“Why not? Don’t you like to have fun?”
Fun? That word wasn’t part of his lexicon. “Games are pointless diversions,” he replied automatically, his Hunter’s upbringing speaking for him. “I don’t like to waste time.”
“If you enjoy something, then it’s never a waste of time.” She tilted her head at him. “What’s the matter? Have you got something more pressing that you need to be doing right now? Maybe you need to go check the motion sensors in the rain for another few hours?”
Was she mocking him?
Worse, did she suspect his avoidance of her had less to do with his efforts to carry out his mission than it did with his fear of being near her for any length of time?
“Come on, Scythe. We’re both at our wits’ end out here with nothing to do but watch the clock and wait for something to happen.” She gestured to the chessboard. “Let’s play. I promise to go easy on you, since it’s your first time.”
Even if he wanted to refuse, the words died on his tongue. His body tense with awareness and want of her, he stood unmoving as she seated herself on the white side of the board and waited for him to join her.
“One game,” he muttered, settling in behind the row of black pieces.
He wondered if she had any clue how she affected him. The grace of her movement, the cameo beauty of her face, even the pop of scarlet on her shapely little toes, made his blood thrum.
Now, backlit by the crackling fire, he realized that beneath the sweater that continuously tormented him by sliding off her shoulder, she wasn't wearing a bra.
His cock surged, leaving him no choice but to shift in an attempt to get more comfortable. Which wasn’t going to happen. Not with Chiara seated within arm’s reach of him, her perfect breasts naked under the soft weave of her clothing.
She glanced at him, humor dancing in her dark brown eyes. “You’re not having second thoughts already, are you?”
Second and third thoughts, in fact, but none of them strong enough to convince him to get up from the table. He chuckled, choosing to ignore the strained sound of it. “Maybe you should be the one to reconsider. I feel it’s only fair to warn you that I always play to win.”
“Then this should be interesting.” She grinned as she moved a pawn into the playing field, opening the space in front of her king. “Because so do I.”
He arched a brow. “I thought you said you’d go easy on me.”
“That was before you admitted you’re not going to show me any mercy.”
She was still smiling as he slid one of his pawns out to block hers. Without hesitation, she moved diagonally and claimed his piece. Scythe cursed under his breath.
Her face gave away nothing as he reached for another pawn—the neighbor to his forfeited one—and moved it two spaces forward on the board.
As soon as his fingers left the piece, her hand hovered over her queen. Scythe groaned, instantly seeing his mistake.
“Ah, fuck.”
Chiara’s queen slid diagonally across the board, into a space that left his king wide open and unprotected. None of his other pieces could block her next, fatal move. She smiled sweetly. “Checkmate.”
“Another round,” he growled, determined to redeem himself.
She actually had the nerve to giggle as they set the pieces back in place and began a second, more cautious, game. He avoided falling into her traps, even though he had to admire her strategic intellect and her ability to recover from all of the snares he attempted to lay in front of her. The game was a challenge and a welcome diversion, but after a while, he realized he was simply enjoying her company.
“This set is a masterpiece,” he remarked, picking up the white rook he’d captured and turning it over in his hand to watch the firelight glimmer across its surface. The pieces were beautifully carved, the white ones honed from snowy marble, the black ones made of polished onyx. Even the board was a work of art, fashioned out of one solid piece of walnut that gleamed with polish.
He had found carving to be a good outlet for his restless energy after he and the other Hunters had been freed. He’d done all right with his work, but this skill was far beyond his own.
“Sal’s father made this for us after we were mated. It was our first anniversary gift from him.” Chiara’s mouth curved in a bittersweet smile as she lovingly stroked the surface of the board.
The reminder that she’d once been mated to another male sent a blast of white-hot jealousy coursing through Scythe, but he tamped it down ruthlessly.
She is not yours, Hunter.
“It's a generous gift. It must have taken him all year to create such a work of art.”
“My father-in-law was a generous, caring man.” A hauntedness filled her eyes in the moment before she glanced away from Scythe. “I wish I could say as much for his son.”
“How did you and Sal meet?” Not that it was any of his damned business or concern, but there was a part of him that wanted to know. Another part of him just wanted to keep this moment going, to absorb every detail about this extraordinary woman for as long as he could.
“We met five years ago. I lived and worked in the next town over. On breaks and weekends, I used to ride my bicycle out here to the Genovas’ vineyard and sit on the far hill. It was my secret place—or so I thought. One night I fell asleep out among the vines and when I woke up, I was staring at one of the most handsome Breed males I’d ever seen. He was polite and charming, and instead of railing at me to get off his land, he insisted that he see me home.”
Scythe grunted. “Sounds like a perfect gentleman.”
“He was... at first. I didn’t know about the gambling or the lying until after we were mated. Then he couldn’t hide who he truly was. I felt every betrayal through our bond.” She drew in a breath, then let it out in a long sigh. “I thought he would change—if not for me, then for our baby—but he didn’t. I don’t think he was capable of changing.”
“What about your own family? Did they know anything about this?”
She withdrew now, sinking back against her chair. “Sal was the only family I had. I was orphaned as a baby and left at a Darkhaven shelter. A nice Breed family took me in, but everything fell apart after First Dawn.”
Scythe nodded grimly, having witnessed that volatile period in the Breed’s history firsthand. After the human population learned they shared their world with blood-drinking predators, chaos erupted. Wars raged for years following that first morning after the news broke. Violent clashes between mankind and the Breed took place on a daily basis all over the world. It took time and an enormous amount of diplomatic negotiations between the two races to finally put the violence to an end. But even now, the worlds of man and Breed often clashed.
Chiara swallowed. “During the worst of the wartime, our Darkhaven was raided in the middle of the day by a small army of humans. My adopted father and young Breed brother were dragged out into the sunlight and staked there, left to die while my mother and I were held at gunpoint inside our home.”
“Jesus,” Scythe muttered. He had heard plenty of horrific stories, but none that put such a sick feeling in his gut—a fury that boiled inside him—at the understanding of what Chiara and her family had suffered.
“My mother was despondent. She had been made to endure both her own pain and that of my father, her blood-bonded mate.” Chiara shook her head. “It was more than she could bear. Not even a year later, she took her own life. And then I was all alone.”
Scythe wasn’t even sure if he was breathing. All of the air in his lungs seemed clogged and unmoving, as heavy as a stone behind his sternum. “You went through all of that, only to end up with a male like Sal?”
“As much as I grew to hate him after everything he did, I will be forever grateful because he gave me this refuge and the miracle of my son. Whatever else happened in my life, as bad as it was, I guess I had to go through it in order to end up where I am now.”
“You really believe that?” When she stared at him in question, h
er dark brows knit together, he shook his head. “Do you really believe in the concept of fate—that everything happens for a reason?”
“I have to believe it, Scythe. Don’t you?”
“No.” He let a curse roll past the tight line of his lips. “I think it’s a crock of shit. I think we live in a fucked up, hideous world. I think bad things happen for no goddamned reason. I think the only miracle is that any of us manage to make it through the day without killing ourselves or the people who count on us to protect them.”
She stared at him with her jaw agape, shock and sorrow in her eyes. When she finally spoke, her voice was unbearably tender. “You’re not talking about me anymore, are you?”
He got up from the chess table, wishing he’d never been fool enough to sit down in the first place. All he wanted was to get the hell out of the room, away from her soft gaze and gentle words. But pride refused to let him retreat.
Lightning flashed outside, followed by a boom of thunder so loud, it shook the walls of the house. None of that was more noticeable than the silence stretching between them.
Chiara walked up to him, her movements slow and cautious, as if she were approaching a beast on the end of a very thin leash. Her gaze dropped to his wrist, to the useless stump that remained there.
“All of the violence that was forced on you in Dragos’s sick program,” she murmured quietly. “It must've been awful. I can't imagine what you went through, what you had to survive in order to be standing here with me now.”
He stared down at her, fury and shame raking him from inside. He bit off a low curse. “I hope you never know any of that.”
“But I want to. I’d like to understand, Scythe.” She took a steadying breath. “I hope you know that you can tell me anything. I wish you would trust me enough to tell me what happened to you.”
“Chiara.” Her name was a raw warning. “This isn’t a good idea.”
“I think it’s an excellent idea.” She stepped in closer to him. “There’s something going on here with us. I know you feel it too. I know you don’t want to feel it. I’d like to deny it, too, but I can’t.”
He clamped his molars together, uncertain he’d be able to find the words to refuse her. Not after the days and nights of wanting her. Not when she was staring up at him with such open emotion, such fierce determination.
“I’d like to know where you went and how you managed to live after you were finally released from your Hunter’s collar. I wish you’d tell me how you lost your hand, or why you live all by yourself in that tiny place in Matera as if you’re paying a penance for some private sin.”
When he turned his head away from her, on the verge of retreating for both their sakes before things got any further out of control, she brought her fingers up to his chin. Her touch steered his gaze back to hers.
She shook her head, her dark eyes flashing in the firelight. “Dammit, Scythe, I want to know if you’ve ever been in love, or if you think that’s all just a crock of shit too.”
Any hope he had of avoiding this disaster that had been building between them was smashed in that instant. Before he could stop himself—before his brain could even fire off the alarm that he was wading into dangerous waters—Scythe took her mouth in a blistering, breath-stealing kiss.
She melted against him on a moan, her arms circling around his neck to hold him closer. There was little gentleness in this kiss. Their combined need had been denied too long to even hope to contain it.
That door was blown wide open now, and there would be no closing it ever again.
He slipped his hand under the hem of her loose sweater, searching out the petite mounds of her breasts. He’d never regretted his missing hand more than he did now, when he was finally touching this woman.
He couldn’t get enough. Using his other arm, he dragged her further into his embrace, grinding the aching length of his cock against the softness of her body. It was torture, delicious agony, to feel her curves cushion his hard planes and ridges with the barrier of clothing between them.
Chiara must have shared his frustration. She broke their kiss on a gasp, her big eyes drowsy with desire, her lips swollen and glistening. Her scent intoxicated him, flooding his senses with the fragrance of her heated skin and the blood that rushed so swiftly through her veins. Her desire was the most potent drug of all. It called to everything male in him, both his humanity and the part of him that was otherworldly, pure predator.
He skimmed his hand down her side and into the loose waistband of her pants. When he found the drenched, slick cleft of her sex, he nearly combusted on the spot.
“I need you, Scythe.” She smoothed her hands over his chest, then twined her fingers in his hair as he stroked her wetness. “I need this. Oh, God. I need to have you now.”
He needed her too.
And right now, neither duty nor discipline owned him.
Only desire.
Only this beautiful woman he could not deny and would never deserve.
He growled his agreement and claimed her mouth on a fevered curse.
Chapter 8
Shattered.
That was the only word to describe how she felt as he took her mouth in a searing kiss. His body against hers awoke a need she hadn’t known in so long—not ever, like this. His fingers on her sex, his wicked caress both tender and tormenting, drove her toward a pleasure that she could hardly contain.
“Scythe.” His name was a plea and a demand, the only word she could manage when his touch had obliterated everything but the longing for more of this.
For more of him.
She didn't have the power to heal any of the pains from his past, no more than he could heal hers. But they could lose themselves in this moment, in this passion.
Wet heat pooled between her thighs and she laced her arms around his broad shoulders, sinking deeper into his kiss, writhing against his carnal touch. This was what they both needed so badly. An escape. A refuge. A few precious minutes where the world outside didn’t exist, could not touch them. This might be their only chance and she wasn't going to squander a second of it.
Panting, she pulled back, locking gazes with him as she reached for the hem of his T-shirt. “I need to feel your skin.”
She barely recognized her own voice. So harsh and full of need. Consumed by an animal yearning she could not curb, she tore off his shirt and looked at him with pure female lust. She heard the low rumble of his growl, though whether he meant it as approval or warning, she couldn’t be sure. Nor did she care, not when she was overcome by the tragic beauty of his bared chest and torso.
“Oh, Scythe.”
It wasn’t pity that robbed her breath as she ran her hands over his muscles and smooth skin. Not even close. As much as she wished he’d never suffered a minute’s anguish in his tortured past, she could not deny her complete astonishment—her adoration—of his powerful body bared to her gaze and her touch.
His strong neck was a tangle of brutal scars, a testament to his Hunter origins, but the rest of him was a work of art. Magnificent Gen One glyphs swirled in a kaleidoscope of colors and swirling, intricate patterns from his broad, bulky shoulders, to the tapered cut of his abdomen. His immense arms were wrapped in stunning glyphs, too, tracking down his biceps and onto his forearms. The markings spread onto the back of his left hand; on his right, they terminated at the abrupt end of his wrist.
“Beautiful,” she murmured, reaching out to trace them. He drew in a shaky breath as she smoothed her fingers over his old wound, then blew out a low, heavy sigh as she continued back to his chest, sliding her hands in awe over his warm, hard muscles. “You're beautiful, Scythe.”
His amber-lit, onyx eyes closed briefly at her praise, but the stoicism that seemed to ride him so constantly began to fade away as she continued her exploration of him. His bearded jaw relaxed, and the lines that furrowed the center of his brow eased into a different kind of tension. She ran her fingernails over his flesh, raking past hard, flat nipples and lower
, scoring his rippled abs lightly as she went.
“Your hands are so soft,” he muttered, his dark eyes ablaze with fire now. Those bright sparks flared even brighter as he stared down at her, his fangs gleaming and sharp as he spoke. “Everything about you is so damned soft, Chiara. I don’t know how to be gentle. Fuck... I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I’m not going to break.” She pressed a kiss to the drumming space above his heart. “And right now, gentle isn’t what I need. Just you, Scythe. Right now, that’s all I want.”
A rare smile curved his sinister lips. “Thank God.”
His mouth descended on hers. As his tongue swept past her teeth in a claiming thrust, he closed his fingers over her throat, his hold on her gentle, yet possessive. Her heart thundered in response, her pulse beating so hard against his palm.
He groaned and took her deeper into his embrace, into his kiss. His mouth was rough, without finesse. His body hard and powerful, vibrating with unbridled hunger and want.
He uttered her name, a gruff noise, unearthly and thick. His large hand released her throat and slid lower to cup one of her breasts. His nostrils flared as he tugged the wide neck of her sweater lower, baring her to the waist. His eyes fixed on the birthmark that declared her a Breedmate. On her, the small red teardrop and crescent moon symbol rode just beneath her right breast.
He stared at it for a long moment, brushing the pad of his thumb over the mark. When he glanced back up at her, his fangs seemed even longer, sharper than ever. The sight of them sent an ache pulsing low in her belly, and a wild, reckless urge arrowing through her veins.
One bite of his fangs and she would be his irrevocably.
One slip, and her blood would bind them forever.
Scythe seemed all too conscious of that fact too. His touch moved on, lavishing attention on her breasts. He flicked the sensitive peaks of her nipples, then took one into his mouth, groaning as the erect bud tightened even further against his tongue. “I want you naked now, Chiara.”