Marrok looked away. He had felt that bond between them. Had Morganna fallen prey to her own spells?
“I won’t make the mistake of letting you touch me again,” she promised. “Get the hell away from me!”
Morganna had spoken the Call, and he had answered. He possessed not a drop of magical blood, yet he knew those words were binding. Even if he left…he would return. But he must guard against falling deeper under her enchantment, despite its irresistible pull.
He donned his clothes in angry jerks. “Gladly. I have no use for a cranky witch, especially a treacherous le Fay.”
Marrok slammed the bedroom door behind him, then sagged against it. His body regretted his departure instantly. He could feel Morganna on the other side, tempting him to further doom. With gritted teeth, he walked away and tried to call up his limited knowledge of magical mating bonds, looking for ways to ensure she was every bit as bewitched as he.
Jesu, was he doomed to obsess over an unforgettable witch who had given him naught but endless hell?
Marrok made his way to the sofa and sank down, cradling his forehead in his palm. The tightness in his chest and the recriminations screaming through his mind taunted him. He was doomed to want her. Eternally. With their bonding, she’d seen to that, and probably took perverse pleasure in knowing it.
He had announced his foolish lust, acted impulsively by answering her Mating Call and joining their bodies. It was only a matter of time before she used all that against him.
A memory tore through his head of this new Morganna crying out in pleasure, face flushed. Of her tears afterward. Such seeming emotional honesty. So unlike the Morganna he’d lain with centuries ago.
Was it possible she had been telling him the truth, that she wasn’t Morganna, but a mortal woman named Olivia?
Ridiculous. With that birthmark and those velvet violet eyes, who else could she be? His dream of her had been too powerful. And her odd behavior was nothing more than a subtle form of combat, an attempt to pit her mind against his and rouse his self-doubts.
Peaceful death and release from this hell of her making; that was his goal. Revenge sounded sweet, but he could never repay Morganna for the pain she had inflicted, the centuries of chilling loneliness.
Still, he would try.
The dream of Morganna, in the guise of Olivia, came again that eve. This time she stood before him like temptation personified, all naked and exquisite. A vivid, erotic vision he suspected Morganna orchestrated for his torture.
But in this dream, instead of disappearing into the swirling mist after she lured him with the pale enticement of her body, Morganna curled her arms around his neck, pressed tight to him, kissed him with wild abandon. He held her, tasted her honeyed mouth and fevered responses, felt indomitable lust curl in his belly. Unable to resist her seduction, Marrok joined with her.
Once he was buried deep inside her, she opened the Doomsday Diary and disappeared. He awakened on his couch in a cold sweat, wrought by fear.
Calling himself every kind of fool, Marrok rose and paced down the hall to ensure Morganna had not escaped as he slept.
When he reached the threshold of his bedroom, he knew the rationalization was a lie. He wanted to watch her sleep in his bed, where he had claimed her.
On silent steps, he reached the bedside and pushed a stray lock of hair from her cheek. As his fingers lingered on her downy skin, he acknowledged that she looked innocent with those fragile ivory features and girlish lashes. He resisted the illusion. According to Merlin, Morganna had been born a witch in every sense of the word.
So why had she been a virgin? Why had Morganna seemed more…human last night?
Resisting a strong urge to touch her again, to slide between the rumpled sheets and sink deep into her, he left the room. Finding sanctuary on the sofa, Marrok picked up the carving he’d begun yesterday. In his mind, the piece had not yet taken shape. But he allowed his fingers to take him on an instinctual journey as his thoughts zeroed in on Morganna.
Bloody hell, he should be focused on learning the witch’s secrets so he no longer endured her torment. To achieve freedom, he must stay focused, persuade her to set him free.
Thoughts of Morganna ignited a fresh bout of lust…and worry. If he could not suppress the bond growing between them, his chances of escaping the curse were bleak, indeed.
Olivia woke alone, heavy, aching, and exhausted. She should be grateful the sexy headcase had given her some breathing room. Instead, she felt hurt that Marrok had left her after…Best not to think about it.
The pain in her heart mocked her. What a foolish, simplistic plan, to lure Marrok close, strike him over the head with one of his carvings, and flee. Instead, he’d lifted her in his arms, carried her across the room, to his bed and—Stop there.
But she couldn’t. The disturbing memory of his arms cradling her against that powerhouse chest as he sank into her, played over and over in her mind. He’d made her body—and soul—soar, seemingly at will.
Stupidly, she’d gorged on his touch. She’d never had so much human contact at once. The little unloved girl inside her had greedily lapped up his attention.
Talk about a mistake…
The weirdest part was the staggering sense of connection she felt after she’d uttered those mysterious words. Why had she said them? What did they mean? They seemed like something from a medieval wedding. Once he’d answered in kind, her link to Marrok had swelled, overtaking her.
It had apparently overtaken her good sense, too. She’d given her virginity to a stranger who believed he was immortal and she was the witch who’d cursed him.
Gotta get out of here, she thought, sitting up in bed.
Sunlight streamed through the windows, illuminating the room she hadn’t seen last night. Her jaw dropped. Wow…
His headboard depicted a tale of two lovers romancing each other at the shadow of a hill. It alone must have taken years to carve in such sharp, perfect relief. And the four posts, in the form of wild wolves, so lifelike Olivia swore they would bite her if she touched them, surrounded the bed like snarling sentries.
Talent like his should be celebrated; he should be adored by the art world. If she could get his work on her shelves, he would be.
But Marrok not only lived in solitude, he prized it. Probably a good thing, since he was convinced he was immortal and cursed. Crazy, delusional man. But he’d touched her with such tender finesse that she’d begun to think…hope…but no. One night with one man could not undo years of her mother’s rejection or make her whole. Wishing otherwise was pointless.
Once Marrok had—or rather hadn’t—finished having sex with her, he had walked away. No surprise there. What kind of freak couldn’t satisfy a horny man? Her, apparently. She winced.
Time to get the hell out of Dodge and haul ass back to A Touch Of Magic.
At the thought of leaving Marrok, an odd weakness slammed into Olivia. She hurt. Even her skin throbbed in agony. But wrapped in sheets that smelled faintly of his woodsy musk, she wanted him again. Burned for him.
Wasn’t going to happen. Her libido needed an Ambien.
Grimacing with the effort it took to raise her wrist, Olivia glanced at her watch. Even her eyes hurt. 3:42 a.m. The numbers blared at her. Hopefully, he was sound asleep elsewhere in the house. She prayed that being “immortal” didn’t mean he kept vampire hours.
Olivia braced herself against the pain as she scooted to the edge of the bed. Her legs burned, her stomach churned. Between her thighs, the throbbing need nearly drowned out all else. She forced herself to keep moving. If she wanted to escape, now was her best chance.