Нора Робертс - The Becoming

She could see herself—wanted to see herself—sitting at the long dressing table with its drawer knobs of diamonds as big as a baby’s fist, or lounging among the plush pillows on the settee. Standing on the terrace looking out at all she commanded—through Odran, of course. But it would be hers. She would see to it.

Whatever the cost, whatever the price, she would have this.

“Your taste is more exquisite than any. I am humbled to stand in such a room.”

“You are not humbled.”

She smiled, lowered into a curtsy. “Already you understand me. But I am honored.”

“Disrobe.”

“Myself or you?”

“Yourself.”

“Then I must ask for the assistance of a god, as I cannot unfasten the gown.”

She set the goblet down on the dressing table, walked to him, turned her back. “If you would, my lord.”

He tore it so the gown ripped in two. Shana merely stepped out of it, kicked it aside. “Such strength. It thrills me. I lack it, but if you’ll allow.” She turned to him, wearing only the underpinnings she’d selected for this exact purpose, and began to unfasten his doublet.

“I would see you, Odran, god of the dark. And though I know you can take me willing or not, I give myself to you. Now and always, as you wish.

“Ah, such beauty.” She ran her hands over his bare chest—slighter than she’d imagined, his skin smoother, but for the small scar at his heart. “Grace in strength,” she murmured as her hands traveled down to unfasten his trousers.

She found him already hard, like stone, like the marble columns, and smiled.

When she started to put her arms around him, lift her lips for his, he shoved her against the thick post of the bed, and drove into her.

Cold, cold, like a shaft of ice impaling her. Shocked, she cried out, but he battered her against the post, and for a moment, she thought she felt claws dig into her hips.

She didn’t resist, and because he watched her with eyes that had gone to black, she lifted her legs to wrap him, around his hips, and, closing her eyes as if in ecstasy, cried out again and again.

Cold, sharp, vicious—gods, she wanted to scream for him to stop. And feared if she did, he wouldn’t until she lay dead at his feet.

She thought of the slave woman in the collar, and held on to him as if enthralled. She would die before she served meat and wore a collar like an animal.

Then something changed, and instead of pain and fear, she felt a terrible pleasure rising through it. Dark and dangerous, it conquered her. Wild with it, breathless from it, she gripped his shoulders, looked into those black eyes, and said, “More.”

When he was done with her, he tossed her on the bed. She felt slightly ill, her body throbbing as her burned hand had, and wished only for the oblivion of sleep.

Then he climbed on top of her, hiked her hips high as she moaned.

She screamed when he sodomized her. And though she feared he would tear her in two, that dark pleasure broke into her again until she wept with it.

Until she craved it.

He used her over and over, tirelessly, brutally, until she thought the endless pains and pleasures might kill her.

When after the long night he ordered her to leave him, she stumbled naked back to her room, her body bruised, tiny gouges bleeding.

And understood now that she knew those pains, those pleasures, she would rather die than live without them.

When Brian woke, he lay a moment longer in the warm bed with Marco beside him. He had duties, and would never shirk them, but thought how lovely it would be to stay, to wake together.

Another time, he hoped. They would have other times.

Quietly, he rose.

He would use the shower—a much fancier sort than any he’d found on his visits outside of Talamh. Marco had shown him how it worked, and together they had shown each other what interesting things could happen inside a glass box under a hot rain of water.

He’d imagined himself falling in love at some point. In the future. Eventually.

But he hadn’t known what it could be, not really. He hadn’t known the lightning strike, the floating on a quiet river, the wild flight among stars, the simple rest.

Love was all of that and so much more.

He’d found someone he wanted to join hands and walk with for the rest of his life.

Whatever god, whatever fate had put Marco Olsen in his path, he would be forever grateful.

He dressed in the dark before brushing a light kiss on Marco’s cheek.

“I’ll come home to you tonight,” he whispered, “and every night I can.”

Carrying his boots, he walked downstairs.

Though Marco had told him Breen rose early, it surprised him to find her in the kitchen in the first breaths of the new day.

“Good morning to you.”

“Morning.” She lifted the mug in her hand. “I made coffee.”

“Thanks for that, but I don’t have a liking for it. I’d make myself tea if you’d show me how this thing works.” He tapped the stove.

“Sure.” She turned the burner on under the kettle.

“Ah, well then, that’s simple enough.”

“I’m no Marco, but I could scramble you some eggs.”

He smiled at her, this key to so much who offered to make him breakfast. “It’s kind of you, but I’m hoping you won’t think of me as a guest here.”

She smiled back at him. “Okay then, you can scramble your own eggs. Bread, bread knife, toaster.” She pointed as she spoke. “Butter and jam in the fridge—along with eggs. The cottage is Marco’s as much as mine. You’re Marco’s so it’s yours. That’s how things work for us. If you’ve got this, I need to check on Bollocks. He’s already out and in the bay.”

“I can manage, thanks.”

She went out to drink her coffee in the air while her dog romped in the bay, while the mists rose over it and the waking sun shot tiny rainbows through it.

Keegan had left only moments before Brian came down. He’d taken no time for coffee or tea. He would, he told her, come back to resume her training, but had duties first.

So did she, she thought. A duty to the work she’d chosen, a duty to the dog and dragon who’d chosen her as she had them. A duty to the two worlds she knew, and the people in them.

Keegan left so quickly, and with so much, obviously, on his mind, she hadn’t told him about the dreams.

She didn’t know what to tell him anyway except they’d been dark, disturbing, scattered, and full of screams of pain, moans of pleasure.

Firelight against black walls, something—someone?—rutting in the shadows.

Then a light, already dim, extinguished.

Probably just a stress dream—a sexual stress dream. Though she hadn’t gone to bed stressed. She’d been happy—ridiculously so— then Keegan had made her happier yet—and exhausted, so sleep had come easily.

But she was stressed now, and couldn’t say precisely why.

She watched Bollocks bound out of the water, leap through the mists as she heard the door open and close behind her.

“You’re wet,” she warned Bollocks as Brian strode toward her. “Be polite.”

Instead of leaping on Brian, Bollocks sat, held up a paw to shake.

“And a fine morning to you as well.” Brian handed Breen one of the slices of toast he held before he shook the offered paw. “I thought you might like some yourself.”

“Now that you mention it.” Breen bit into the toast he’d loaded with butter and raspberry jam. “Thanks.”

“Marco tells me you train—exercise—in the mornings, then write your stories.”

“That’s the usual routine. I missed a lot of both when I was in the Capital. Marco’s not a morning person. But once he’s up, he’ll work.”

“On the machine, the computer.”