Goosebumps crept along her flesh when the timepiece in her hand purred, thrumming as it vibrated. Had it responded to her?
Once more, a soft, heated whisper caught her attention,“Open...see.”
Shudder.
She switched hands, drawing the right one along the coverlet to wipe away nervous sweat. The anxiety overwhelmed her. Hell, she was as nervous as a virgin at a Roman orgy.
She took a fortifying breath and pushed the button atop the crown. A soft click sounded in the tense silence.
“What am I doing?”
Breathing a sigh laced with anticipatory dread, she pulled the cover open far enough to peer down at the glowing face. It was so beautiful. Unable to stop, she ran a finger over the glass and almost pissed her pants when the whole thing pulsed.
It liked that!
She shook her head, astonished. Curiosity overrode common sense, and she slid her fingers over the watch face again. This time, the numbers began to glow in response.
“See....”
Dizziness slammed into her, throwing her against the bed. Flashes of images raced through her mind. Whispered words, nearly incomprehensible, rushed through her ear. She saw fractured pieces of memories—nothermemories, someone else's. Vivid, deep, and painful. Images of a beautiful young woman, and another, and another. Flashes of bright fabrics, a blazing bon fire, and golden skinned, dark haired men and women laughing, dancing, and singing.
The Rom.
The realization was quickly followed with disbelief and more images. Fragmented reflections of a tall, dark-haired man. Gorgeous, confident, and sexually aroused. An image, quick and sharp, of a naked girl lying beneath him, and then breath-stealing pain. Agony, condemnation, darkness, silence.
A summoning.
Behind the overwhelming physical sensations of loneliness and fear was the undeniable push to obey, to do as commanded.
“Sorores tres deae...Ahmi...fulfill….”
A man's deep voice, raspy and halting, radiated from the empty room, pouring a flood of anticipation down Haven’s spine. The presence inside the watch was a man? If the images and memories she'd experienced were anything to go by, he was flesh and blood with flesh and blood desires. He'd been naked and thrusting vigorously when something horrible happened.
Unable to make sense of the blasts of image fragments, she assumed he'd been hurt. Who, or what, hurt him, and why? Nothing was clear, and the dizziness was doing a number on her stomach.
Fighting the bile rising in her throat, she closed her eyes and groaned.
Done with the nearly paralyzing visions, sensations, and spectral voices, she threw the watch, and it landed on the carpet beside the armoire where it continued to hum and glow. Afterwhat seemed like forever, the glow dimmed, and the humming stopped.
No matter. She'd gotten the impression it had done what it intended to do. A message was hidden somewhere in all of that mental debris. Deciphering it would be difficult, but at least the presence gave her a clue. Through the flashing images, burning memories, and murmured pleas, a single word stuck out.
Ahmi.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Following long moments of staring after Miss Edward's luscious retreating form, Logan walked to his study where he collapsed into a chair by the fireplace.
He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and groaned.
It was her. The beautiful woman who'd invaded his dreams and heated his blood with scorching desire was real, touchable, and delectable.
He cursed. Beautiful women couldn't be trusted. He’d already dealt with her duplicity. No, that wasn't entirely the case. She hadn't lied, but she neglected to tell the truth upfront. In his opinion, withholding the truth was just as damaging as telling a lie.
Lost in the flutter and flow of the flames in the hearth, he winced as long dead memories clawed to the surface of his mind, scratching and digging through years and layers of denial until their fingertips were bloody. No matter how deeply buried, they surfaced, sucking in great gulps of air only to release their precious first breaths in ear-shattering screams.
Anger was the first emotion to demolish the barrier between his past and his heart—with sorrow biting ravenously at its heels. He welcomed anger, it was a healthy and defensibleemotion, one that would serve to keep weaker, more destructive emotions at bay. He wished the sorrow would stay entombed, forever moldering and rotting, turned to mulch in a forest long forgotten.
Alas, the sorrow was eager to devour him, eating at the meaty valves of his heart, and enjoying every nibble. Wrenching his mind from the memories, he drew warm air into his lungs, and willed his pulse to slow, his mind to calm, and his memories to turn more present, pleasurable things.
