Then again.
Rhythmic. A steady patter, the equivalent of someone drumming their fingers.
I follow the sound, moving with purpose. The walls look nothing like I remember but I ignore that. It’s not important when I find the arch. The stairs.
The angels.
Heart leaping, I jog down the steps. My light splashes in shallow puddles across the room, painting their down tilted faces with a faint gold. But unlike before, I’m too anxious to feel the trepidation. They could come to life and I would most likely accept it. It wouldn’t be the strangest thing.
I push the drapes aside and slip into the cavernous chamber hidden from the world. The grand cathedral, heavy with age and a surging hum I hadn’t noticed before. There’s a force weighing me down, a resistance trying to shove me back. Warning me to leave.
But I won’t. I have a purpose and I’m not leaving until I accomplish it.
It doesn’t lift, but I force my way through. It lessens the closer I draw to the altar. The sleek, black table at the center of the platform.
I hadn’t really noticed it earlier. I’d been too preoccupied by the swirling shadows. But I pause to take it in now.
It’s clean.
While the rest of the place is layered in grime and dust, the table gleams. Not shines but exists in its own state of light and darkness. The now hundreds of candles collected across every available space stops at the top of the first step. Yet the onyx slab of stone almost glows. And like the mirror, it writhes with those tendrils. Smoke trapped in a gorgeous, ornate dais.
Carefully carved symbols line the sides. They run in intricate loops and marks I don’t recognize but feel the draw. My fingers move of their own accord to trace a circle with six lines carved into the center of the table and extending in deep rivulets to the edges.
For draining?
What type of table requires draining?
My stomach pitches but I swallow it back and face the stairs and the mirror.
And the figure standing before the latter.
My breath catches. A startled scream I barely choke down as my mind scrambles to understand what it’s witnessing.
Beautiful and naked, he studies me from his perch. Muscular with long, toned limbs and a torso carved from stone. Hair the color of crow wings glints in the gentle candlelight, barely concealing the shocks of white at his temples.
The hand I’d clapped over my mouth drops to my rampant heart.
“Marcus?”
With the prowling grace of a large animal, he makes his descent. Bare feet disturb the layers of age collecting across stone. I watch, mesmerized by the fluid motions of every muscle and the erection at the center that makes me ache. It juts proudly against the rigid lines of his abdomen, a delicious distraction because I suck in a breath when he’s suddenly right in front of me.
The unexpected invasion of my space startles my fingers loose around the light in my hand. The iron holder crashes with a resounding clatter to my feet. Candlesticks break free and roll over the edge of the platform. Flames sniffing out.
I barely notice when he’s so close. So warm. His heat washes down my body, burns through my nightie. I’m trembling and panting as I stare up into eyes the black void of the darkest night.
“Marcus—?”
His mouth finds mine in a melding of pure, sweet passion. It steals my breath and sanity with a single swoop. My head reels with a desire that only ever existed in fantasy.
“Tell me what you want, Lenora,” he whispers against my mouth, brushing the words over the nerves of my brain.
He hasn’t touched me and I’m already at the cusp. Has done nothing but tease the seam of my mouth with his tongue and I’m weeping rivers down my quivering thighs.
What I want is him.
Him inside me, buried so deep he becomes a part of my soul.
And I think I’m getting my wish when he kisses me harder and slips a hand beneath my slip.
