But Dominic barely heard him. His throat was tight. Too fucking tight for him to speak, and his head hurt, too much to think. His heart hurt, too, and damn it, it hadn’t hurt like this in . . . forever.
No. Actually it was just a few centuries ago, he thought to himself morbidly. Back when he lay dying, he’d hurt like this.
Just as now . . . he hurt . . . over her.
She still stood there, trembling, covered with the other witch’s blood.
All he wanted to do was hold her.
And she’d pulled away. She didn’t want his comfort or his concern or any damn thing from him.
“Dom?”
Lifting his head, he caught Ana’s eyes and then glanced at Brad. Brad still held the werewolf in the air—effortlessly, it seemed. He hung there like some sort of life-sized piñata. Dominic smiled grimly at the image—he could find some blunt object and beat the bastard until his skin split.
Not trusting his rage, he looked at Brad. “You up to dealing with him?”
Ana went pale, but said something, turning her head to look at Brad. There was understanding in his young-old eyes and then he looked at the werewolf. “Yeah, I can handle him.”
The wolf howled, snarled. “Damn it, I didn’t do a damn
thing
.”
“Yeah, you’re all about hugs and kitties, aren’t you?” Brad said, his lip curling. Then a mask fell over his face.
The air around them grew tight.
Dominic didn’t bother to watch. He had a mess to clean up—soon, there would be two dead bodies—his ears caught the acceleration in the wolf’s heartbeat, followed by a stuttering pause. Then the heart stopped. No, make that there
were
two bodies to deal with.
And Nessa . . .
Rubbing the heel of his hand over his heart, he tried to figure out just how he was to handle that. What was he supposed to do?
“Later,” he muttered. He’d have to handle it later.
Looking at Ana, he said, “Can you stop now? It’s safe, right?”
Ana looked at Brad. The young man stood there, hands still tucked in his pockets. He had been looking at the wolf—still suspended in the air. When he looked away, the wolf’s body fell, lifeless and limp, to the wooden planks of the porch. “We’re clear.”
The return of his senses was damn near deafening. Dom waited until his head stopped swimming before he moved. The bodies—he’d deal with the bodies first, get them tucked away before any nosy neighbors saw anything and then . . . and then . . .
Slowly, he turned, stared at Nessa.
She stood in the exact same spot, in the exact same position, a bloody knife in one small fist, her skin pale, splattered with blood.
And then—nothing.
Dominic didn’t know what he was supposed to do now.
The woman before him was fractured, falling to bits and pieces, and so close to stumbling down a path that had no return.
He didn’t know how to help her.
And until he could, his life might as well be over.
He had nothing without her.
He’d existed well enough
before
he’d learned who she was . . . who she was to
him
. But now?
Now . . . without her, nothing mattered.
CHAPTER 20
J
AZZY.
Like a life preserver, Morgan focused on her sister.
She had to get Jazzy.
Breathing shallowly, she watched as Dominic spoke quietly to the young psychic.
Marty was dead. Morgan didn’t understand how—or what. One moment he’d been hanging in midair and then the next, he was on the ground, his eyes all but bugging out, mottled bruises on his throat. Like he’d been choked, although nobody had touched him.
And Isis—her mother—she was dead, too.
So much death.
Jazzy . . . have to get to her . . .
The pain was an excruciating song inside her head and her hands were sweating, clammy. The knife in her hand felt slippery—too slippery. She almost dropped it twice and she couldn’t do that.
She needed the knife. Needed it to find her sister—
Dominic.
Had to get past him. But he wouldn’t let her. . .
Then you have to make him. Use the knife. Get away. Get away from him.
Like she stabbed a man every day of her life.
I can’t. He hasn’t hurt me . . . .
An insidious whisper insisted,
But he lies to you
.
You can see that, feel that. How can you trust him?
Trust him.
Could she trust him? He
did
lie . . .
Pain tore through her head. Morgan gasped, stumbling against the wall. Her head—it was spinning, flooded with memories. No—not memories. Were they?
Screams and blood . . .
Her head was full of them. Screams and blood.
A gentle hand touched her face and Morgan jerked back, swallowing the sob trying to break free. Shifting, she used her body to hide the knife and with her free hand, she smacked Dominic’s wrist away. “Get away from me,” she said, her voice weak, ragged.
Can’t breathe.
She couldn’t breathe.
He set his jaw and fell back.
She flinched as the force of his pain slammed into her. Too much—she was feeling too much. Too much from him.
Away.
Needed to get away. Find her sister.
From under her lashes, she watched as Dominic turned aside.
Now.
She had to do it now. Had to get away from him and find Jazzy. Then the pain would stop and the two of them would be safe—
She shoved away from the wall, raised the knife. Clumsily, she lunged toward him. He heard her—she knew he heard her, but he didn’t turn. With a cry, she crossed the final few feet between them and struck—
The pain sliced through her mind, and this time, it was all-consuming. Brutal in its intensity.
She gasped, struggling to breathe past it, to think. Even see—she couldn’t see.
And then she could . . . but it wasn’t her world she saw. Wasn’t her time.
She wasn’t aware of Dominic as his lean body stiffened, as he staggered.
Wasn’t aware of the blood that bloomed from the wound.
Wasn’t aware of anything as time fell away.
“I do not fear your tests, William. Let Elias go. He has done nothing wrong.”
William smirked. “If he has done nothing wrong, then by all means . . .” He glanced at one of the men and nodded. “But first you must agree. You will be bound. You will submit to the tests. You will be cleansed.”
“Your men will untie him as I come to you. If you dare to be foolish, Sir William, you will know pain like nothing you have ever felt,” she warned.
“Nessa!”
She lifted her head and stared across the distance separating them
. They use ropes, Elias. You think I cannot get rid of a few paltry ropes? Run into the forest—to our cave. I will meet you there. And these simpletons can rot. We wasted months protecting them.
His dark brown eyes stared into hers with fury and desperation.
Do not let him touch you, Nessa. I do not trust him—
She just shook her head. She would not risk Elias. She would not. She walked arrogantly toward William, holding her wrists out in front of her. He just smiled benevolently and gestured to one of his men.
“I shall deal with your husband,” William said, his voice quiet and dignified. His eyes gleamed though, with something she did not like, not one bit.
He
would deal with her husband? Lower himself to free him? Instead of ordering his men . . . ?
Her ears pricked at those words. Her instincts screamed.
Rough rope bit into her wrists but she barely even noticed as she watched William walk over the uneven ground to where his men were cutting Elias free.
Elias shrugged away from them and started toward Nessa. She shook her head at him and she could see the argument in his eyes.
Run
, she said into his mind.
Now.
She heard the argument in his head. Felt his refusal.
And then there was nothing but icy, sharp pain. She felt the brutal echo of it in her own heart.
They were soul mates—meant for each other even before birth. And it would have been better if that blade had killed her as well as Elias.
“No!” she screamed out. She shoved at the sheriff’s man, pushing away from him as though he were naught more than a child.
“Grab her—cover her eyes,” one of the men bellowed.
All around her people shouted—although some screamed in horror as they realized what one of William’s men had done.
She barely even heard them. She was aware of nothing.
Nothing but the screams . . . and the blood.
It was Elias’s blood, dripping from the dagger of a treacherous snake.
L
OST in the fog of memories, she lifted her hands, pressed them to her eyes. A familiar scent flooded her head. Blood . . . metallic, strong. She lowered her hands, stared at the knife she held.
The bloodied knife.
Screams and smoke.
Anguish and anger.
Betrayal and blood.
Elias . . . his blood pumping out of him. His voice, weak and growing weaker, as he whispered,
I will come back . . . I will find you again.
His eyes, so warm and dark, always so full of love . . . for her.
Those eyes—
Dazed, she lifted her head, seeking his face.
There.
He stood there, sagging against the railing, halfturned toward her, staring at her with shocked, pained eyes.
Dark brown eyes.
So warm and dark, so full of love.
And pain.
“No.”
Oh, dear God, what have I done?
The pain inside her head rose, swelling and swelling—a symphony of agony.
“No!”
She reached inside, grasped at something, without fully realizing what she was doing . . . or why.
A wall inside her head—a barrier. It shredded under the weight of her magic and as the weight of memories—five hundred years worth—slammed back into her head, Nessa staggered.
“Bloody hell!”
She stared at the knife in her hand . . . stared at the blood dripping from it. Deep, dark red . . .
“No.”
She swallowed and looked up. Only seconds had passed—seconds for them. But it seemed a lifetime to her. Two lifetimes . . . more.
The man in front of her leaned against the railing, staring at her. Blood blossomed on the front of his shirt and she could see where the tip of the knife had gone completely through him.
The ugly red stain of his blood grew, spreading with every passing second.
“Dear Lord, what I have done?” she whispered.
Her ears might not be as sharp as some, but she heard rather well, and she could hear the erratic skip of his breathing, feel the pain. Hurling the knife down, she lunged for him as he staggered back.
His heart—
No. She’d stabbed high on the left side of his back, too close to the heart.
Too close—
D
OMINIC gritted his teeth against the pain.
His fangs were out, throbbing and aching, desperate for blood, desperate for a fight. He’d been attacked, and all his body knew was that it wanted to attack back. Fight back. Sucking in a breath, he focused on that, the feel of air moving in, out of his lungs, as he reached for calm. For control.
He wasn’t going to die.
As much as his instincts were screaming for a fight, he knew he wasn’t going to die and he yanked his primitive urges under control, forced his body to respond. As his fangs slowly retreated, he made himself assess the damage.
It burned—too much. Silver in the knife. But not pure silver. It wasn’t still inside him and it hadn’t touched his heart, because if it had, he’d be on his knees. All in all, things could be worse.
With his weight braced against the railing, he stared at the ground. Could be worse . . . how?
She’d stabbed him—came at him from behind. The woman he loved. The woman he’d always loved. He’d been born just so he could find her again, have her again. And she’d stabbed him.