Wicked Deeds on a Winter's Night (20 page)

“I'd be attracted to you, but there's
no way
I'd want anything permanent with you—bad blood or not.”

“What the hell's so wrong with me?” His eyes flickered, and the hint of uncertainty he'd just revealed was drowned out by a surge of arrogance. “I'm strong, I can protect you, and I'm rich. And I vow to you, lass, once you experience what it's like to share my bed, you will no' ever want to leave it.”

His eyes bored into hers as he said the last, and despite herself, his utter confidence in this area affected her, forcing her to wonder what tricks a twelve-century-old immortal would've picked up over the years.

She inwardly shook herself. “MacRieve, when I settle down it's going to be with a male that has—oh, I don't know—a sense of humor, or of modesty. How about a lack of scathing hatred toward witches? Maybe a zest for life? Too much to ask that he's born in the same millennium?”

“Some of these things canna be changed, but know that I was no' always so . . . grave as I am now.”

“It doesn't matter. We're just too different. I need a male who will get along with my friends, my witch friends, who'll be current enough to know the difference between emo rock and jangle pop, and who'll be able to get me through the ice world in Zelda.”

MacRieve was no doubt speculating in what ice dimension this mysterious land of Zelda was. He finally said, “These differences are surmountable—”

“And the age difference? You keep talking about how young I am, but all you're doing is reminding me how old you are. Any minute now you're going to say something really lame like ‘When I was your age . . . ,' and I'm just not going to be able to keep from laughing at you.”

He scowled at that, but still said, “I'll change your mind about me. You'll warm to me.”

“In two days? That's your plan? Forget it.”

“Damn it, witch, are you no' even curious about where this could lead?”

“No, but I am curious how you can be when you despise my kind. How quick you were to tell me that when I suggested we work together in the Hie! I will never forget your disgust.” Did his jaw clench? “Why
do
you despise us so much?”

He shrugged. “With witches you never know what you're in for. All false faces and deviousness.”

“But with Lykae, what you see is what you get? Oh, wait, I totally forgot about the beast that lives inside you. And then by the time you see what you're in for, it's too late, isn't it?”

He narrowed his eyes. “I'm one among the most powerful species on this earth—none are stronger than the Lykae—and I've trained for war or fought it for my entire
life. Yet you, with your wee body and utter lack of training, can still pin me by the throat. It's no'
natural
.
Witches
are no' natural.”

“That can't be all.”

“That's all you'll hear tonight.”

“You know what? I'll play. If you answer one question correctly, I might consider possibly thinking about giving you a shot to maybe win me over.”

“Ask it, lass.”

“What if we somehow worked through all the obstacles between us and were together for a couple of years or so, and you were given another chance to go back for your mate? There could be another key. Would you ignore it if it was handed to you?”

Emotions seemed to pass over his face. He scrubbed his hand across the back of his neck. “I could lie, but I will no'. I'd use it.”

Her lips parted. “Then why in the hell would I invest my time and my feelings when you won't be doing the same?” She stood, storming away from him. “Game over, MacRieve.”

“But you have to understand why.” He shot to his feet and seized her elbow. “I believe it would be you.”

“I don't feel like I have a pre-owned soul. And furthermore, I like myself. Other than some late-blooming magickal powers and some sealed legal records, I think I'm pretty fucking nifty. Yet you would just wipe me out entirely?”

“You would no' be wiped out. Just different.”

“What about my friends and family?” Not that Mari's family—being Jillian—would overly miss her. “What about the prophesy, of being Awaited? I have responsibilities.”

“You'd have other family, another destiny—”

“If I'm a reincarnate and that soul's not available when I'm born, then I'm not
me
. You know that's true.” She was shaken by how much this bastard was hurting her with this. “So just a hint: The next time you're courting a female, try
not
to divulge that you would readily wipe out her entire existence with the turn of a key—so you could be with another woman you preferred over her!”

B
loody brilliant, MacRieve,
Bowe thought as he lay staring at the cavern ceiling. Drops of water traveled along it against gravity, before trickling down a stalactite. He exhaled. Not only hadn't he made progress with her, he'd likely deepened her hatred.

He was accustomed to doing as he pleased—and to having others do what he pleased as well. Yet when he'd wanted to talk to her more, to explain, the look in her eyes had said she'd been about to snap.

Bowe knew he shouldn't have answered as he had. Of course, she wouldn't view the situation the same as he did. But her question had caught him completely off guard. He was used to thinking along those lines but hadn't expected her to.

He should have just lied. As soon as the thought arose, he dismissed it because he didn't ever want to lie to his female. Except that she might not be his at all, and now he was farther away from the means to determine for certain.

He glanced over at her, lying on the other side of the fire with her back to him. Could Mariketa truly be a different version of Mariah? An utterly different version? Or was he seizing on reincarnation because it absolved him of guilt—for Mariah's death
and
for his undeniable lust for another?

The two looked nothing alike but for their ears. Mariah had been tall and lithe and so graceful, seeming to float when she walked. The petite witch rolled her hips sensuously until her every step sent blood rushing to his groin and away from his brain. For the thirtieth time tonight, he ran the heel of his palm along his shaft. He wanted to watch her walk naked to a bed he was in.

He told himself he wasn't comparing the two females to determine which was
better
but only to explore his reincarnation theory.

Hell, he didn't even know what he would do with a key now. Would he truly go back if he believed the witch would never live?

That was the crux of it, because if he knew for a fact that he would erase the witch, then he could be certain that she shared a soul with Mariah. And with that certainty, he could stay with the witch, even if there was a key, and there would be no guilt.

Wait.
Why had he immediately decided on the witch in this situation? If he could just as easily have Mariah, wouldn't he prefer her? Mariah had been everything that was perfect.

Yet for the first time, Bowe admitted—with difficulty and reluctance—that she might not have been perfect . . . for
him
.

For most of his adult life, Bowe had said what was on his mind, and damn the consequences. Life was too long not to. But he remembered that his uttering even the mildest oaths would dismay Mariah—no matter that he and his kind had been using those words for millennia before they'd been deemed bad.

He'd often felt like he was walking on eggshells around
her. He'd striven to change for her, hoping to make himself a gentleman for her. Yet some traits were just a part of his nature.

He enjoyed his bed play dirty, and like all males of his kind, he was aggressive in bed. But Mariah had been a fey princess living in the eighteen hundreds and had been stymied with a very limited sexual mind-set. She'd never been aroused by Bowe—had never desired him as he did her. Bowe had known this, for she'd made no secret of it. With her violet eyes glinting, she would stroke him under the chin as she vowed that she would be the one to tame his beastly nature.

So he'd struggled to ignore his baser urges because she would have been horrified or even fainted if he'd acted on them. The sex words he'd wanted to use he'd stifled. The places he'd wanted to kiss her he'd tried to put from his mind. . . .

He'd never claimed her, and the one time he'd touched her between her thighs, his heart had sunk to find her utterly unaffected by his attentions. As cold as ice.

But when he'd stroked Mariketa, she'd been lush and wet, her body so ready to receive him. And the way he spoke? It
aroused
her. He knew the self-pleasuring witch would indulge in whatever would give them satisfaction. That night in the tomb, if he'd decided to taste her sex, she would have moaned with anticipation and spread her legs wide for him.

Maybe she hadn't been seething with power that night, but with passion, a passion stoked
by him
. Bowe hadn't realized until now how much Mariah's lack of desire had affected his confidence.

At once, he flushed at his uncharitable thoughts toward
her. She'd been a sweet lass, and she'd had much to offer a male.

She'd been a gentle fey of royal blood and good family, and marrying her would have brought about a valuable alliance between her kind and his. Elegant Mariah had chosen him to take care of her. Out of all her royal suitors—and there were many—she'd chosen
him
to marry. She would've been a good mate and a caring mother.

He frowned. Except that she'd told him she hadn't wanted to have children. No matter how long he'd always looked forward to a family.

But then she hadn't been a bloody witch either.

Bowe turned to his side away from Mariketa. This confusion wasn't as racking as the constant guilt, but at least with the guilt he'd known where he stood.

He heard Mariketa stirring and recognized that her desire was building once more. She eased to her side, then over again. Oh, bloody hell, she was not furtively grazing those sensitive breasts of hers. She hurt for what he would gladly kill to give her.

He palmed his shaft through his jeans yet again, hissing in an agonized breath. One hundred and eighty years had passed since he'd been brought to come by another. Not ten feet from him, a trembling bundle of lust in the form of a fantasy lay aching for a male's touch.

How much more could he take?

O
verstimulation.

Being on the cusp of immortality left a lot to be desired. Literally.

Mari hadn't had a pocket rocket in her bag for no reason. She'd needed the thrice-daily release it provided like an ailing person needed medicine—she might as well have had a prescription for it. And now she craved an orgasm so badly that she'd briefly considered using MacRieve.

How could she still be attracted to him after his admission? She tried to ignore the need.
Think of other things.

She
would not
think about how firm his lips were or how unyielding his erection had been when it had rubbed against her ass.

She wondered if she could work this out for herself right now, without him hearing. Two quick strokes and she'd be done. At least for a couple of hours. Maybe he was already asleep—

“Gods, Mariketa, I need to touch you.”

Not asleep. “Go to hell.”

“You think I canna tell how much you need a male? You keep forgetting what I am.”

“I know
exactly
what you are. And what you're capable of.”

He crossed to her so silently, she didn't even know he'd moved until he lay beside her. “Let me help you.”

“Any closer, MacRieve, and I'll pin you to the ceiling and cackle at your expression like the witch that I am.”

Her eyes must have changed, because he narrowed his. “This will only get worse. If you're truly transitioning, I canna imagine how you must be feeling.”