She’d tasted like honey cakes and her scent had been feminine and minty sweet. The combination had gone to his head like a mead brewed for maximum potency and pleasure. Romanov sought out his rooms and the cold comfort of a bath to wash away the remnants of his long training session and his battle with Dominique. He used a rough cloth to sluice icy water over his skin. Crazy that he should kiss her. But it was a crazy inspired by sizzling attraction that clouded his thinking and burned in his blood. She should have been frightened away by his brothers, by the castle, by his tales of Ether-mad people wandering the halls.
Instead, her body had melded against his chest in his arms. She’d reached for him. She’d held on tight. She’d eagerly welcomed the thrusting of his tongue. She’d tasted him. She’d moaned and sighed as if her body craved more intimate contact with his than could be had in a courtyard in the snow.
The cold water was useless against the onslaught of sensations his mind insisted on recalling—one by one in slow, torturous succession. He hardened with the memory and he was glad he’d filled his own tub. He didn’t need an audience for his body’s reaction half an hour after Elena Pavlova had allowed—nay, participated in—an embrace and kiss that shouldn’t have happened.
Once again, he’d been surprised by how powerfully muscular her seemingly delicate dancer’s body could be. He’d wanted to rip her clothes away so he could explore and appreciate every taut line, every smooth curve. Not to mention the soft, full breasts that contrasted with her spare frame and the warm, hidden crevices he could only imagine.
Oh damn, how he could imagine them.
Many Cycles had come and gone since he’d been alive enough to feel like this. And even more since he’d been foolish enough to act on the feelings. He was cursed. He wasn’t free to crave and savor and...
His body was reddened from its rough washing when he stood to allow soapy cold water to run off his skin. He wouldn’t indulge his erection. He left the bath instead, wrapped in a sheet that was tattered and faded. No one had been prescient enough to mend or replace linens in a long time.
He walked to the window and pressed open the stained glass that had been added centuries after the castle was constructed. Throughout the castle there was evidence of the passage of time. People had tried to carry on. Some still did. The window’s iron hinges protested, but the cold air rushed in, bathing his moist face and chilling his body temperature. He needed the blast of winter air.
Dominique wasn’t dead. A normal blade would never kill a Volkhvy. His bold message would be delivered to Grigori. He’d told Elena he wasn’t a champion. He’d told her the alpha wolf wouldn’t help her. Both of those things were true. But he was a defender of his family’s enclave and he would be here when Grigori came for the dancer he had claimed.
If he assumed wolf form to fight the witchblood prince, he might lose himself to it as his brothers had. Bronwal would be deserted and the Romanov blade would be up for grabs. The Dark Volkhvy might gain a foothold that couldn’t be dislodged without a clearly sentient person to stand against them.
He couldn’t risk the shift even for Elena Pavlova.
From where he stood he could see the ravens that circled around Elena’s tower. They soared like feathered shadows around her room. It seemed a dark foreshadowing of what was to come.
His only option was to force her to leave Bronwal.
Cruel that he should continue to taste her and recall with perfect clarity the bold strokes of her tongue.
He wasn’t sure how he would drive her away when everything in him wanted her to stay.
But he had no choice.
She’d fallen to the ground when she’d pulled the Romanov blade from the practice form in the courtyard. It had been a hard, bone-jarring fall. The blond waves of her hair had tumbled into her face and her eyes had closed. She hadn’t seen what he’d seen as her body flew backward. It hadn’t been the weight of the blade or the momentum of her jerk that had sent her to the ground.
The dormant, fading sapphire in the hilt of the Romanov blade had flared in her hands. A powerful force had radiated out from the awakened gem. It was that force that had sent her petite body to the ground.
The stone had dimmed immediately after and it hadn’t glowed again when she rose to her feet and picked it up. But it hadn’t been his imagination. The sapphire had reacted to Elena’s touch. He shouldn’t be surprised. He’d felt the same awakening in her presence. Not to mention what her touch did to him. An hour later, and the blood in his veins still thrummed from the fleeting kiss they’d shared.
As the ravens swooped and soared, he lifted his hand to feel his lips as if he would be able to feel the ghost of her heat on his mouth as well as he did within.
The wolf he kept buried howled deep in his chest, but not as deep as it had been before Elena arrived. She tested his control. She tempted him to give in to the passions he’d denied for so many Cycles with ease.
He had no choice but to send her away when the weather allowed it. He’d almost shifted when Dominique had taunted him in the courtyard. He couldn’t risk what he might do if Elena was still at Bronwal when the Volkhvy came to gloat at the Gathering.
Almost as if he’d willed it to show its face, the sun burst from behind the storm clouds that had eaten its light earlier in the day. The mountains were covered in snow, but the clouds were gone and no more flakes fell from the sky.
He couldn’t help remembering the stories of how the Romanov blade had chosen his mother. He remembered her as a ferocious warrior well able to wield it, and yet she’d died with the blade in her hands in spite of its power. She’d fallen against the Dark Volkhvy king.
Vasilisa had created the blade for the alpha’s mate.
He refused to accept what its wakening in Elena’s hands might mean.
The curse changed everything. It twisted all of the old enchantments. He was doomed to stand alone forever. The sapphire’s glow only illuminated his pain.