Mark of Betrayal

Page 27

“By manage,” he said, landing on his knees between my legs, taking both my hands and pinning them gently beside my face, “I assume you mean make love.”
I nodded, closing my eyes with the smell of his sweet breath touching my nose as he lowered himself, warm and solid, on top of me.
“If I make love to you now, it’ll be noon before I leave this place.”
“Ha! Yeah, right. It’s been two weeks since we had sex, David, it’ll probably only take three minutes.”
The warmth of his laughter made my whole body tingle, and the way his fangs showed when he rolled his head back like that made me want to be under them—my blood spilling past his lips. His laughter ceased, trickling away to a soft smile as he wrapped my arms around his neck and gently ran a hand up my thigh, lifting my nightdress. “Looks like I’ve got something to prove. I hope you don't plan on walking for the rest of today.”
I giggled, nuzzling my nose into the skin below his neck. “I don't plan on walking for the rest of the year. So you can do whatever you want to me.”
He pulled back a little and looked down at me. “You shouldn't say things like that, my love. You sound sadistic.”
“You know I'm only being playful.”
“I don't like that kind of playful, Ara. You know that.”
“Okay then. Sorry.” I tucked my cheek into my shoulder, smiling sheepishly.
“Know what I do like, though?”
I shrugged.
“You.” He slid his fingertips under my head and lifted it slightly, bringing my lips up to meet his, but stopped there and whispered, “I'm the luckiest guy in the world, that I get to kiss you, hold you and love you, whenever I want.”
“Not yet, you don't,” I said, touching my lips to his once. “We can't be free to love each other until we rid the world of all its evil. Until then, we have to take small moments of bliss.”
“Small moments that last three minutes, huh?” He laughed, sliding his hand into the front of my undies.
* * *
The sheet felt like a satin kiss across my almost naked skin, drawing a smooth, tingling sensation down the length of my body as it came away, leaving me uncovered in the cool air. My eyes flicked open to an emerald green gaze, foreground to another night sky. Somehow I’d slept through all my responsibilities, all the things I wanted to run from, and been left in the arms of this man I loved so much. “You stayed with me?” I said.
But he shook his head. “No, sweet girl. I returned to you.”
I felt my eyes become smaller, focusing more carefully on his face; the shape of his eyes, the boyish gentility in his smile—the fact that he said ‘sweet girl’.
“Jason?”
“Perhaps.” His form disappeared from beside me, standing suddenly by the bed, his hand extended; I searched the tips of his fingers, the creases in his palm, the chains of destiny around his wrist, and the clear veins in his arm—all the way to his soft emerald eyes.
“Are you real?”
He nodded to his hand. “Touch.”
My fingertips shook, travelling across space and time to fold into his, and it felt so real, so warm and so solid, like he was really there, right beside me. He helped me to stand, and a tight, tingling pull permeated through my limbs, like I’d left something behind, something that fell from my soul.
“Care to dance?”
“I—I'm not dressed for a dance,” I said.
He only smiled and looked at my underwear and bra, then smoothed his hand gently down my face; my eyes closed under his touch, and my lips parted as his fingers tickled across them, cool against my warm breath. I felt dizzy, breathless from the craving.
“Open your eyes, Ara.”
Slowly, I looked down to a swirl of blue light, rising up in soft, smoky plumes, encircling my legs, hips, then waist. “Is this a dream?” I whispered, feeling the tingle over my bare skin.
Jason nodded toward my bed. I turned slightly and looked at the girl—curled up under the white silk sheet, breathing deep, peaceful breaths—sound asleep, alone.
“She—”
“Shh.” He held his finger across his lip, smiling behind it. “Don't wake her.”
I smiled back at him. The blue light faded then, dissipating slowly, leaving behind a silky feel of fabric around my waist and over the tips of my toes, the colour yellow shining up at me in the shape of a ball gown. “How did you do that?”
“Do you like it?” he asked.
I ran my fingers over the waist and onto the full skirt. “I love it. It’s my favourite colour.”
“I know.” Jason reached up and placed something cool and sweetly-scented beside my ear, tucking my hair back with it. “And this is my favourite blossom.”
I drew a sharp intake of breath when I touched my fingers to the flower, feeling the solid, silky petals of a rose—so real, even its scent, as if we were actually standing right here, face to face, hip to hip, breath to breath. But we weren’t, and I knew that—as sure as I could see myself sleeping right behind me, I knew this was just a dream, and it made my stomach sink as much as it made me excited. Alone here, in this dream, nothing mattered; not the way I felt for David; not the way I felt for Jason.
I took his hand when he offered it, and noticed only then, as he led me into the now empty room across from my bed, that he was dressed formal, too, in a tuxedo. He looked so human and so sweetly handsome I nearly laughed. I caught sight of our reflection in the mirror above the mantle of the fireplace—the only objects left in the room—and smiled, thinking we’d fit perfectly in a turn-of-the-century romance novel.
We took step to a rhythm I couldn’t hear; Jason glided across the floor with the grace of a vampire, leading me with a kind of gentility that felt like floating. I was never much of a ballroom dancer, but in his arms, I was flying. The feel of his hand, flat against the small of my back, consumed everything in my mind, and the song I couldn't hear, the song he sung to me with his steps, rose up from the back of my mind, giving life to the room. Colours swirled around us—masked strangers appearing, smiling, laughing, dancing just like Jason and I, but turning in the opposite direction, making the movement of our steps feel like a cog in a clock—ticking, spinning, purposeful, but different.
My bare feet felt each rise of the wooden floorboards, each grain of sand or brush of his shoes past my foot, and he kept me close, the grace and charm of his tall, straight shoulders, and the perfection of his eyes, locking to mine, made me want to stay here forever. And it wasn’t a trick. Not this time. This time, I felt this way because I cared for him—because I wanted him to be here, to dance with me.
In his eyes, I could see so many thoughts, so many things he wanted to say. But he lost the chance. He took his own life, and my mind, as much as I knew his face, could never put words in his mouth that had never been said. And that was the saddest thing about this dream; that in the morning, the daylight would steal all that was perfect in the night.
The music became louder, and I looked over at my sleeping body; she did not wake. She did not know what her heart was doing while she dreamed peacefully of her husband, whom she made love with only moments ago.
“I wish you weren’t just a dream,” I whispered, closing my eyes.
Jason held me closer, his fingers curling slightly against my hand. “What would you say to me—if I was not a dream?”
My eyelids fluttered as I rolled my face up to look at him. “Kiss me.”
His brow pulled tight and the song slowed again—a violin the only instrument. We stopped dancing and the others in the room faded away like quivering shadows, leaving Jason and I alone. He slowly rolled me back in his arm, tipping me toward the ground; my hair swept the rug where it hung down, the blossom falling from its place, landing alone on the floor by our feet. I looked back up into the green magnificence of his eyes—all the love, the soul, the pain, the truth—everything he was and suffered and cared for shining out through that gaze, pulling me into his world, begging me to save him from it. And I wanted to. If I could go back. If I could go back and be his—I would.
My jaw shook, my mouth open, crying out inside for his to touch mine. But he closed his eyes and scrolled his lips along my jaw, letting his warm breath fall heavily against my neck.
“Bite me,” I said, tilting my chin, opening the longing of my skin to his teeth. “Bite me, and then make love to me.”
His hand rose to my collarbones, and he clenched his fist above my flesh, hesitation stalling his desires.
“Please, Jase?”
Without looking away, he opened his hand and smoothed it down my throat, between my breasts and over my stomach. I felt him—felt the touch against my bare skin, as if there was no dress there. “I have no right to you,” he whispered, his nose to mine.
“And I have no right to want you,” I breathed, closing my eyes.
When I opened them again, light filled the room and a shock of ice washed through me, leaving me half naked, covered only by silk and the scent of my husband. I sat bolt upright, clutching the sheet to my breasts, covered in blood, confused—so confused, and so, so alone. A cool breeze brought a faint hint of a rainy day, making me feel stony and out of place. I looked over at the rose on my nightstand, my heart pounding in my throat, easing when I touched the thornless stem.
I laid down again, sinking into the feathers of my pillows as they rose up around my cheeks, and my dark hair tickled my nose. Images of my dream flashed in my mind, forcing my eyes shut for each brush of his lips across my skin, hold my breath for each time I felt the desire to be in his arms. And then David's face came to mind; the way he looked down at me as he slipped inside me; the way he smiled when he gave my body another chance to create life from his; the way he kissed my lips so softly, lingering for just a little longer than usual, before he left me.
And the scent of the rose became the memory jerker to my confusion. I rolled over and tucked my knees to my chest, folding the petals of the rose down, one by one.
By the time the smell of pancakes came wafting in with the morning heat, there were no petals left on the flower. I wiped a stream of tears from my cheek and climbed out of bed. I needed to talk to someone. I needed to sort this out in my head, but I couldn’t do that alone. I just needed someone who understood that I loved David, but dreamed of his brother.
Chapter Six
I had to stop and ask several people directions to the entrance to Lilith’s garden. Everyone seemed to know exactly where it was, but not really how to get in. I’d seen the wall that bordered it from my balcony, but could never see inside—the gardens hidden under the pinks of cherry blooms and the greens of leafy trees. I knew there was definitely a garden behind this wall, but just couldn't find the damn door.
“You need the key.” Arthur materialised beside me.
I pulled my hand down from the small stones of the wall and looked up at him; we were shaded from the sun here, the shadows making the day cool, but Arthur looked a little hot; his collar moist, his hair sticky around his brow.
“What have you been up to?” I asked.
He wiped a hand across his face. “Nothing.”
Okay, I’ll let that one slip. “So, I need a key?”
“Yes.” He took my hand and led me along the wall to a section hidden just inside the Forest of Enchantment.
“Should we be in here?”
“Yes, my dear, it is the only entrance to Lilith’s Garden.”
“Oh. So, how do you know? Have you been there before?”
“Not since it was finished.”
“Finished?”
“Mm.” He nodded, using his hand to brush aside a thick mass of vines, growing over the wall from the garden. “I helped Drake plant many of the trees.”
“Wow.”
He smiled, then let go of my hand to bend down, standing again with an iron key in hand. “Your key.”
“Why was it in there?” I looked down as he covered the wall with the vine again.
“There’s a nook beneath these vines. The key has been there, in plain sight, for some hundreds of years.”
I held the key up to the small column of light shining in through the tops of the trees. “Where’s the door?”
He laughed, stepped back a little, then cast a straight arm further down the wall—deeper into the forest.
I gulped. “Will you walk me to it?”
“I will,” Morgaine said, popping up out of nowhere, linking arms with me. “After all, I have a private invitation.”
Arthur bowed his head, then turned and started in the direction we came.
“You ready to see your garden, Majesty?” Morgaine practically hugged my arm.
“Yes. Very ready.” I didn't even need to tell my feet to move. “So, what’s up with Arthur today?”
“What do you mean?” She looked over her shoulder to where he’d walked away.
“He was…less than presentable. That’s not like him.”
She shrugged. “Maybe he’s just not coping with being here.”
“Here? At the manor?”
“Mm-hm.”
“Why?”
“Because of Arietta.”
“Oh. Right. He did mention that.”
She nodded. “He’ll be okay. He’s just grieving.”
“Still?”
She scoffed. “Vampires feel things eternally, Ara. He’ll never move on from her. Well, maybe if he finds another to love.”
“That's really sad.” I glanced over my shoulder, wishing I could go give him a hug, but we came upon a big set of arched doors then, with iron hinges and a slot just the right size for my new key.