Carling studied Rune curiously as she walked toward him. She was growing almost used to the mélange of unfamiliar emotions that started rioting the moment she laid eyes on him. He was shirtless, dressed only in jeans, boots and the bright silver cascade of moonlight, and his powerful body moved with liquid feline grace. His chest was heavy with the muscles of a swordsman, a light sprinkling of hair arrowing down the long taut abdomen.
She had no racing pulse for him to detect, and she put her hands behind her back to hide how much they started to shake as he grew close. Then she caught the rich iron scent of blood, his blood, and she noticed Rasputin’s small form in his arms and suddenly she was running toward them.
As she reached him, he said in a calm voice, “Don’t worry. Everything’s all right.”
She touched Rasputin and scanned both dog and collar magically even as she searched Rune with her gaze. The dog was fine, the collar working as it should. She tried not to be affected by the play of shadows along Rune’s bare torso but found it to be impossible. He had no softness anywhere, not even an ounce of extra padding that civilization gave to so many creatures. He was all ridges and hollows, and the thick flex of hard-used muscle underneath the flow of skin. Even though he was standing relaxed beside her, his breathing slow and unhurried, the force of his presence punched the air.
Then she found the marks. The long scores ran the length of his forearm. They were faint in the moonlight and fading fast. She touched them and ran her fingertips lightly along his skin. They were claw marks, made by a hand very similar in size to hers.
Rage locked up her body. She said, “Rhoswen did this.”
“It’s nothing,” he said.
“This is not ‘nothing,’ ” she murmured. The wounds had gone deep, maybe to the bone. The heavy scent of blood lingered in the air. The scent was as intoxicating as she had imagined his blood would taste. She saw that he had bled on his jeans. “Did she taste you?”
A long-fingered hand came under her chin. He eased her face up. His head was bent over hers, his expression mild, the lean features peaceful, those lion’s eyes clear. “You’re smoking around the edges, darling,” he said gently. She was, too. He could sense in his mind’s eye the fury spreading through her aura.
“Did she taste you?”
He went immobile, staring, his expression arrested. Then his beautiful carved mouth lifted at the corners, just a little. He said, “She tasted the blood on her fingers.”
Carling’s long dark eyes flashed ruby red in the light of the silver moon.
Rune caught her by the arm as she started toward the house. “She’s gone. I’ve already drop-kicked her on her way.”
Carling struggled to take in what he said. The rage was an overriding force with a life all its own. It bucked against her attempt to control it. “What did she do?”
“She was indulging in petty vengefulness,” Rune told her. He raised his hand to turn her face back to him. His smile had disappeared. He looked serious. “I’ve warned her to stay away, so if you see her, don’t trust her, Carling.”
“I won’t,” she said.
He slid his fingers in the heavy hair at her nape and bent his head. She was already lifting her face to him as he gave her a soft, lingering kiss. All the passion from the cottage was still there, still burning hot, underneath the gentle, leisurely caress. His enjoyment of the kiss for its own sake allowed her to relax and enjoy it too. None of the distant memories of her previous sexual experiences held this dimension. The pleasures of sex had seemed perfunctory, and the few lovers she had taken too self-involved, so much so that she had grown bored and stopped taking lovers altogether. Intrigued by the foreign concept of sexual affection, she moved her lips experimentally under his. The serrated edge of her rage eased into a smooth murmuring pleasure. She found herself leaning toward him, tilting her face further.
He slid his free arm around her and pulled her against his body, keeping the kiss easy. She spread her flattened hands across the broad expanse of his chest, and the feeling of his naked skin under her palms was so erotic, she almost sank to her knees.
As hot as her rage had flashed, this flashed hotter. She felt like she had been starving for an eternity, trapped in a black, sense-deprivation oubliette for so long she was only just beginning to realize how much her soul had been screaming. She broke into a spasm of uncontrollable shivering and found herself holding on to him tightly. A sound came out of her and she was shocked anew, for it was nothing she could remember ever hearing herself make before, a raw, shaken groan.