Читать книгу The Fever and the Fury - Stephanie Draven - Страница 6

She’d already killed him twice this week.

Monday, the harpy bitch grabbed the wheel just as he was making a tight turn on a cliff-side highway. The car jumped the barrier and exploded in a fiery crash of glass and twisted metal at the bottom of Moraca Canyon.

On Wednesday morning, he’d chanced taking a shower and she dropped a hair dryer in with him, sending a deadly shock through his wet body.

It wasn’t even the weekend and she was already trying to kill him a third time.

Luke had awakened to the sinuous slide of her body atop his and, for one groggy moment, he’d enjoyed the carnal sensation of a woman in bed with him.

Then her knee came crushing down on his windpipe.

Now Luke thrashed upon the mattress, grabbing at her supple thighs, trying to throw her off. The curve of her breast brushed his arm, her moist lips parted and she clutched at his face as if she were going to draw him into an intimate embrace…just before fingernails like talons cut his flesh to bloody ribbons.

Or at least that’s what it felt like.

With the lightest touch, she could put an ordinary mortal man in complete agony. But he wasn’t an ordinary mortal man and she should have known better than to touch him.

“Atone,” the fury demanded, her voice driving needles of agony into his spine. “Atone!”

Luke was desperate enough to consider it. Anything to get rid of her. Anything to make the pain stop. Anything that might relieve him of the memories that haunted him. The blood in the sand and all the lies…

Take the money, Luke. There’ll be more where that came from.

His traitorous lips parted in surrender, ready to tell the fury whatever she wanted to hear, but then he felt his square jaw clench tight in stubborn refusal.

No. Screw atonement and regret. Luke would rather die again.

Her lithe legs wrapped around his waist like a vise. They were locked together as tightly as lovers and in blind suffering he banged the back of his skull on the headboard. It started like a fever, a sexual rush of heat that seared its way through his veins, pulsing through his hammering heart, racing to his groin.

Damn it. He liked this villa, but he’d burn the place down to get free of her if he had to. Sparks leaped from his fingertips to the bedsheets and the scent of scorched linen rose to his nostrils. The fire would obey him—it was the one goddamned thing in his life he still had any control over—so Luke made the fire rise higher, engulfing them both in a flash of flames and searing pain.

His bones went white-hot, molten beneath his skin, and he screamed. He was turning to ash. He was burning her too, burning her alive. He could have held onto her. He could have forced her to share his torment to the bitter end, but he flung her away. And her tumbling body was the last thing he saw before he died….

Phaedra was accustomed to inflicting pain, not suffering it. But now every cell in her body screamed in protest as her burned skin rose up in blisters. She was immortal. She could never die. That didn’t mean she couldn’t feel pain, and making this man miserable had somehow become her own personal torment.

She lay dazed in agony on the floor, smoke filling her lungs while Lieutenant Luke Lazaros burned alive before her very eyes. Gods of Olympus, he was stubborn. He should have broken by now, but he was only getting more unmanageable. None of the men she’d been sent to torture had ever been so obstinate. Then again, she’d never been unleashed upon a phoenix before.

In the light of the crackling blaze, Phaedra’s blistered body healed, new pink flesh knitting over the old with miraculous speed, and it occurred to her that the fire alarm wasn’t shrieking. A quick glance up at the scorched ceiling told her that he’d disabled it. That he’d planned for this exact circumstance. He was handy that way. Good with modern gadgets. And a born strategist. He’d started anticipating her. Adapting…

All at once, the conflagration on the bed extinguished itself and a burst of air dusted her with Luke’s charred human remains. A bit of stagecraft on his part.

Of course, she’d seen him do this before—rise from the ashes as a new man, his dark curly hair cut in sharp military style, his name and blood type displayed upon frayed patches on his desert fatigues. A backpack full of cash in his right hand.

This was how he looked the moment he was war-forged. The instant he stopped being an ordinary mortal man and became a monster. But as many times as she watched him die, she couldn’t enjoy it. Watching him now, she took no satisfaction in his shudder of revulsion at the feel of a new body that wasn’t his own. Nor did it encourage her to see the half hostile, half haunted look in his eyes as he tried to remember himself. Shaking his head as if to fasten upon his old memories, he caught her look of dismay and gave a dark smile-that-was-not-a-smile.

“What’s the matter?” Luke asked. “Didn’t expect me to be so hot in bed?”

Given that she was clutching the burned and blackened remains of her clothing against her body, Phaedra didn’t appreciate the sexual innuendo. It didn’t surprise her though. Every time the lieutenant was reborn, he battled overwhelming hunger. He’d be ravenous now, for food, drink…sex.

Still, he grabbed one of his white dress shirts from a drawer and tossed it to her. “Here. You can wear this.”

The gallant gesture was starkly out of place considering their situation. Phaedra eyed her nemesis as she fastened the buttons, disconcerted by his scent on the shirt and how it mingled with the perfume of her newly healed skin. “Does this mean you’re ready to be redeemed, Luke Lazaros?”

“Just means I was brought up right,” Luke said through his teeth. “And that an officer falls back on his training in a crisis. Or maybe I’ve just always fantasized about a leggy woman wearing nothing but my shirt. Until I get rid of you, I might as well improve the scenery.”

“How many times must we go through this?” Phaedra asked, ignoring the predatory glare in his eyes. She rose to her feet. She was tall, but he was taller. She was hard-bodied and imposing; even before they felt the torture of her touch, most men had the sense to cower. But not this man. “There is no getting rid of me, Lieutenant. Once a fury is unleashed upon a criminal, she’s unbreakably bound to him until he atones or is driven to insanity.”

“I’m not a criminal,” Luke snapped. “And I will find a way to be rid of you.”

I hope you do find a way, Phaedra thought. Because she was every bit as stuck with him as he was with her.

Hunger hollowed out Luke’s stomach. He was thirsty too, having gulped down only a few swallows of water before the fury tried to drive the drinking glass into his face. Now he was also shaking with need: a desire for food and a more primal need to bury himself deeply inside a woman, to work his aching hands over mounds of soft skin and to tease quivering flesh beneath his lips. To find, in someone else’s body, some sweet relief from the strange torments of being reborn…

But there would be no relief for him until he could get rid of the fury; the needs of his new body would have to wait. At least, that’s what he told himself, again and again, as he packed his bag, making ready to go. He abandoned the burned villa, leaving enough cash for the landlord to make repairs, then headed for the coast, where he knew there was a witch that the locals swore would help anyone get rid of a hex.

And if the fury wasn’t a hex, what was she?

The old-fashioned door of the shop in Budva announced his presence with a bell. At the counter, a bored-looking beauty with bleached hair looked up at him from under thick mascara and smiled.

“I—I’m…I’m looking for a witch,” he said, taking in the leather-bound volumes scattered amidst ancient trinkets. Cobwebs draped the corners of the wood-paneled shop and crystals dangled from a strange spiral staircase. Once, he’d have dismissed it all as New Age bullshit, but that was before he’d died a thousand fiery deaths.

“You want Zene,” the girl said unhelpfully. “But she’s gone. Lives in France now. Tells fortunes. Makes big money.”

Great, Luke thought. “What about you?”

The girl laughed, painted lips curled in red glee. “Do I look like witch?”

Luke fumbled for a reply, because he was pretty sure he wouldn’t know what witches were supposed to look like. He hadn’t believed that the fury was a fury either until she brushed his hand and shot a thousand bullets of pain into him.

“New management,” the girl said. “Now we sell antiques and books of arcana.”

Well, at least there was that. It’d been an old book from a shop like this one in which he’d uncovered the clues that told him he was a phoenix and that the taste he always craved but couldn’t identify was actually frankincense. Since then, he’d stockpiled enough of the stuff to start his own hippy commune. It helped to relax him, helped tame his restless inner animal. But the frankincense hadn’t done shit to help him escape the fury.

He told the pretty Slavic girl what he was looking for.

“I have book like that upstairs. I get for you,” she said, big rouged cheeks dimpling in a flirtatious smile.

Oh, she shouldn’t flirt with him. Not in his state. It tugged at his fraying self-control. When he’d been a young military officer with a career ahead of him, there hadn’t been much room in his life for relationships, but Luke had always had an easy time bedding women. Never took more than he was offered; never promised more than he could give. Now he was a fugitive and couldn’t even trust a girl with his real name.

Hell, for that matter, he wasn’t even sure he could trust himself. Death and rebirth had awakened his every appetite to such a fever pitch that he was all pent-up need. He found himself ogling the shopgirl as she climbed the stairs. It was quite a view. All perky curves and seductive sway. He wanted to peel that skirt down over her hips and see if her bare ass was the heart shape that its outlines suggested.

“A book isn’t going to help you,” the fury said, jarring him from his fantasy.

Fuck, he hated when she just appeared out of thin air. Luke turned to glare at his own personal demon, who was perched on the edge of a table. She’d healed up since their last encounter and must have gone shopping in the netherworld because now she was wearing skintight black jeans and tall leather boots that gave a sexy emphasis to her long legs.

It worried him that he noticed those legs; he must really be in a bad way if he was starting to find her attractive. The fury was some kind of dark, pitiless goddess with sloe eyes and a killer body, but he never knew when she’d fly at him with deadly intent. In fact, as she fingered an antique letter opener—one with a rusty edge—he realized that she was probably contemplating her next attack.

“Why don’t you give it a rest,” Luke said, bracing himself against the dusty counter. “Take the day off. You can always kill me again in the morning.”

The fury flipped her dark hair over her shoulder and the corner of her mouth kicked up in a rueful smile. Was it possible she was tiring of this too? She sighed, then said, “I’m starting to think that killing you isn’t the best way to get you to repent.”

“I’ve got nothing to repent for,” he said, wary of drawing attention to himself as the kind of lunatic who talked to invisible people. He’d learned the hard way that no one else could see the fury unless she wanted them to.

The shop girl returned, announcing, “Big book!”

She wasn’t exaggerating. With its brass hinges, the wood-covered volume must have weighed twenty-five pounds. “Let me get that,” Luke said, relieving her of the burden.

The shop girl smiled. “You are…gentleman.”

He had been a gentleman, anyway. He’d considered it a point of honor. Of course, it was probably all bullshit, just like everything else he’d ever been taught. As a cadet, he’d taken an oath not to lie, cheat or steal, or tolerate those who did. He’d meant every word of it. Now, it made him sick to think how young and naive he’d been.

“You know,” the shopgirl said, slow to ring up his purchase. “Budva is place of parties. Is for bad boys and bad girls. Is nice to meet gentleman. Also, I like Americans.”

When it came to places in the world without extradition treaties with the U.S., Montenegro was the most civilized, but the customer service usually left a lot to be desired. For the shopgirl to be this friendly, she had to be hitting on him. She glanced up beneath coquettish eyelashes, confirming it. “Handsome man like you should have girlfriend. You want girlfriend tonight?”

It was an unmistakable invitation and Luke’s response was as natural to him as breathing. He was attracted to her. He was hungry. She was willing. His self-control utterly unraveled. His vision flashed white with the anticipatory pleasure of driving himself deep inside this woman and, before he knew it, he’d put down the book and backed her against the counter, arms on either side. It was decidedly ungentlemanly, but he just didn’t care. Not with the promise of that spectacular ass beckoning to be kneaded and cupped by his eager hands. “Why wait for tonight, sexy girl?”

When the shopgirl grinned at his hubris, he knew he was about to get laid. Just ignore the fury, Luke told himself, nuzzling the shopgirl’s neck, which seemed to have been dusted in pink sparkles. Sparkly girls weren’t normally his type, but he needed to find some brief pleasure, wherever it might be had.

Apparently it was going to be had right here. Slinking out from under his arms, the shopgirl turned the sign in the window to Closed, then locked the door and pulled the shade. Two seconds later, she was flinging her clothes on the floor, stripping down to lacy red bra and panties.

“Now here’s a nice girl you can take home to your mother,” the fury quipped, using the antique letter opener to skim her fingernails clean.

But it was easier to ignore the fury when his pulse was pounding in his ears. Looking at the panty-clad girl who sashayed to him, Luke noticed a little wet spot between her legs that made the fabric a deeper, darker shade of red. So, she was already aroused, ready for him. He would have a hard time not just tearing those little red panties right off her. Then again, maybe she wouldn’t mind a little rough play.

Yes, the girl was becoming more and more his type every minute, and when she twined her arms around his neck, he all but crushed her in his arms. He was going to fuck her. Right here. Right now.

“I hope you’re not expecting any privacy,” the fury said, clearing her throat. “I’m watching every move you make.”

Luke grumbled. “Whatever gets you off.”

The shopgirl’s head jerked up, her eyes swimming with confusion. “What?”

“Nothing,” Luke murmured, burying his nose in her bleached hair. She yanked at his shirt while Luke fumbled with his belt buckle, and when she put her hands on his cheeks to kiss him, the sensation of pleasure was so unfamiliar that it made him shudder because the skin of his new body had never felt anything but pain.

He hoisted the girl up onto the counter, setting her just off balance so that her knees splayed open. A fire was building in him, warmth in his groin, but this time the heat would be all sexual pleasure.

So, he’d let the fury watch. Maybe he could twist it into some kind of kinky fantasy. Didn’t every guy think about having two women at the same time? Not that he wanted to have the fury…but when his eyes slid away from the girl in his arms to his tormentor, he caught the slightly aroused parting of the fury’s lips.

It surprised Luke to think that a creature like her could be titillated, but his ability to ponder such things was decidedly limited as all the blood rushed from his brain to his cock.

Phaedra knew that her mistress—the chaste maiden goddess of battle—would have viewed this scene of carnal lust with complete contempt. What’s more, Athena would have expected Phaedra to feel equally disgusted by the lieutenant’s panting need for the Slavic seductress.

But Phaedra was no cruel war goddess. She’d been set upon Luke Lazaros to torment him until he earned forgiveness or until his sanity shattered. But he wasn’t the worst criminal she’d ever encountered. He could be surprisingly courteous, consumed with some personal sense of honor, and because of this, in all the months she’d been stalking him, she’d become aware of a strange and unbidden emotion that tightened painfully in her chest. One that she could only identify as compassion.

Maybe that’s why she wanted to allow Luke this small comfort, this moment of intimacy—even if it was lewd fornication upon a countertop next to a cash register and dusty bits of junk. Or maybe it was just that she liked the view.

Luke was a spare-built man with lean muscles, taut, every extra inch of flesh having been burned away in the fire. Stripped to the waist, he was surprisingly beautiful to watch, even as his strong arms encircled a half-naked girl of easy virtue. The sight of unbridled lust between her prey and the shopgirl shouldn’t have mesmerized her this way; Phaedra was an avenger, born only to mete out justice. Punishment and redemption should have been her only concerns. But watching Luke about to claim this woman, about to sate his needs without inhibition, aroused her.

Squeezing her thighs, she became aware of the warmth there. As Athena’s creature she’d learned to ignore such feelings. She’d learned to bite down on her lip until the iron tang of blood in her mouth drove these animal sensations away. But for some reason, here and now, Phaedra didn’t want to banish the swell of her breasts or the insistent throbbing between her legs.

She was a fury, a relic of a forgotten age. An age of heroes and justice. Those days were gone now, and most of the old gods were gone too. But Phaedra remained, not as powerful as she once was, and increasingly numb. Maybe she just didn’t want to be numb anymore.

Watching this man and woman, muscles straining, hands feverishly stroking each other, was a vicarious thrill. Luke yanked down the lace of the girl’s bra so that engorged pink nipples strained to meet his hands. The shopgirl’s glossy fingers skimmed into her already wet panties as if she couldn’t wait for Luke to touch her there, and then she moaned with pleasure.

The urgency of Phaedra’s heartbeat as it pounded at her wrists and throat and cunt nearly forced her to moan too. Forbidden questions crowded Phaedra’s mind. What would it feel like to kiss someone? Wet and suffocating? Soft and alluring? Would a kiss cause her to gasp for air or pant or push her hand inside her panties to stroke the wetness there?

Phaedra had never touched anyone—not even herself—except to inflict pain. She’d never used her hands to elicit a whimper of pleasure the way Luke did now when he squeezed the girl’s pendulous breasts. In only a few moments, she’d be watching the clench of his ass as he rammed the girl into the countertop. And at the thought of it, Phaedra’s mouth went dry, entranced by the carnal intimacy, half-imagining herself in the girl’s place.

It was too much. She’d let it go too far. Long pent-up desires breached all the dams she’d built inside herself to hold them back. And her hand dropped to her sex, squeezing there as if to hold back the flood.