In the Company of Witches(16)

Mikhael stood then, picked up the other half of the croissant she’d left on her plate. “Things don’t change. The reasons, the causes, the consequences. The whole world is a cycle and a circle. The songs may romanticize that, but for someone who lives as long as I have, and sees the things I do, it sucks.”

Despite the contemporary choice of verb, his age showed in his eyes then, an ancient coldness. It swept the whole room, shivering over her skin, making her raise a protection on herself in instinctive defense. Staring at Mikhael, she remembered that Derek was more than twelve hundred years old. Even knowing the commitment to Lucifer was all eternity, she hadn’t considered that this Dark Guardian could be even older. Which meant he was considerably older than her.

He’d taken a cruel shot at what they’d shared last night, putting a taint on it. But she didn’t turn off her radar just because she was knocked back on her heels. She wasn’t going to let herself be thrown by his age. She’d also held him in her arms last night, felt things from him, things that connected to this moment. If she was as sure of his facade as he thought he was of hers, she’d say she’d bruised his feelings.

Mikhael Roman had a bone-deep moral code. It might be a code sworn in the dark, against blood and muck, rather than in the light, striking a suit of shining armor, but he was deadly serious about it.

She was used to being able to read men to the bone. While she couldn’t yet read Mikhael to that depth, his perspective on this one issue was brutally clear, as his next words proved.

“You’ve made some sweeping assumptions about me. Let me make some about you. You’re absurdly tolerant toward anything resembling an underdog, even if their own choices landed them in that position. You are closed-minded and intolerant toward those you perceive to be in a position of strength and authority. You risk those you love to help a creature too far gone to be saved, because you choose the ignorant comfort of self-righteousness over full knowledge, which would inform you the world is not us and them. It’s just the world, each one of us utterly alone in it.”

Okay, she’d been wrong. He did have the ability to trash her radar, under a hailstorm of words that cut. Her fingers were white, pressed into the chair arm, and she expected her face was the same color when his gaze stilled on it. He bit off whatever else he was going to say and stepped back.

“There’s a reason I prefer my own company,” he said stiffly. “My apologies. I’ll leave you to your breakfast.”

MIKHAEL DIDN’T GO AS FAR AS HE INTENDED. WHEN HE went off the side porch, he was heading for the woods, wanting the tranquil darkness of the forest and swamp. Instead, he found himself in her gardens, a tangle of azaleas mixed with flowering vines woven into strategically placed trellises and latticework. Benches and statuary enhanced the design. It encouraged a meandering walk among the beauty of nature, with secluded places for trysts and quiet reflection.

He’d probably end up in the swamp anyway, but he took one of those secluded spots, a large bench next to a small fountain and man-made pond, complete with lily pads and a grinning stone frog. Next to the frog was a sculpture of a kneeling fairy, a thin woman with long hair, her delicate hand on the frog’s head as she trailed the other fingers in the water, her expression pensive, the tilt of her body attractive, achingly so. The best of nature and beauty together. It reminded him of her.

Fuck, he’d let her get under his skin. That shot at her fragility last night had been unforgivable, particularly when she was still so uncertain about trusting his mastery over her. He’d been too deep inside her last night. She responded to him in a way she hadn’t responded to anyone, and he wanted more of that unique gift. He’d just scratched the surface of her response.

There was a vulnerability to a craving like this. His anger didn’t get provoked from snide comments and well-orchestrated contempt. But she’d impressed him with what she’d built, and she was endangering it with her stubborn need to save every sex demon that stumbled out of her swamp. She was endangering herself. That mattered to him. Maybe that in itself was unusual, but not as much as the fact that what she thought of him mattered.

It was the most absurd feeling he’d had in quite a while. Maybe he needed reconditioning from the Underworld. An oil change or something.

She was clever with words, but a snake-oil salesman or politician had that. She backed her words with herself, with action. He’d walked her property this morning. Her power signature was like her: a bold pen stroke, unflinching, a warning not to mess with what was hers. But the Craft of it was remarkably complex, delicate and exponentially strong, like a spiderweb. She wasn’t about brute power; she studied, she learned, she adapted, to the point there were minor modifications of the protection on different terrains, new compilations of spellwork he hadn’t seen used before.

In short, she was a damn good witch. Last night, she’d stood toe-to-toe with him on a battlefield and hadn’t flinched. In fact, he’d pissed her off, sparking those tempting green-gold eyes to full-out flame. Her courage had faltered, not because of his attack upon her as a Dark Guardian, but later, in the face of his desire to dominate her as a lover, something she craved but feared, because of the shadows in her soul.

She obviously had a history similar to those she protected. Someone had hurt her, used her, inflicted pain on her. As he’d made clear, he knew every story of brutality and cruelty there was. It was good that there was always somewhere in the world that needed rain, because the Goddess wept daily at what Her creations did to one another. The shape and color might be different, but it was the same substance. The devil was in those details.

For the first time in a while, he wanted to know the shape and color of that devil, and not because it was an assignment to do so. He told himself it was because he liked a challenge, and her emotional shields were a challenge. Like her perimeter, it would take both a delicate and powerful touch to get through them. That wasn’t going to happen unless he could get to the bottom of her soul. But he had an unsettling sense that to learn the shape of her soul, he might have to let her see his. Or that hers might change the shape of his.

He knew the moment she entered the garden. Of course. She didn’t know when to leave well enough alone. It was a wonder she was still alive, but of course, in his world, she was quite young, midthirties. He didn’t like the idea of that, her physical fragility, the fact she could be extinguished far more easily than he could. Then he remembered her defense of her home, both with her sharp tongue and her spellwork. He was being typically male. With the clever tongue alone, she could slice most enemies to ribbons.

“I’m sorry,” she said, with grace. And sincerity.

It was the last thing he expected her to say. Turning toward her, he found her face pale but serious. “You’re right. I made you into a symbol of all the things that have harmed my kind, and bludgeoned you with it, rather than seeing you as you are.”

“And what am I?”

As she cocked her head, his eyes followed the fall of her hair along her shoulder. The sweet line of collarbone. “I don’t know if I like you or hate you. I don’t know enough about you to be sure, so any feeling I have about you is transient.”

“Fair enough.” He wanted to touch her. He didn’t usually deny himself such compulsions, but things felt a little…delicate between them. Sitting down on the bench, he stretched out his legs. Glanced at the spot next to him, an invitation.

With a smile that was tired, not practiced, which made it more appealing, she came to him. Looking pointedly at the small space left on the bench due to his much larger frame, she moved between his feet and sat down on his thigh, her fingers settling on his shoulder to hold herself there.

Pleased with her decision, he slid an arm around her waist, molding his palm along the line of her hip. Then she put her arms around his neck, drew him to her. Bemused, he capitulated to the pressure, the distinct pleasure of her breasts against his face as she…hugged him.

He hadn’t been hugged since…Perhaps he’d never been hugged? That couldn’t be right. He was searching his brain for that scrap of information when she drew back, looked at him.

“So if you know the world sucks, why don’t you try to change anything?” she demanded.

It damn near made him smile, which he never did. She recovered fast from anger, didn’t sulk. At least not in this instance. She could likely do a damn good pout when it suited her purposes.

“Try to change the nature of living beings, their continual struggle between the good and evil in themselves? Try to impact the choices they make to reach the next level of spiritual evolution?” He shook his head. “That’s a higher pay grade than me. Sorry.”

HE INTRIGUED HER, DAMN IT. AFFECTION WAS EASY FOR her kind, and the moment had called for a hug, but the shock on his face…She guessed not a lot of people went around hugging Dark Guardians. He’d recovered, though. That hand on her hip was strong and steady, the idle stroke of his fingers awakening every nerve ending within range.

He was more than she’d expected him to be, but he’d picked up that there was more to her as well. It was an emotional aphrodisiac for any woman, a man’s genuine interest in her.