answer came from the things he’d said to the witchblood man.
She thought he would pick up the blade she’d dropped, but he stepped over it instead. He’d already recovered. His breathing was no longer labored. As she watched, the black blood completely evaporated from his face. He ignored the sword and came to stand directly in front of her, his attention fully on her. His penetrating gaze caused a flush to rise as she remembered her hungry response to his kiss.
“I’m no longer Vasilisa’s champion against the Dark Volkhvy. I’m no one’s champion. But I am the last Romanov and I stand to defend Bronwal. Forever. I warned Grigori away for that reason and that reason alone,” Romanov said.
“Why didn’t the alpha wolf...or any of the wolves come to help you?” Elena asked. The courtyard was empty. The sunlight was hidden behind clouds that had drifted in sometime during the fight. New snow fell in soft silence. Fluffy white flakes contrasted against Romanov’s dark hair for brilliant seconds before they melted. The black waves released from his queue grew damp once more.
Romanov laughed softly and the snow globe the world had become suddenly crystallized and warmed at the same time. Elena hugged herself to keep from reaching out to him because his laugh was hollow rather than happy.
“I don’t need wolves to fight a Volkhvy of Dominique’s degree. Only the lesser witches come for the Romanov blade in its current state. Its power has faded. It holds no attraction or appeal to greater witches,” Romanov said.
“Grigori would never fall to a common sword. Even if it pierced his heart,” Elena guessed. Deep down she’d already known. That’s why she’d sought the help of the alpha wolf.
“This blade is far from common. But it is also far from what it was when it was given to my father,” Romanov said. He turned away to bend and retrieve the jeweled sword. The sapphire in its hilt winked dully in the cloudy light.
Elena reached to touch the sapphire. She wasn’t sure why. The dark gem was cool and damp beneath her fingers.
“It’s very old,” she said.
Romanov had frozen and she was reminded of her first glimpse of him last night. He stared at her face as if he saw something in it that caught his attention and wouldn’t let him look away. The snow was falling more heavily and it swirled around the place where their bodies kept it from the ground. But when she looked from the gem up to his eyes he was no longer a legendary figure come to life. He was a complicated man. One who swore he was no hero while at the same time warning her greatest enemy away.
“It isn’t age that diminishes the stone. It’s dishonor,” he said. “It wasn’t meant to be brandished by a traitor.”
Elena withdrew her hand and Romanov blinked and looked away from her face. He lowered the blade until its tip pointed to the snowy ground.
“You’ve carried the weight of your father’s mistake for a long time,” Elena said. “But I can also see that you aren’t bowed beneath this burden. You might doubt that you’re still a champion, but your body knows. You don’t fight like a man with nothing to lose. You fight like a man with everything to lose. I can see that the stone doesn’t shine,” Elena continued as she turned to walk away through the accumulating snow. “But I can also see that you still do. You shine. And you could help me if you would.”
He didn’t reply and she didn’t pause. She left him and his dishonored blade in the whiteout of falling snow. She wouldn’t kiss him again. She would avoid him while she sought the alpha wolf. The ferocity of his unexpected needs drew her, as did the skin-to-skin electricity between them. But she hadn’t climbed the mountain to find a seductive lover. She’d answered a call that couldn’t be denied and she’d come to find a way to defeat the witchblood prince.
She’d tasted like honey cakes and her scent had been feminine and minty sweet. The combination had gone to his head like a mead brewed for maximum potency and pleasure. Romanov sought out his rooms and the cold comfort of a bath to wash away the remnants of his long training session and his battle with Dominique. He used a rough cloth to sluice icy water over his skin. Crazy that he should kiss her. But it was a crazy inspired by sizzling attraction that clouded his thinking and burned in his blood. She should have been frightened away by his brothers, by the castle, by his tales of Ether-mad people wandering the halls.
Instead, her body had melded against his chest in his arms. She’d reached for him. She’d held on tight. She’d eagerly welcomed the thrusting of his tongue. She’d tasted him. She’d moaned and sighed as if her body craved more intimate contact with his than could be had in a courtyard in the snow.
The cold water was useless against the onslaught of sensations his mind insisted on recalling—one by one in slow, torturous succession. He hardened with the memory and he was glad he’d filled his own tub. He didn’t need an audience for his body’s reaction half an hour after Elena Pavlova had allowed—nay, participated in—an embrace and kiss that shouldn’t have happened.
Once again, he’d been surprised by how powerfully muscular her seemingly delicate dancer’s body could be. He’d wanted to rip her clothes away so he could explore and appreciate every taut line, every smooth curve. Not to mention the soft, full breasts that contrasted with her spare frame and the warm, hidden crevices he could only imagine.
Oh damn, how he could imagine them.
Many Cycles had come and gone since he’d been alive enough to feel like this. And even more since he’d been foolish enough to act on the feelings. He was cursed. He wasn’t free to crave and savor and...
His body was reddened from its rough washing when he stood to allow soapy cold water to run off his skin. He wouldn’t indulge his erection. He left the bath instead, wrapped in a sheet that was tattered and faded. No one had been prescient enough to mend or replace linens in a long time.
He walked to the window and pressed open the stained glass that had been added centuries after the castle was constructed. Throughout the castle there was evidence of the passage of time. People had tried to carry on. Some still did. The window’s iron hinges protested, but the cold air rushed in, bathing his moist face and chilling his body temperature. He needed the blast of winter air.
Dominique wasn’t dead. A normal blade would never kill a Volkhvy. His bold message would be delivered to Grigori. He’d told Elena he wasn’t a champion. He’d told her the alpha wolf wouldn’t help her. Both of those things were true. But he was a defender of his family’s enclave and he would be here when Grigori came for the dancer he had claimed.
If he assumed wolf form to fight the witchblood prince, he might lose himself to it as his brothers had. Bronwal would be deserted and the Romanov blade would be up for grabs. The Dark Volkhvy might gain a foothold that couldn’t be dislodged without a clearly sentient person to stand against them.
He couldn’t risk the shift even for Elena Pavlova.
From where he stood he could see the ravens that circled around Elena’s tower. They soared like feathered shadows around her room. It seemed a dark foreshadowing of what was to come.
His only option was to force her to leave Bronwal.
Cruel that he should continue to taste her and recall with perfect clarity the bold strokes of her tongue.
He
