Sharon Ashwood - Unchained

“The person you called before was able to find out that Bannerman sold the bookshop. Could he discover what other sales that firm handled recently?”

“Good idea.” She took another bite.

He was watching her eat, his eyelids half-closed. He reached out, stealing a cherry tomato from her plate, and put it in his mouth.

He was eating something.

Ashe stared, forgetting to chew. Reynard bit down, eyes closed in concentration. His eyelids fluttered, then opened, a look of shock tensing the muscles around his nose and mouth.

“You okay?” she asked around the bite of sandwich.

He gulped. “That tasted . . .” He trailed off, shaking his head.

“Like a tomato?”

“Yes.” He ran his tongue over his teeth. “I’d forgotten what they were like.”

His gaze traveled back to her plate.

“Are you hungry?”

He shot her a wild look that he shuttered almost before she truly saw it. Something beastlike, driven by deprivation. She felt her heart stutter, filled with fear and pity, then shoved her plate across the counter toward him. “Go ahead. I’ll make myself another.”

The knowledge of what his hunger meant passed between them. He looked away, almost shamefaced, then picked up the sandwich and bit into it. She heard his sigh and wondered how long he had been denying the urge to eat. Her own appetite vanished at the thought.

What the hell can I do for him? All he wants is to live a little.

And we’re not going to find that vessel in time.

She picked up the phone and walked into the living room to call her hacker contact. She stood in the semidarkness, glaring at the glowing screen of her cell phone.

Goddess!

She needed her vision to stop blurring so she could read the list of contacts.

The complex textures of the sandwich filled Reynard’s mind, blotting out everything else. Soft bread, the crunch of greens, the rich tearing of meat. He tasted butter. Holy God, he’d forgotten how good that was. Some things didn’t quite line up with memory. The bread was different, but that didn’t matter. It was food, that basic connective tissue that bound man to man, regardless of race or creed or culture. Hunger was their shared inheritance, relieving it a universal rite. After so long, he was part of that brotherhood again.

And it tasted so good.

He could feel his body seizing on the food, realizing he must have needed to eat long before he knew it. Dizziness swept over him as he crammed the last bite of chicken into his mouth. He wanted more, but he’d seen prisoners of war make that mistake when they were finally liberated and fed. Too much at once ended in sickness. He couldn’t risk that.

He slid off the stool, washed his hands, and filled a glass with water. He gulped it down, feeling the coolness slip over his throat. Even water suddenly tasted like heaven.

Ashe came into the kitchen behind him. “My contact’s going to call me back.”

Reynard set the glass in the sink. “Then we wait.”

He turned to face her. Her expression was horrified and dazed, much like he had felt when a piece of artillery had blown up too close for comfort, taking the gunner with it. He wanted to wipe that look from her eyes, but what could he say? Yes, my dear, I’m perishing faster than a beached fish, but I feel marvelous.

And he did. There was the hollowness where his soul should be, but there was so much emotion. Bit by bit, his heart was unfreezing. Joy, liberty, and affection were his again. Instead of groping for memories, he was experiencing life. He pushed away from the sink and crossed over to her, his boots a slow tattoo on the tile floor.

She set the phone on the counter, finding the right place by touch. Her emerald gaze was glued to his face, filled with a mix of concern and something a lot less maternal. That look was worth everything. He’d walked out of the Castle into freedom, and a beautiful, fierce woman cared what became of him. As victories went, it was magnificent.

I wish I could make you understand. He put his hands on her bare arms, feeling the soft skin and hard muscle beneath. She was exactly his height and every bit as talented a fighter as he was, but also oddly delicate. There was nothing heavy-boned about her. She was all speed and grace.

In a just world, he could have promised her everything. All he had was his body, but he could use that to take the sadness from Ashe’s eyes. She knew what was happening to him, but she couldn’t see the joy he felt. Where words failed, there were other means to make himself understood.

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

“About this,” he said, and brushed her lips with his, once, twice, and then took her mouth without holding back. She retreated a fraction, but then gave in to her response, as if coming to a decision. Her lips parted under his, letting him in.

She wound her fingers though his hair, pulling out the tie that held it back. Her teeth nipped at his bottom lip, not breaking skin but marking possession.

“I want you,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t, but I do.”

“Then I shall be your sinful pleasure.”

Reynard pulled Ashe into him, holding her hard against his chest. She felt so warm, so soft and strong at once. He grasped her shoulders, feeling the bones and muscles move as she wrapped her arms around his neck, then slipped her fingers down his shoulders. His own hands cupped her cheeks, running his thumbs along the fine ridge of her jaw. The pulse in her neck fluttered against his fingers, as if reaching for his caress.

Ashe was mortal, her life spent in an instant. Like him, she was more than human but she had none of the guardsmen’s indestructible power. The magic she had was all but destroyed. Or so she said. He could feel the remnants of it clinging to her, as ephemeral as cobwebs and yet curiously strong.

Her mouth found his neck, leaving nips as she tasted his flesh. Clean, silky hair brushed his cheek as she caressed him. The sunny softness of it reminded him of home—of meadow flowers and random feathers found by the banks of a wild creek. Ashe belonged there, in that land of freedom and instinct. The land where sensation weighed heavier than thought.

There was something oddly innocent about that, and it charmed him.

She leaned her weight against his chest, forcing him to fall back a step. Retreat signaled a change of tactics. She swerved, pushing him against the wall. His shoulders thumped against the hard surface.

“Take off your shirt,” she said, her words half whisper, half growl.

“La, madam,” he murmured into her ear. “Do you mean to strip me of my virtue?”

She looked up through her lashes, her eyes sharp and hungry. “First things first, boy. Shirt. Off.”

The challenge was too much. “The devil I will. You’ll have to work for it.”

“You’ll pay for that.” Grasping the hem of his T-shirt, she started to pull it up his stomach.

“Not so fast.”

He grabbed her by the waist, lifting her feet from the floor as if she were no more than a naughty child. In response, she wrapped her legs around his middle, holding on with the strength in her thighs. The motion turned them in a half circle, knocking over a floor lamp that fell with a clatter. Neither of them stopped to assess the damage.

Ashe pulled the shirt off over his head. By that point, he had to cooperate and raise his arms or she’d tear the shirt. Possibly with her teeth. Besides, the feel of her against his bare skin was too enticing to resist. She waved the garment for a moment like a victory flag, then let it arc to the floor.

“I always get my way eventually.” Releasing her grip on his waist, she braced herself on his shoulders and slithered down his front until her feet touched the floor. The movement made him wish for that wall to brace himself against. Friction was exquisite torture. All of a sudden, his knees were not at their most reliable.