Bitten by Cupid(47)

Of him.

Zeeland stood on unsteady legs, zipped up his pants, and stumbled from her room, closing the door behind him. He collapsed against the wall outside her room, shaking with a cold that came from deep in his soul. All those years he’d dreamed of being her first. He’d imagined how he’d stroke her and gentle her, preparing her body for that first intimate invasion.

Instead, he’d handled her roughly, hurting her. Terrifying her.

She’d waited for him. Five years past maturity and still a virgin. She’d waited for him and he’d hurt her.

“Ah, goddess. What have I done?” He tipped his head against the wall at his back, digging his hands into his hair and clutching his skull. His body still raged with need, but it was his chest that felt as if it had been stabbed with a dozen knives. It was his heart that felt as if it would crumble.

“What have I done?”



Julianne lay on her bed, curled in on herself shaking with a fire, a need, she barely understood. And a terror she understood all too well.

“Zeeland,” she whispered, her heart breaking. So close. After all these years of waiting, he’d finally come back. He’d finally been prepared to make love to her.

Now he never would.

She couldn’t let him try again. She’d felt a pinch of pain when his finger first breached her, but it had been followed at once by a rush of pleasure so intense, she’d felt her control vaporize. Tiny, warm bubbles had begun to replace the blood in her veins. If she’d let him continue, she’d have turned to mist, just like Melisande.

She’d have given herself away, signing his death warrant and probably her own. And she’d have had to watch as the passion and tenderness in his expression changed to shock and revulsion.

But, sweet heaven, he’d thought he’d hurt her. She’d seen the look on his face, that look of horror, and for a moment she’d feared she’d already lost form. But then she’d realized she was still firmly corporeal and known his horror was all for himself. His words had confirmed it. I would never hurt you. Yet he thought he had and hated himself for it.

She knew her Zee.

Julianne rose and went to the door, hesitating as she reached for the handle. What if he was still out there? What would she say to ease his guilt? What could she say without telling him the truth?

Nothing. There was nothing she could tell him.

But maybe there was another way to ease his suffering. She knew the Ilinas were able to do more than turn to mist. There was another ability Ilinas possessed, a trick Melisande had pulled on her more than once.

If she could turn to mist, perhaps she could do this, too.

If it worked, she might be able to make things right with Zeeland, in a way. She might be able to ease his terrible guilt.

Her miserable Ilina blood had to be good for something.



It was nearly dawn when Zeeland finally let sleep overtake him, simply to escape the self-recrimination for a while. He dreamed, as he often did, that he was a shape-shifter, that he still possessed the ancient power of his race. In the dream, he was on a wide-open plain, standing the height of a man. As he lifted his arms to the heavens, he pulled the energy from deep within himself and felt a rush of power on a sweep of exquisite joy. A flash of sparkling lights, and his vision suddenly shifted until he was looking at the landscape from a lower vantage point.

His eyesight changed, his hearing sharpened. The smells of the land burst, engulfing his senses. On four legs, he took off running across the empty plain, the wind in his face thrilling his whiskers, his powerful legs carrying him with joy and ease.

In his dreams, he always shifted into the same animal, a large cat of some kind, with brown fur. He’d never seen his reflection to know precisely which feline.

He ran, reveling in the freedom, only slowing when a beam of sunlight suddenly appeared before him, deepening and widening until a woman stepped forth from the glow.

Julianne.

She wore the same purple nightgown he’d lifted over her hips as he’d prepared to plunge into her a short while ago. The gown, a sleeveless satin that clung to her body, set off her coloring and her curves to fine advantage, filling his man’s brain with admiration and lust.

But as his gaze rose to her face, he saw the tracks of tears and remembered all too well what he’d done to her.

His cat’s body pulled up not twenty feet in front of her.

She stared at him, her eyes wide and uncertain. “Zee?”

He spoke to her telepathically. It’s me, Julianne. I won’t hurt you.

“How did you shift? You’re not a Feral.”

It’s a dream. The memory of shifting lives deep within my Therian blood. I often dream I’m an animal. A lot of Therians do. Don’t you?