The Time Weaver

'Zane.'

His wife gazed up at him, ignoring the garish chamber and the bust and everything but him, and when she blinked at him—the slow, lazy blink of a predator arising—her eyes had gone to liquid gold.

'Amalia,' he whispered, helpless.

'Where do you plan to be?' she asked again, cool and calm despite that gaze. 'Where I must,' he replied.

Very deliberately, she freed her hands from his. 'I had a dream.'

'She is here ,' he all but hissed at her, desperate. 'Do you understand me? She's here somewhere, lurking, and every day she finds me and dangles your life like a carrot on a stick in front of me, and god damn it, Lia, what do you think I'm going to do? She's a Time Weaver! She can be anywhere, anytime. You'll never be safe from her unless I act!'

'No,' she said.

'You don't know her now. You don't know who she is. This isn't your precious Honor, this is a beast named Rez, and all she wants—' He stopped himself, forced himself to draw a measured breath. He feared that his hands might be shaking with emotion and so clasped them behind his back, so she wouldn't see.

Lia only waited.

'I love you,' Zane said. 'You know that.'

'I love you as well,' his wife murmured to him. 'But if you move to harm my family, I'll have to kill you. Surely you know that that would kill me .'

He stared at her, dumbfounded.

'Where is the gain in that?' she added, composed. 'I speak to the thief now, to the clever Shadow who never risks without gain. Your death would mean mine. I will not live in this world without you.'

Love is a demon that destroys your soul. It eats and eats inside you, it hollows you out, and you'll do anything to keep feeding it.

He was breathing hard through his nose, unable to dig free the words to reason with her or bully her or just flat-out plead with her to go. Violence trembled at the edge of his fingers, half-formed, crazed notions, knock her out, trundle her away, keep her hooded, hidden, safe—

'Go to the beach house,' she said.

He shook his head.

'You were right, she doesn't know about it. Go there, straight there, and I will find you.' He unlocked his jaw. 'Absolutely not.'

'Zane,' she said, and smiled at him, still with those unholy glowing eyes. 'I have a plan. But it won't work if you muck it up.'

'I never muck it up—'

'If you go north, toward England, I'll know. If you go south, toward Spain, I'll know. If you go any direction but due west, I'll know. I'll take it as an act of war.'

Shit.

'Please,' said the creature with the unholy eyes, sounding just like his kindhearted and marvelous wife.

'Please go west. If you do love me at all—' 'Stop it. Stop.'

'At all,' she continued firmly, 'you'll listen to me now. You'll trust me.'

He sank down into a squat with his back against the silk-and-velvet wall, unable to look at her any longer. He dropped his head into his arms and closed his eyes.

The palace, breathing, and then the sound of her kneeling down before him. Her fingers stroking his hair. 'Beautiful thief,' she whispered. 'My steady heart. I've missed you so much.'

'You've a bloody odd way of showing it,' he mumbled to the floor, 'what with the threatening to kill me and all.'

He could not see her smile but he imagined it, small and slightly sad. He felt her lips against his temple, cool as the night.

'And my God,' he went on, aggrieved, not moving or relenting, 'have you any idea howhungry I am here? How hungry I've been every sodding day?'

'Me too.' Her lips found the top of his forehead; her hands slipped down to his shoulders. 'I've been hungry too.'

If he opened his eyes again she'd be back to herself. That's what he would believe. Back to her human self, with brown eyes, not gold, and he would lift his face and kiss her back, and then he would end up making love to his wife right here in the Salon of Diana, on the king of France's plush teal-and-orchid rug, and to hell with the entire rest of the world. He would.

Zane looked up. Lia knelt before him, her small smile still in place, her gaze that rich and familiar deep brown. Her palms cupped his cheeks.

He reached for her. He sank down the rest of the way to the floor and pulled her between his legs at the same time, all notion of restraint abandoned with the feel of her waist beneath his fingers, the teasing brush of her hair against his neck.

She tasted of summer, too; a soft evening in the countryside, a slow flowing river, nightflowers with exotic perfumes and petals that unfurled beneath the silvered light of the moon. He drew up his knees to better capture her, his fingers curving into her, urging her closer. Lia complied, her head above his, her lips stroking, retreating, her tongue gliding against his.

He cupped her breasts in his hands, his thumbs working at her nipples, teasing them into peaks. They were full and heavy and by heavens he'd grieved for this so much—grieved for her while they were apart, all of her, and now he was tearing some. Just some, faint moisture around his eyes that she found and kissed away with a breathless small moan of commiseration.

I love you, he wanted to say again, but he didn't need to, because every atom in his body sang it for him.

I love you, and her hands were at the buttons of his breeches, nimble fingers freeing him, and oh, she knew exactly what to do. Her stroking, her succulent lips, and he was arching into her, helpless once more, as she caressed him and kissed him at the same time.

Love you, as his magical wife crouched over him and lowered herself onto him, and Zane used the wall to brace them both as he held her at the hips and pushed up higher into her, his heels digging into the rug, straining for more.

More of her, more of this, this nearly unbearable sensation of Amalia wrapped around him, her legs spread wide over his, her face tipped back now, that breathless sound returning.

He knew her, knew her in every way. He knew exactly what she needed, and gave it to her, freeing one hand to find her place, his fingertips stroking, then gently pinching her, and when her movements grew more frantic and she clenched above him he covered her mouth with his other hand, muffling her cry.

But it did him in, too. As she shuddered and came down on him hard and deep one final time he lost control, and let the pleasure sling through him so violently it was closer to pain.

It was always like this, so very good. She was always so good, and he adored it, every shameless, unkempt, ravishing-her-in-the-king's-salon second of it. He adored her.

He turned his face to the side and brushed his lips across her nipple, a flick of his tongue that had it hardened again instantly, delightful against his face.

'We'll go to the beach house together' he meant to say, only it came out as more of a guttural gasp against her breast. 'You and me. Right now. Forget everything else, everyone. We'll leave Europe and never return.'

She bent her head to rest on top of his, and strands of her hair caught in his eyelashes.

'My lady.' He brushed away the strands. 'What say you? We'll start over. No one'll ever find us again.'

She stroked a finger down his cheek.

'Peru,' he offered, into her silence. 'The Japanese Islands. Ceylon, Cape Horn. Wherever you like.' 'Go to the beach house' was what she finally said, very soft. 'Await me there.' 'Whatever this plan is you have, I'm coming with you. You know that.' 'No. I'm faster without you.'

He pushed her back with his hands hard on her upper arms, scowling up into her face. Frescoes on the ceiling behind her depicted lazing men and voluptuous women, floating scarves entwining around them all like silken chains.