Shit.
The poker lowered, her arms going limp with shock. Her lips parted and a soft gasp escaped her throat. It couldn’t be…
“Nico?”
The man who had haunted her dreams and saved her sanity for the last three years stepped fully into the shaft of light. His thick blond waves appeared silver in the moon’s beam, but the strong carved-from-granite jaw was the same. As were the slashing arch of his brows, the arrogant, aquiline blade of his nose and the full erotic curves of his mouth.
She knew his face well—had traced its beautiful features with her eyes, fingers and lips many times.
But always in her fantasies. Never in real life, in the flesh.
Joy hurtled through her, lit her up on the inside like a Fourth of July firecracker. Her lips tilted upward, her smile widening, and the warm glow of delight spread as if she’d downed a shot of whiskey. The tip of the iron poker hit the floor as her arm dropped to her side.
For years she’d anticipated each night when would she escape to the place where she could see Nicolai, be with him, make love to him. And for years she’d dreaded the morning when she’d awaken to an empty bed, alone and lonely.
But Nicolai was here. In her bedroom.
In…her…bedroom.
Suspicion wormed its way past elation. Her smile faded as the stain of doubt expanded like an ink blot across paper. How was it possible he’d strode straight out of her dreams? And why now? Her gaze shifted to the window. Her thoughts strayed to the backyard and what she’d seen crouched on the grass.
No. That’s crazy.
But the last two days had been the epitome of bizarre. A man had changed into a monster before her eyes. Her friend had been ripped to shreds by the same man-beast. And now the winged warrior who had existed only in her imagination stood in front of her.
Her breath snagged in her throat. Images from her dreams of magnificent wings extended high and wide flashed in her head. She swore she could feel their feathered gentleness as they closed around her, sheltering her as securely as his muscled arms.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
Nicolai didn’t say anything, his expression closed, as inscrutable as the unblinking stare studying her. Her unease ratcheted up a notch and her grip tightened on the poker once more.
A corner of his mouth twitched as if he’d noticed her defensive action.
“You know who I am,” he said and she shivered under the sensual power of that low midnight rumble. The seductive drawl too was the same. “I think your question is what am I?”
Yes, that question had taunted her. Yet even as she’d thought it, the answer had risen to her mind, swift and certain.
“Hippogryph,” she blurted.
Surprise flared in his eyes—eyes she knew were the exact hue of the most perfect violet—before his lashes lowered, his inspection of her becoming hooded, appraising. Blood heated, coursed through her veins, transporting desire along the vascular highways until it pooled in her sex, pounded in her clit. Between her thighs, her folds swelled, moistened. He stepped closer and the moonlight caressed him like a doting lover, illuminating the striking planes of his face, emphasizing the wide shoulders.
She shook her head, dumbfounded. She should have been frightened by his calculated scrutiny, not turned on.
“And how did you come by this knowledge?” he asked, the tone soft but containing a hint of danger that warned her to tread carefully.
Common sense returned and fear crept up and overtook lust.
“Harry Potter,” she replied, breathless. Her feet took over and shuffled backward, placing more space between them even as she babbled, “The Prisoner of Azkaban. Buckbeak.”
Confusion, then what appeared to be chagrin, crossed his features. His lips twisted into a humorless smile that bordered on a grimace. “Of course.” He paused. “Buckbeak.”
Again, her gaze darted to the window. “That was you outside?” Tamar hesitated and for a second her throat closed around the question. She was almost afraid of the answer. When he maintained his silence, she continued in the same halting voice. “You’re like the man from last night.”
His face underwent a transformation from wry annoyance to grave sobriety. He nodded tersely. “But not the one who killed your friend.”
Terror swept through her, its power weakening her knees. Her shoulder smacked the wall and pain radiated from the socket down her arm. The poker fell from her hand and dropped to the floor with a solid thump. Nicolai shifted forward and she uttered a small cry, scooting along the wall until she trembled in the corner again. She held up a hand, palm out.
“Tamar,” he said, ignoring her warning, and eliminated more of the distance between them.