Shadow Lover
Lydia Parks
Prologue
He heard the sound of her muted footsteps on the wet leaves long before she approached the tree under which he stood. Every evening, she followed the same trail from her sister’s home to her own, holding her skirts above her ankles to keep them dry, whistling a soft tune against the darkness. She never tarried on her way, never stopped.
Tonight, he would stop her.
“Who’s there?”
He stepped out from the deepest shadows and smiled. “Good evening, my dear. My name is Griffin.”
Although clearly startled, she recovered quickly. “What is it you want, sir?”
He strolled toward her, sending forth thoughts of peace and goodwill. “The chance to alleviate my loneliness, dear Molly, even if for only a few hours.”
“How do you know…my…name?” Her eyelids drooped as her will to protest faded.
This one he’d watched for months, admiring the way her auburn locks reflected moonlight and her pale skin glistened in the evening dew. He’d retired each morning humming the sweet, sad melody she whistled.
He couldn’t spend another night alone.
“You need not worry, my dear, I won’t hurt you.” He stroked the side of her lovely face, thrilling to the downy warmth of her cheek. “And when I leave, you’ll have no memory of what passed between us.”
He caught her as her knees buckled. Careful not to bruise her precious flesh, he carried her to his resting place, well inside the damp cavern. Once he’d placed her on his bed, he lit a lamp and watched her wake.
She was truly lovely, a small-framed woman, perhaps twenty years of age, with a heart-shaped face and large eyes the color of wet clover.
He reacted to the sight of her on his bed as any man would, hardening to the point of discomfort. He would have her as his own this night, and then sleep with her in his arms until he woke again at sunset. When he released her, she would remember nothing, and he would have the smell and the feel and the sound of her to carry him through another year or two, perhaps more.
How pathetic his existence had become.
But this was no time to wallow in his pigsty of sorrow. No, he had a beautiful young woman to entertain, to bring to heights of pleasure she didn’t know existed.
She watched him without protest as he bared himself to the waist. Then he knelt beside her and unwrapped her from the layers and layers of clothing he found so annoying these days. Finally, she lay naked before him, one arm folded across her small breasts and the other hand cupped between her legs. She shivered, but asked no questions.
He touched her with great tenderness, stroking her arms and shoulders, feeling gooseflesh rise under his fingers and small hairs brush against his palms. He eased her arms to her sides and she complied. Touching again, he moved to her neck and breasts, caressing them appreciatively, teasing the tiny buds of her nipples as they tightened until her breath caught in her throat.
And then he kissed her.
That’s when he realized just how much she reminded him of Rebecca. It wasn’t her appearance, but her scent and taste. So much like his long-lost love, the memories squeezed his cold, dead heart until he wanted to scream.
But he didn’t scream.
With his fingers buried in her hair, he held her close and took her sweet mouth, probing deeper, savoring every bit of it. After a few moments, she began to respond, to draw on his tongue, to moan softly.
“She’s yours,” the beast whispered.
He ignored the voice as he pulled her under him, pressing his cool flesh to her heated skin. All he wanted was to feel her body submit to his, to wrap himself around her. She writhed against him as he enjoyed more of her, allowing his fingers to slide over her virginal cleft.
Her heartbeat thundered in his ears, loud, steady, the sweetest music.
And the beast spoke louder now. “Take her. She will not resist.”
“No,” he growled, closing his eyes to fight it.
Her tiny hand came up to his face and the heat of it branded him.
Staring into her sea-green eyes, he realized then that he wanted her with him for more than one day. He wanted her for his share of eternity, to walk the nights with him, to sleep the days away in his arms.
She was so much like the woman he’d loved.
“Remember the glorious taste of her soul,” the beast said. “It is yours for the taking.”
Unable to fight both the devil and the memories, he let the chains of restraint rip through his hands and felt his fangs descend in a rush.
Molly’s hand slid down to the front of his chest.
Her touch felt too good. He couldn’t manage this way; the beast would soon take over.
Carefully, but firmly, he turned her over so that she faced away from him and he drew her to the side of the bed.
With the devil again leashed, he ran his hands down Molly’s back, admiring her pale, warm skin, her narrow waist, the indentation of her spine, the width of her hips. He reached around her to caress her soft mound, parting her swelling lips, and found her unexpectedly wet.
Pressing his forehead between her shoulder blades, he freed himself from his breeches, aching to bury himself in her.. He would control her thoughts to alleviate the pain of her first encounter.
She made soft noises of need and raised her buttocks, opening herself completely, trusting him.
He entered her slowly, intoxicated by the warmth of her, savoring every response as he nuzzled her hair. When tightness became obstacle, he thrust through with a growl of delight.
So much like Rebecca had once been.
Sweet, lovely Rebecca. How could he be expected to resist her?
“Now,” the beast commanded. “She is yours. Take her!”
As her muscles began to tighten, and she gasped with approaching release, he succumbed to the beast’s demands.
She screamed as he pierced her flesh, but not with pain.
His arm around her waist, he held her close as her body rose against his. His brain exploded with her essence, the intense emotions—love and hate—the needs, and wants and dreams. All of it was his, spiced to perfection with her climax, and he hungered for more. He wanted all.
His
