"A Watchman by the name of Paul Templeton is in South America with her. He's not part of our compound, but he's one of the best there is. She's in good hands."
"You better hope she is," he warned. "And with everything that's happening, this Templeton had better be a damn sight better at his job than your brother."
"Kellan's still young." Scott sighed. "He still has a lot of maturing to do, but he's good at what he does."
Shrader snorted, which earned him a hard glare from Scott, as well as a cuff on the arm from Quinn.
Grinning, the Watchman lifted his arms in a gesture of surrender. "Hey, lay off. I didn't say a word."
"Ian," Molly murmured, drawing his attention back to her fey face, the freckles sprinkled over her nose more prominent in the sunlight, making her look impossibly young and fresh and innocent. "Your mother believed the cross was the first Dark Marker to be found. She also talks about stories that she remembers her great-grandmother telling her, about a divine Àrm of Fire' that held the power to destroy a Casus for all eternity."
Rubbing at the stiff muscles in the back of his neck, he asked, "How did it work?"
She lifted her shoulders in a baffled shrug. "That's the thing. She didn't know. And neither her nor Saige could ever find anyone who knew how it could be used."
Ian slanted a look toward Scott. "Any ideas?"
"Beats me. Like I said, I've been studying it all day, but I haven't come across anything useful."
"Arm of Fire?" Ian repeated, trying the words out on his lips while he stared at the cross, as if the answer would be revealed in its detailed designs. It was hot against his palm, the way it had been yesterday, when he'd taken it from Molly before slipping it over her neck. But it wasn't hot like fire. The sensation was more like pressing your hand against sunbaked sand.
Warm, but tolerable.
He glanced back at Scott again. "And you really have no idea what we're supposed to do with it?"
Scott shook his head, the deepening lines around his eyes and mouth revealing his frustration.
"Believe me, I wish I did."
"Looks like you're going to have to figure it out," Quinn murmured at his side, staring at the cross, same as Ian. Even Shrader stalked closer for a look.
A wry, pained smile twisted Ian's mouth. "I hate to cultivate negativity here, guys, but I don't have a goddamn clue what to do with this thing."
"You'll figure it out," Molly said softly, the gentle smile playing at her lips making him grit his teeth.
"Why don't you go on in and get cleaned up," Scott said a moment later. "We'll have dinner in an hour and talk things over then."
Closing his fingers around the cross, Ian gave them all a curt "Later" and set off toward the house, half-terrified that Molly wouldn't follow him, staying behind with Scott...while even more terrified that she would.
And then, drawing in a deep breath, he caught her scent just behind him, though she remained silent, not saying a word. It wasn't until he'd entered their suite, and was just about to head into the room he'd taken, that she touched his back, her fingertips cool against the searing, sweaty heat of his skin.
"Ian?"
"What?" he grunted, aware of the fact he sounded like a total bastard.
"Are you going to keep avoiding me?" she asked softly. "You walked out on me last night, and we haven't talked all day."
He choked back a snarling sound of frustration. "I haven't been avoiding you, Molly. I've been busy getting the shit beat out of me."
She pulled his stained shirt away from his body and stroked his shoulder, her touch gentle, tender, conveying a depth of longing he was surprised he even recognized. He'd never before been in tune with a woman enough to notice or even comprehend such things, until Molly.
There was something connecting him to this woman--some kind of primitive, intense, piercing awareness--that magnified every sensation. That made him hyperaware of her every breath, every gesture, every shadow of emotion that crossed her face, the powerful need conveyed through the simple touch of her hand against his body.
Quietly, she said, "Will you talk to me, then?"
"I'm not trying to be a jackass, Molls. It just isn't a good idea," he muttered, slipping the cross into his back pocket. She touched a sensitive place on his spine, and just like that, he went hard.
"Why not?" she asked.
Yeah, why not? his conscience taunted.
Ian turned around to face her, his gaze settling hungrily on the pink swell of her mouth, remembering how it tasted. How she felt beneath his lips, and he wanted to shout...to seethe...to rage against the maddening injustice of finding that the one thing he needed to make his world right, he couldn't have. He wanted to put his fist through the wall. Wanted to rip something apart with his bare hands. But most of all, he wanted to drown himself in her, in that pulsing glow of heat that burned inside of her, that he could feel ignite every time he got close to her. That smoothed its way into his body through the touch of her skin, her breath, her taste...melting things inside of him that had been frozen solid for too damn long.
He started to move forward and grab hold of her, when Shrader's words rushed back at him, making his breath hiss through his teeth.
You need blood and sex. When you're Merrick, the hungers are combined into one primitive need, so you'll want them together.
Craving crawled through him, thick and meaty and raw, like a physical thing inside his body that had substance...that had its own agenda. Ian closed his eyes, trying to block out the physical temptation. But he could still see it in his mind's eye. Her lush mouth. Flushed face.
The tender stretch of her throat as she tilted her head back to stare up at him. Could remember how the hot, drugging flavor of her blood slipped over his tongue, burning like pleasure in his belly.
You're losing it, asshole. Big-time.
"I'm trying to understand, Ian," she told him, her tone sharper than before, and he opened his eyes to watch the slow spill of frustration wash over her expression. "To give you the space you need without pressuring you into something you're not ready for. But you can't keep avoiding me. This is ridiculous. I heard what they said out there...about you needing blood in order to release the Merrick. What am I even doing here if you won't let me help you?"
"What do you want from me?"
"I want you to stop running every time you see me," she burst out, her velvety brown eyes glittering and bright with a constantly shifting well of emotion. "To talk to me, to tell me what's going on in that thick head of yours, because I swear to God, Ian, I don't have a clue!"
"I can't," he suddenly snarled, stepping back from her, the wild, furious look in his own eyes warning her not to follow. "I mean it, Molly. I can't deal with this right now."
Looking like an enraged she-cat, she moved closer, forcing him to retreat a step...and then another. "Like hell you can't. You're going to deal with it, because I'm not letting you walk away from me again. I don't get it, Ian. What are you so afraid of?"
What was he afraid of? Christ, the list was growing longer each day, every time he had to be in her presence, every second that he wasn't. He was terrified of the way she looked at him.
Of the way she made him feel. Of the infuriating fact that he couldn't control himself with her. He owed her the explanation, dammit. He knew he did. But all he could say was, "It's not going to happen."
He turned away from her, ready to escape and slam the door behind him, when she said,
"Then you're the biggest coward I've ever known."
"Is that really what you think?" he asked without facing her, his hands fisting and flexing at his sides, while his pulse echoed through his skull like a deafening, primal roar.
Softly, she said, "What else am I supposed to think, Ian?"
"Dammit, I know you're not stupid," he growled. "You know I'm trying to protect you."
"Is it me you're trying to protect? Or is it you?"
He turned back around slowly, with deliberate purpose, his gaze, once again, settling hungrily on that pink, provocative little mouth. A taste, a raspy voice whispered through the hazy fog of lust in his mind. Just a taste. It won't hurt her. She'll be perfectly safe. You won't even go anywhere near her throat.
Ian lifted his hand, cupping her jaw, his thumb pressed against the corner of her lips, stroking her skin. "Do you even know what you're asking, Molls?"
She blinked up at him, her breath coming in a hard, sweet rush. "I just want you to let go and do what feels right. I want you to stop fighting me. To stop fighting what you need."
See? It's time to stop denying yourself. Time to stop...
Before he'd even made the conscious decision to act, he was on her, against her, claiming her mouth with a dark, aggressive, eating kiss, taking her to the floor...pinning her there with the heavy weight of his body against hers. His hands found the delicate hollows of her inner elbows, sliding up the tender stretch of her forearms, until he'd captured her fine-boned wrists, trapping them against the gleaming shine of the hardwood floor. She urged him on with her breathless cries, her thighs parting, inviting him against her body, silently begging him to press closer...closer.
"Molly," he panted against the damp, tender heat of her mouth, lost in it, unable to stop...to slow down. Something was rolling over him, through him, as unstoppable and fierce as a powerful force of nature. All he knew was that he needed the feel of her beneath him, the softness of her skin, the decadent heat and taste of her flesh as he kissed her cheek...her temple...the delicate point of her jaw.
"Yes, Ian. God, yes."
"No--no talking," he ground out, somehow finding the strength to force himself away from the dangerous terrain of her throat, where her pulse beat to a heavy, rushing rhythm. He released her wrists and moved back, straddling her thighs, so that he could run his hands down the front of her body, over the feminine swell of her breasts, the shivering stretch of her belly. "Just shut up, Molly. Just...don't say anything. I have to concentrate...to keep it together."
Sound words, but even as they left his lips, Ian knew he was playing with fire, tempting fate, like dangling a raw steak through the bars of the lion's cage with your bare hand and hoping you came away unscathed. You could hope all you wanted--but the odds weren't in your favor.
And the hell of it was, he wasn't the one who would pay the price--she would.
It's okay. You're in control. You can do this.
She stared up at him, her eyes heavy and dark...but without fear...without anger, that wild, smoldering gaze simply reflecting his hunger back at him, magnifying it, expanding it until it surrounded their bodies, spreading outward, filling the room like a thick, searing presence.
Helpless beneath its power, Ian turned his attention to getting her naked--to baring her body to his burning, avid gaze for the first time outside of his dreams. Fisting his hands in the dark blue material of her blouse, he wrenched, ripping it apart, sending buttons flying, skittering across the floor, then immediately did the same to the delicate white lace of her bra.
And that quickly, he had her.
Her breasts were...perfect, the sight of her plump, dark pink nipples hitting him like a vicious kick to the chest, knocking the air from his lungs. Shaking, Ian bent down and pressed his damp face to her quivering stomach. His hot breaths rushed against her skin, a low, steady stream of carnal swearwords falling soundlessly from his lips, while she ran her fingers through the sweat-damp strands of his hair, petting him...gentling him, making him want to snarl in arrogant defiance, at the same time as he silently begged for more.
Her scent was growing stronger, making him crazed, his mouth watering for the taste of her beneath his lips, and he suddenly loomed over her, bracing himself on his bent arms, as he caught one of those raspberry thick nipples between his lips, suckling it, working the hardened flesh against the roof of his mouth. Desperate to taste all of her, he eagerly moved to the other, leaving it wet...swollen, then trailed his mouth lower, over the delicate span of her ribs, across the shallow indentation of her navel, until he nipped at the tender curve of her hip.
His callused hands clutched at her waist, stroking the petal-softness of her skin, and then he was working frantically at her jeans, ripping them open, pushing them down along with a white, lacy pair of panties, each action driven by a primitive urgency that should have scared the hell out of him, but he was already too far gone to care. He managed, with her help, to get one leg free, then quickly slipped lower, his shoulders forcing their way between her slender thighs, spreading them, demanding she open to him...make room for him.
A breathless, keening cry broke from her chest while her hands stroked the slick, burning heat of his shoulders, then the corded tendons in his neck, before finding the sensitive places behind his ears, as she softly panted his name again and again. She touched as much of him as she could reach, her body writhing beneath him with sensual, carnal abandon, and Ian pressed his forehead against her lower right hip bone, the words breaking out of his chest in a graveled, gritty rush. "Christ, Molly, you're killing me."
"No," she whispered brokenly, sounding dazed. "No...I just want...I want--"
"You just want to drive me out of my mind," he groaned, his lips moving against the smooth curve of her hip, then lower, to the tender flesh of her inner thigh. "I've tried so hard to get you out of my head, but I can't stop thinking about you. Can't stop wondering what you're doing. Can't stop thinking about every goddamn thing I want to do to you. It's driving me crazy."
"It doesn't have to, Ian. Don't you understand that? You're the only one making this hard. I'm right here, offering whatever it is you need...whatever you want."
He lifted his head, snagging her heavy gaze over the pale, shivering length of her body, the golden shafts of sunlight spilling in through the far wall of windows painting her skin in a luminous glow. It made her shine like a pearl, dazzling and smooth, the most intoxicating, beautiful woman he'd ever seen.