terms of pure beauty, this was her preference. He wasn’t standing upright but he wasn’t limp, either. She wanted to be on her knees right now and worshiping.
She waved a hand and lost her leathers. Then took a little extra care with her feather earrings, settling them on the counter.
When she turned toward him, his gaze fell to the juncture of her thighs. She’d almost forgotten how different she was down there from the last time he’d seen her.
“Wow,” he murmured. “A beautiful peach.” His eyes fell to half-mast.
She knew that look. She savored that look. Then suddenly she realized he’d had sex with another woman just a couple of hours ago and her temper flared. She jumped in the shower and punched his left pec.
“What was that for, hellcat?”
“You slept with someone else.”
She turned into the spray and he was suddenly up behind her and moving what was now completely solid up and down her butt cheeks. He had to bend his knees to get there. This was the only thing she didn’t like about their disparity in height: Some adjustments were necessary.
His hands found her br**sts as the water hit her face and drenched her hair.
“You smell like roses.”
“I thought you wanted to talk about my visions.”
“In a minute. I’m not clean enough yet.”
She laughed. “No, you’re not.”
She grabbed a bar of soap and made a big bubbly lather between her hands. She turned into him and spread the bubbles over his shoulders and chest. He was so big. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder, which put her face at pec level, a really fantastic place to be.
She started scrubbing and getting him clean. The whole time he touched her, his hands rubbing over her shoulders, down her arms, lightly over her br**sts, her waist, her hips. He teased her mound a little with the crook of his knuckle, but mostly he just let her wash him. She found she enjoyed it.
It dawned on her that because there had never been private showers in the Convent, this was the first time she’d bathed with Thorne.
She stepped aside and let the shower spray hit all that foamy soap. She helped rinse it off his chest. She lathered up again and cleaned his thighs. There was a lot of man to cover, and she went all the way to his feet.
She then ordered him to turn around. She performed the same ministrations on his back and shoulders. He sighed a couple of times. She wasn’t sure what that meant.
She spent extra time on his ass, working the muscles slowly, cleaning down the crack and gliding over his balls from behind. A sigh became a familiar groan.