From beside the monkey, he lifted a framed icon and quietly regarded the Virgin’s mournful eyes and adoring face. Irena had never owned—or sculpted—many religious objects. The small icon might have been a gift from one of the villagers Irena helped support during the long winter months, as was the rag doll propped on the shelf. He remembered her receiving another doll four centuries earlier. Perhaps it had rotted by now—or at some point, she had offered it to a different girl.
He replaced the icon and continued on. New weapons topped the discard pile next to the wall. Though she always said she’d find another use for the metal, she never had. At the bottom of the pile were rusted swords almost a thousand years old. Alejandro knew some of his would be in there.
He’d lied to himself. All these years, he had lied to himself. Two hundred years ago, when she’d returned from her self-imposed exile, he’d told himself that he’d accepted they wouldn’t be together. That there was no future. But until Alejandro walked back into the forge, he’d been lost.
And all this time, he’d been waiting to come home.
His chest aching, he returned to the sofa where he’d spent so many hours studying—and reading aloud to her once he’d realized that she had difficulty ordering the letters. She hadn’t stubbornly remained illiterate, as he’d initially thought; she could read
because
she was stubborn and had forced herself past the difficulty. She simply took no pleasure in it. But she enjoyed listening, and so he’d often read to her.
She probably would not enjoy listening to the files he had pulled from Rael’s office, so he read through them while he waited for her to emerge.
Almost an hour later, the ripple of water brought him out of an education reform bill choked with useless additions and meaningless language. Irena was sitting up, the water lapping at her bare shoulders. A small frown creased her brow.
“Why am I not dead? I killed the first nephil, but I could barely hold my ground against the female. Why did the second male not come up behind me?”
Had she been ruminating over the battle all this time? Or was that simply what had pulled her up?
“The first wasn’t dead yet,” Alejandro told her. “The other male was holding him when we teleported in.”
Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Comforting him?”
“Yes.”
“No demon would do that for another.”
“They are not the same as demons. They are siblings.” When she remained quiet, he frowned. “I hope you are not doubting yourself—”
“No.” She stood and water cascaded into the bath. “They were here to kill me. They massacred communities of vampires. I do not doubt that I should have struck first.” She cast him a wry glance. “But I
can
wish that they did not care for each other.”
Yes, it was the same difficulty with their mother. Anaria’s intentions were good, but if her plans meant that she would prevent humans from acting freely, the Guardians couldn’t allow her to carry them out. It wasn’t just a difference of opinion and method; agreeing to disagree didn’t work when one of the parties insisted on imposing its will over the other.
Irena shook her head vigorously, flinging water in a wild spray. She stepped out of the tub and vanished the rest of the moisture from her clothes.
She walked to the hearth, bending close to the fire and pushing her fingers through her hair, letting the heat dry it. Her mind was still on the battle. “Why did you not have Jake use his blade when he teleported behind the nephil?”
“He likes explosives,” Alejandro said.
She glanced at him sharply. Her mouth curved. “And you, too?”
He enjoyed knowing that the nephil hadn’t just been killed, but obliterated. “I understand the appeal.” When she laughed, he continued, “How did they find you?”
She gave him a look that told him he’d either said something obvious, or something she’d have no way of knowing—but either way, he was an idiot.
A moment later, he realized she was right. “Your Gift,” he said. A nephil might have been miles away and still have felt it. “You will want to check on the vampire communities in your territory.”
He knew she did regularly, but if the nephilim were in the area, it was best to check as soon as possible.
“Yes. I will visit them each when night falls.” Her gaze landed on the files stacked by his thigh. “What have you been reading?”
He felt his chest tighten again. He couldn’t avoid this. “The files from Rael’s office. Legislation, correspondence. For the investigation, and so that I will have the information I need after I take his position.” When she didn’t respond, but stood pulling her fingers through her hair, he began roughly, “Irena—”
“No.” She straightened and flipped her hair back. “No fighting now. I have had enough for today.”
Alejandro battled his frustration, then nodded. “Was it a good fight?”
She took her time answering, poking at the fire and staring into the flames. Finally, she said, “Yes. Yes, it was, though it almost ended badly. It would have, if you hadn’t come with Jake and Alice.” She looked to him. “What brought you here?”
He would have come anyway, to try to convince her that taking Rael’s place would be
right
. But they were trying not to fight. “Jake wanted to compare the spikes that he found on Zakril’s skeleton to the spike that had pinned Rosalia.”
Irena frowned, but didn’t comment on the thousands of years separating the two incidents. Demons often had an individual method of operation—and pounding iron spikes through Guardians and into stone wasn’t common. Zakril and Rosalia were the only two Alejandro knew of who’d been pinned that way.
“We will have to compare them tomorrow,” she said. Her gaze studied his face. “But that is not why
you
came.”
He searched for a reason that had nothing to do with Rael. He stood, calling in one of the swords she had given him in the church. The blade had snapped in half. “I have two swords left,” he said. “I need more.”
A fierce light came in her eyes. She took the sword from him, examining it. “When did this happen?”
“Tonight.”
“In Argentina?”
“Yes. It was a fine sword,” he said—unnecessarily, by the chiding look in her eyes. Yes, she knew the quality of her work. “But the demon traded his sword for two maces when I did not expect it.”
A risk for the demon, changing weapons midair—but one that had paid off. Irena’s gaze ran quickly over him, as if looking for any sign that he’d been injured. She turned toward the furnaces, tossing the sword away. It clanked against the other discarded weapons.
“You are lucky Jake was with you, then.”
Alejandro followed her to the worktable. “He was not.”
“Who was your backup?” She formed her apron and arranged her tools on the bench. “Have you begun specialization with a novice?”
“I went alone.”
Her fingers froze above a hammer. “Alone against two demons?”
“I’d already assessed their skill. They weren’t a threat.”
“Except for when your sword breaks.” She turned on him.
“Of all the stupid, reckless—”
“We are not fighting tonight,” he reminded her, barely holding on to his own temper. Did she think him an untrained fool?
Her jaw clamped so hard, Alejandro was surprised her teeth did not shatter. She turned her back to him, laid a billet of steel on the anvil, and began to hammer.
The pounding, painful ring stabbed at his ears. Each blow had to be hurting her ears, hurting her arm.
“No matter how hard you wish, that will not be my head.”
She glanced over her shoulder. He saw her lips twitch. Her Gift pulsed, and the steel on the anvil became a miniature sculpture of him.
She tapped her hammer against the head. “I will pound sense into you, until you admit it was reckless. It is one thing if you come across two demons and must fight them. But to go into a fight against two? You cannot guard against a broken sword.”
He did not point out that his sword had broken, and yet he had still won. He did not point out that a sword could break no matter how many demons surrounded him. She was trying not to fight. So would he.
He held his tongue and let it go. This would not be settled tonight.
She turned back to her anvil and vanished the steel figurine. She laid the hammer on the bench. Her hands clenched on the edge of her worktable, the smooth muscles in her arms hardening. The serpents danced in the firelight, vibrant with life.
When her forearm had been severed, the tattoos decorating the unattached limb had barely resembled snakes. Those crude blue lines had been shaped by an unskilled hand, but
these
were Irena’s. Her body shifted to create the designs that moved over her skin. He wondered if she knew that they changed. Wondered if there was anything conscious in the way they seemed to coil, waiting.
Waiting to see if he would fight?
So be it. If only one thing was settled today, it would be that he would not give her up.
He did not try for silence as he approached her still form. Her fingers squeezed tighter on the table with his every step. She didn’t look around when he stopped behind her.
The tension inside him drew taut. Four hundred years had passed and so much had gone wrong between them. Now, it had to be right—and he remembered one time when everything between them had been fiercely right.
With a silent prayer on his lips, he lowered his mouth to the side of her neck, and pressed a soft kiss beneath her ear.
Irena’s breath slipped out as a sigh. She tilted her head, lengthening the bare line of her throat. Damp auburn strands clung to her nape in spikes. He brushed them aside and trailed his mouth lower, opening his lips to the flavor of her skin. Her pulse beat frantically beneath his tongue.
“Olek.” Her whisper was as thick as the blood pounding in his veins. “Do not begin this if you cannot finish.”
If he could not take her to completion? Satisfy her? He accepted that challenge. But he would never be
finished
.
In answer, he flattened his hands to her sides and slipped them beneath her apron, the heavy leather dragging against his knuckles. She wore nothing beneath. The swell of her breasts filled his palms. He found her nipples, stiff with need, and gently pinched the rigid peaks. Irena arched into his hands, a rough sound of pleasure in her throat. Her desire spilled through her psychic scent, pouring over his mind and body like heated oil.
Holy God. Need speared through his shaft, bringing him to instant, aching hardness. He fought for control. Fought the urge to lift her onto the table and plow deep.
He couldn’t control the heat flaring across his skin.
Irena’s psychic shields were open. Her felt her hunger—and in quick succession, her rejection, her shame, her anger—before she closed to him. Alejandro froze.
The demon’s skin would have been hot, too. No other man’s would have been. No vampire, no Guardian. Only Alejandro’s would remind her of the demon in this way.
His heart tightened painfully. He couldn’t do this to her.
He began to draw away. Irena clapped her hands over his, holding his palms to her chest. Though her apron separated their fingers, he felt the trembling in hers.
“Can you not finish, after all?”
Alejandro closed his eyes. And so this was why she’d made the challenge earlier. She’d known she might react this way to his touch. She’d known what his response to
her
reaction would be.
“Irena—”
“It is
here
, Olek. In me, though I hate it. Though I’ve fought it. Though I
know
it is not him. That it is not you. It is not—no.” Her voice cracked, then hardened with brittle determination. “This is not what I mean to say.”
His throat a burning knot, he waited, calling himself a fool. He’d thought to turn back the clock four hundred years, but that was impossible. He could not ignore those centuries.
They’d been four hundred years in which she’d fought what the demon had done to her. In which she had feared not being able to separate the demon from Alejandro. In which she’d thought that his guilt upon causing her any kind of pain would be greater than his need to stay, that he would have left her alone because his bludgeoned honor demanded he atone for his failure.
He wanted to shake her. Wanted to shout that he wouldn’t have given up if she’d given
him
one damn sign that she’d needed him with her. Always, she’d faulted him for the size of his pride.
Irena’s pride could fill oceans.
But he could not go back and prove himself. He could only stand with her now.
“What do you mean to say?”
Her deep breath lifted her breasts against his hands. “I hunger for you. The rest is”—she flicked her fingers toward the pile of discarded swords—“damaged. But I will make another, and I will make it better.”
Ah, Irena. Her memories of the demon could not be discarded so easily—and neither could his reluctance to remind her of them. And unlike the swords, they could not replace flawed steel with new materials; they could only reshape what they had with the strength of their will.
And heat.
Alejandro bent his head to her nape. He could reshape this, too. Rather than trying to recapture the past, he would use it to give her security. She could prepare herself for his next touch. He’d only follow the path he—and the statue she’d made of him—had taken before. A kiss down her back. Then his fingers in her slick, silken heat. And he would not rush, he promised himself.
No matter how difficult she made it for him to keep that promise.
Beneath his hands, Irena responded like a flame, tiny flickering movements fed by a sweep of his thumbs, the touch of his breath. A flame, but she was still controlled, contained. He needed her burning higher.
He lowered to his knee, kissing his way down her spine. Her skin shivered under his tongue. His fingers found the apron’s ties.