The Darkest Night

“Please,” she found herself saying. “Just show me your stomach.” The more she demanded to see it, the more she wanted to. Would she find stitched wounds? Smooth skin? Would there be any indication that this man had been stabbed over and over again?

At first he gave no reaction to her request. Then, finally, he sighed. “It appears I am the one who will not make it out of here with my clothes on.” He reached for the hem of his black tee and slowly…slowly…raised it.

Despite her insistence, Ashlyn couldn’t yet work up the courage to tear her attention from his intense violet gaze. She told herself it was because his eyes were so beautiful, so mesmerizing that she was lost in them, drowning. But she knew that was only half the truth. If he was stitched, was scabbed…if this was Maddox…

“You wanted to look. So look,” the man commanded, both impatient and resigned.

Do it. Look. Inch by inch, her gaze lowered. She saw a corded neck and a wildly ticking pulse. A collarbone mostly covered by black cloth. She saw one of his thick hands fisting that cloth right above his heart. His nipples were tiny, brown and hard. His skin was that otherworldly bronze she’d admired in the forest, and he was stacked with rope after rope of muscle.

And then she saw them. Six scabbed-over wounds. Not stitched, but red and angry. Painful.

She sucked in a shocked breath. Almost in a trance, she reached out. Her fingertip brushed the scab that slashed through his navel. The healing sore was rough and warm and abraded her palm. Electric tingles rushed up her arm.

“Maddox,” she gasped out.

“Finally,” he muttered, backing away as if she were a bomb, detonation imminent. He dropped the shirt, blocking the injuries from her view. “Are you satisfied now? I’m here, and I’m very real.”

He—no, not “he.” Maddox. Not his twin, not a dream. Not a trick. He’d been stabbed; the evidence was there, those six hellish wounds. He’d had no heartbeat, no breath. And now he stood before her.

“How?” she asked, needing to hear him say it. “You’re not an angel. Does that mean you’re a demon? That’s what some people have said about you and your friends.”

“The more you speak, the more you hang yourself. Will you follow me now?”

Would she? Should she? After that “hang yourself” remark… “Maddox, I—” What?

“I showed you my stomach. In return, you said you would come with me.”

Did she really have any other choice? “Fine. I’ll follow you.”

“Do not try to run. You will not like what happens.” Motions fluid, he wheeled around and marched out of the cell.

Ashlyn paused only a moment before limping after him, doing her best to stay close on his heels. Her hands itched to touch him again, to feel the life pulsing beneath his skin. “You never answered my question,” she said. The farther they walked from the cell, the more the cold air gave way to warmth. “If you are a demon, I can take it. Really. I won’t be grossed out or anything.” She hoped. “I just have to know so I can prepare myself.”

No response.

Those flaxen rays of sunlight streamed through stained-glass windows, casting rainbow flecks on the stone walls. Fatigue and lack of nourishment must have weakened her, because she fell a few steps behind. “Maddox,” she said, a low entreaty.

“No conversation,” he replied, his gait never slowing as they climbed a flight of stairs. “Perhaps later.”

Later. Not what she’d hoped for, but better than never. “I’ll hold you to that.” She stumbled and winced, sharp pains shooting through her ankle.

Maddox stopped abruptly. Before she realized what he’d done, she’d slammed into his back with a pained cry. Immediately that tingling warmth returned, sparking, catching fire and spreading.

As she struggled to find her balance, he hissed a breath through his teeth and spun around, pinning her with a vicious stare. His eyes were black, the violet gone as if it had never been. “Are you hurt?”

A tremor swam through her. Yes. “No.”

“Do not lie to me.”

“I twisted my ankle last night,” she admitted quietly.

His features softened as his gaze slowly perused her, lingering on her breasts, her thighs. Goose bumps broke out over her skin. It was as though he were stripping away her clothing piece by piece, leaving her in nothing but flushed skin. And she liked it. Her heart fluttered wildly in her chest; moisture pooled between her legs.

Suddenly she didn’t care about answers, the pain in her ankle or the lethargy in her muscles. Her nipples hardened and strained. Her stomach clenched and unclenched with need. Her skin felt too hot and tight for her bones. She wanted his arms around her, comforting her, holding her close.

A moment later, she realized she was reaching out.

“No touching.” He jumped onto the step behind him, widening the distance between them. All hint of softness left him. “Not yet.”

Her arms fell to her sides as disappointment crashed through her. No answers, no touching, she silently mocked, fighting off the decadent rush of pleasure that came with finally being close to the man who’d consumed her thoughts all night. His warmth, the silence…a combination lethal to her common sense.

One stroke, that’s all she’d needed—all she’d wanted, surely—but he was determined to deny her. “What about breathing?” she asked dryly. “Can I do that?”

His lips twitched, smoothing the edges of his fierceness. “If you do it quietly.”

Her eyelids narrowed to tiny slits. “Well, aren’t you a sweetie. Thanks a lot.”

That twitch became a full-fledged smile, the blinding force of it knocking the air from her lungs. He was beautiful. Absolutely mesmerizing. Ashlyn found herself caught in his snare yet again—how did he do that to her?—and again reached up without thought. Craving that spark of contact, yes, yes. Needing…needing…

He gave a sharp shake of his head, humor suddenly gone. She stilled, annoyed with him, herself.

“There is something I need to do before the touching can commence,” he said, the words so husky and low she felt them as deeply as a caress.

“What is it?” she asked, biting her bottom lip as violet began to reclaim his eyes, trickling from his pupils to overshadow the black. Amazing.

“Doesn’t matter.” Frowning, he reached out as if he meant to stroke her cheek. He caught himself and dropped his arm to his side, a mirror of her own actions a few moments before. “What does matter is that you never answered me. Were you in that cell all night?”

His heady, masculine scent wafted to her nose, summoning her closer. She tried to resist, truly she did, but found herself leaning toward him despite his warning. “Yes.”

Again, fury darkened his face. “Were you fed?”

“No.”

“Given blankets?”

“No.” Why did he care?

“Did anyone hurt you?”

“No.”

“Did anyone…touch you?” A muscle ticked in his jaw, once, twice.

Her face scrunched in confusion. “Yes. Of course.”

“Who?” he demanded. His face began that freaky change, gnarled skeleton flashing and churning under his skin as if he wore a see-through mask. Even his eyes changed again. Black covered violet, then red covered black, glowing ominously.

Another of those hard lumps formed in her throat and she struggled to catch her breath. Not even in the forest, not even while chained to a bed, a sword slicing through his organs, had he exuded such ferocity.