"Blood Seduction"

By the time she got home from work, Sara had worked herself into a really foul mood. After she had returned from her lunch with Ian, she had managed to have a pointless fight with Danny. Jake had left early to do some witness interviews. He just wanted to get well out of her way. She had spent the remainder of the afternoon sulking in silence. She and Danny had still been at odds when he left for the day, after loudly slamming drawers and doors. Now that she was home, Sara knew that she had to shake this snit if she was going to fake her way through the night. As furious as she was with Ian, it would be too easy to slip and give her true feelings away. That would be very dangerous for both of them.

It took Sara three tries to get her key in the lock. By then, a ripe stream of colorful curses was tumbling from her lips. When the key finally turned, she pushed the door open violently. It solidly connected with an obstacle. There was a short, pained grunt followed by a crash. Now, when she tried to push the door open further, something was blocking it. Sara wedged her way through the narrow opening to find Ian stretched out full-length on the floor. She had apparently hit him hard enough with the door to knock him unconscious. The absurdity of cold-cocking Ian Nottingham, uber-assassin, forced a nervous giggle from her lips. She immediately stifled it, dropping to her knees to make sure that he was alright. Ian was out cold. A discolored, lump was rising on his left forehead. The skin was slightly broken and a thin trickle of blood was slowly oozing down toward his closed eye.

She pulled his head on to her lap and used the hem of her shirt to dab at the blood on his forehead. Ian moaned softly and his eyes flickered open. He looked up at her, disoriented, his eyes hazy and unfocused. “What happened?” he murmured, lifting his hand to touch the rising bump. Sara gently pushed a tumbled lock of hair back behind his ear. “I hit you with the door,” she explained, “Are you okay? Can you get up?” He glanced at the blood on his fingers before nodding his head. That action caused him to wince with pain. He sat up and, pushing himself off with his arms, stood. He swayed for just a moment, dizzy. Sara quickly got to her feet and braced him, putting her arms around his waist and pressing her body to his. “Did you do it on purpose?” he asked. Her lips twisted in the hint of a smile. “No,” she said, “Not consciously.” Ian leaned into her, putting his arms around her as well. When Sara felt his lips in her hair, she figured that he was all right. She pushed back from him and Ian reluctantly released her.

Sara studied Ian with narrowed eyes. “And you’re going to protect me?” she asked. He gave her a charming, self-deprecating smile. “While I’m deadly to my enemies,” he said, “I seem to be at the mercy of those I love.” She wasn’t buying the boyish charm tonight. “What are you doing here, Ian?” she asked. He swung around to indicate the area by her bed and wound up tottering dizzily. She stretched out a casual hand to steady him. “I finished your closet,” he said, adding with widened eyes, “There’s blood on your shirt.” She released him again. “It’s yours,” she said. Feeling the chill in the air, he simply said, “Oh.” As she passed the dining table on her way to the new closet, she noticed a couple dozen white roses beautifully arranged in a new crystal vase. She fought down her smile. Ian had been reading Cosmopolitan again. He must have found an article entitled, “How to Get Back Into Her Good Graces When You’ve Really Screwed Up.” With interest, she wondered if she’d find a box of candy around here somewhere.

Ian’s shoulders slumped as he watched Sara pass the roses by without comment. When she saw the closet, she tried not to look too pleased. It was perfect. His craftsmanship was amazing. He had built it out of cherry and the wood glowed in the fading light of the day. When she opened it, she found a pole to hang her clothes with a long shelf above it. The bottom of the closet had three, long built-in drawers for her lingerie and things. He had removed her wrinkled clothes from the makeshift cardboard box and hung them all carefully. She pulled open the top drawer to find her meager undies neatly folded. Sara briefly wondered whether the panties he’d copped from the elevator were now here in this drawer or still tucked away in some private place of his own. Although she was touched by his efforts and grateful for the new closet, Sara had no intention of being swayed by his gesture. This didn’t in any way make up for what he had done to her. She would be polite, she decided, no more.

“It’s great. Thanks,” she said breezily, before crossing over to sit on her new bed. Sara’s lips twitched as she saw a large box of Godiva chocolates sitting on a new bedside table. The cardboard box was finally gone. Ian cleared his throat, feeling a little desperate – nothing was working the way that the article had said that it would. “But then,” he thought, “Sara is not most women.” He waited a moment to see whether she would succumb to the seduction of chocolate. She didn’t. He nervously cleared his throat again. “I thought that I’d make something special for dinner,” he said, “Would you like to come up for a swim first?” Sara let him twist in the wind for a couple of minutes. “You’re cooking?” she finally asked. Ian nodded. Sara noticed for the first time that he was back to wearing his “working clothes” – tight, worn jeans and an old undershirt. She licked her lips. He looked better than the chocolate. She fought down the traitorous desire before it could escalate into full-blown lust.

“I’m making coq au vin,” Ian said, “There’s crème brulee for dessert.” Sara raised a hand to her mouth, faking a cough to cover her grin. He was really pulling out all the stops, she thought. “Well,” she said, “Why are you hanging around here then? You better get to it.” He started to go but turned back. “Come up for a swim,” he said again, “I’ll be in the kitchen. You’ll have the pool to yourself.” She glanced at her watch. It was only six. She had left work early, right after Danny had stormed out. She was tempted. A swim sounded good. A long soak in the hot tub sounded even better. Sara nodded, making up her mind. “I’ll be up as soon as I change,” she said. He looked at her a moment longer, eyes yearning. “I’ll be waiting,” he said softly, wistfully.

“He’s using the look,” she thought, annoyed. In spite of herself, she weakened. “Are you sure that you’re okay?” she asked, showing her concern, “We could just order out.” Ian clung to that slight lapse like a drowning man clings to a life preserver. His whole face lit up. Sara’s mouth went dry. God, he was gorgeous when he smiled like that. “I’m fine,” he said, “I want to make you dinner.” Sara made a shooing motion with her hand. “Well, go on then and do it,” she said. Still smiling, Ian headed out the door and upstairs to start cooking their dinner. As soon as the front door closed behind him, Sara dived into the box of chocolates.

Twenty minutes later, Sara used her key to open Ian’s front door. She had changed into a pair of shorts and a tank top. She figured that she would swim in her underwear and then just remove it before dressing again for dinner. She had lost her bathing suit in the fire and had not yet replaced it. She saw Hannibal stretched across the kitchen doorway. That, of course, meant Ian was in the kitchen because the big dog was his constant shadow. When she reached the kitchen, Sara hunkered down to give Hannibal a welcome scratch. Ian had his back to her. The room was hot. Steam was rising from several simmering pots. Ian had pulled his hair back in a tight tail to get it out of his way as he cooked. As a concession to the heat, he had removed the undershirt and tied it around his waist. His bare back gleamed with a thin sheen of perspiration.

As Sara watched shining muscles shift across his back, a sharp quiver of desire struck her low in the belly. When Ian bent to pick up a dropped towel, she realized that he was naked under the jeans. Her mouth went dry and she stood abruptly. Her sudden movement startled him and he swung around sharply. They stared at each other silently for a long moment before Ian said, “I didn’t hear you come in.” Sara shrugged, feeling unaccountably awkward. “Yeah, well, you were…busy,” she ended lamely. Without really being aware of it, her eyes dropped to his groin. Without understanding why he did it, Ian blushed. He did manage to fight the ridiculous desire to cover himself with his hands. Suddenly realizing that she was staring, Sara blushed now too. Flustered, she babbled, “Yeah. Okay. I just stopped to say hi to Hannibal. I should go swim now. I’ll see you later.” Ian stared back at her, his cheeks still scarlet. Something started to bubble over on the stove and it broke the spell. Ian turned to lower the heat and Sara escaped toward the spiral staircase to the roof.

Sara found herself thinking that a good dunk in cold water was probably exactly what she needed. She was still furious with Ian for holding back information. She knew that sick fuck Irons was watching their every move. In spite of all that, she still wanted Ian. Her hands were itching to stroke taut muscles under satin skin; to dig her fingers into all that soft, silky hair; to bite those sensual lips; to… “Damn it, Pezzini,” she thought, “Get a grip.” Having reached the rooftop pool, Sara quickly shucked off her shorts and top. Not wanting to fan Irons prurient interest by prancing about in her underwear, she immediately slipped into the pool and began to do slow, even laps. It turned out to be therapeutic. The swim cooled down her hot, supercharged blood and worked off some of the restless energy that had been exploding into fits of ill temper all day. Feeling pleasantly tired, she stroked lazily to the side of the pool, lifted her head, and swallowed a mouthful of water in shocked surprise. Ian was sitting cross-legged directly above her, a big, fluffy white towel draped across his legs.

“Hi,” Ian said, standing and holding open the towel for her, “Dinner’s ready.” She was suddenly certain that he had shown up with the towel to shield her from prying eyes in case she had decided to skinny dip. Thinking back, she began to recall all the times that Ian had thrown a sheet over her or blocked her with his own body to hide her nakedness from the cameras. Of course, she hadn’t known that was what he was doing at the time. It only became obvious to her in retrospect. She climbed out of the pool and stepped into the towel. Ian closed his arms around her, pulling her against him, and rubbing her briskly with the towel. Sara shut her eyes and leaned into him, letting him dry her. “Where are we eating?” she asked. He pressed a gentle kiss to her hair. “I set the table up here,” he replied. She lifted her head to look into his glowing, golden eyes. “Why don’t you go pour some wine,” she suggested, “I’ll be right there.” Very hesitantly, he leaned down to press his lips to hers. He slanted a searching kiss across her mouth, flicking his tongue out quickly to just touch hers, tip to tip. She shivered and his arms tightened around her, drawing her close to his warm body. His next kiss was more assured and much hotter. There was nothing hesitant about his tongue this time.

Sara put her hand on his bare chest and pushed hard. Their lips parted. “The food will get cold,” she whispered. Ian’s eyes were still shut and his breathing was labored. “Who cares,” he panted. She stepped out of his embrace. “I care. I’m hungry,” she said briskly, then repeated, “Go pour the wine. I’ll be right there.” He opened his eyes and studied her, trying fruitlessly to gauge her mood. He sighed and lifted her hand to his lips for a quick kiss. “Going to pour the wine now,” he replied. He dropped her hand, turned away, and disappeared down the path. Sara kept the towel around her while she stripped off her wet undies and put her shorts and top back on. It was awkward but it spoiled the show for Kenny. That brought a secret smile to her face. Dressed and dry, she made her way to the café table and chairs. When she got there, she halted, breathless, to take in the scene. Ian had lit candles everywhere. There were more white roses. It made her think of the romantic restaurant garden where they’d shared a dance; which was probably exactly what he had intended.

At a loss for words, Sara said, “Wow.” Ian grinned, pleased that she liked how he had set the scene. He pulled out her chair. Sara sat, as always feeling awkward playing the lady. She ran her hand through her damp hair and asked, “Do you have another one of those bands so that I can pull back my hair?” He reached back to pull the band from his own hair and handed it to her across the small table. She dragged her thick mane back into a ponytail while she appreciated the shining waves that now framed his face. Sara raised her wineglass. “To resolution,” she toasted. Ian lifted his glass, lightly clinking it against hers. The candlelight made his eyes look luminous. “And forgiveness?” he suggested. Sara frowned, trying to look stern. “Don’t count your chickens, buster,” she said, “Not even when they’ve been cooked in wine and taste really good.” He smiled, acknowledging the oblique compliment to his cooking skills. They lingered over the meal, neither one of them eager to deal with the realities of the night that were ahead. They were content to stay awhile within the fleeting romantic bubble that he had created.

“Coffee?” Ian asked. Sara nodded, then said, “There’s dessert too. Right?” He grinned. “Uh huh,” he replied, “Your favorite.” She shook her head, amused. “You really are going all out here, aren’t you,” she said, “Got anything else planned?” His head was down as he poured her coffee so she couldn’t see his expression. “Well,” he said softly, “There’s still the physical part of the evening. I have some plans for that, of course.” He got the crème brulee out of the minifridge beside the dumb waiter and placed it before her with a flourish. “Do you?” she murmured, sipping her coffee. Her tone was cool. Ian’s head lifted, golden eyes wide and worried. He sat; picked up his spoon and made a tiny excavation in his dessert before dropping the spoon back on his plate, leaving the treat untouched. He was too nervous to eat it. Sara wasn’t. She eyed his dessert avariciously. “Are you going to eat that?” she finally asked. Ian shook his head and pushed it across the table to her. She consumed the second dessert with relish.

Sara picked up her napkin to wipe her mouth. She angled her head to try to read the time on Ian’s watch but the light was too dim. “What time is it?” she asked. He blinked and refocused, his mind coming back from a distance. Ian glanced at his watch and said, “A little after ten.” Setting him up for the bloodletting she asked, “Do you want me to spend the night with you?” Sara watched his eyes darken to deep amber with sensual yearning. “Tiger eyes,” she thought. “Always,” he said, rich voice husky. She smiled. He tilted his head, trying to decipher her expression. It was curious, far more predatory than romantic. Being who she was, Sara couldn’t help it. Ian had played her and she had to make him pay – even though he’d done it for her own good, he had to pay. She too had plans for the “physical part of the evening.” She was eager for the fun to begin. “Need help with the dishes?” she asked. He hesitated; distracted, sensing that something was up but not knowing what it was. “Uh, no. Thanks,” he replied, “I’m just going to put them in the dumb waiter. I’ll clean up tomorrow. Why don’t you go to the bedroom? I’ll be right there.”

Sara gave him that smile again, the one that made him feel like a rat to her cat. “Fine,” she agreed, “Thanks for the great dinner.” He studied her, confused. Ian was picking up vibes from Sara that didn’t match what she was saying. He knew that she was upset with him, angry over his silence. He shrugged. He would deal with that later; now it was time to play the game. He had to drug her and take her blood – and make it look good. “Sure,” he responded. She stood, dropping her napkin on the table, and headed back toward the staircase. She let her hips rock sensually, feeling his eyes follow her down the path, a promise of delights to come. After she had gone, Ian let out a deep, ragged breath and began cleaning up the mess with sudden speed. Her little performance had been wildly successful. He wanted her desperately. As he had watched her swaying butt move out of sight, his temperature had risen by several degrees, stomach muscles twitching, and groin tightening. Now, he just wanted to be in her arms. He wanted to believe that they could get past the way things had begun between them. He needed to believe that their relationship could grow and last. He wanted a future with Sara.

Ian finished his hurried cleanup and, on his way to the bedroom, grabbed another bottle of wine and clean glasses. The vial with the two little pills was snug in the back pocket of his jeans. As he approached the sleeping loft, he could see that Sara was already in bed. From what he could tell, she had changed into another of his ubiquitous tee shirts. Putting the bottle and glasses on the sleeping platform, Ian agilely vaulted up to join them. He gave Sara a quick smile, and put the wine and glasses on the bedside table. He murmured, “Be right back.” Detouring into the bathroom, Ian flipped on the light. He put the vial containing the sleeping pills on the sink. He didn’t want to think about having to drug Sara right now. Right now, he just wanted to make love with her. Ian splashed some water on his face to cool himself down a little, he felt like he was burning up from the inside out. He turned, poised in the bathroom doorway to flick off the light, when Sara’s voice stopped him.

“Don’t move,” she said. It was an order. Ian froze. Sara’s voice was a soft growl as she added, “Leave the light on.” He was so tall that the top of his head almost touched the upper frame of the door. His long, angular form was backlit by the soft glow coming from the room behind him. One hand still rested on the side of the door, near the light switch. His other arm hung loosely at his side. His lips parted and she immediately said, “Don’t talk.” Ian closed his mouth again and looked back at her, frowning. She smiled, thinking, “He’s confused, not sure what it is that I’m playing at. Good.” Her voice low and suggestive, Sara said, “Touch yourself, Ian. Move your hand over your chest. Slowly.” The smoky golden eyes widened slightly and color flooded into his cheeks. His lips parted again, ready to protest. Her voice, sharp as a pistol crack, stopped him. “Don’t speak,” she said again, adding, “Do it. Now.” He stayed still for another moment trying to figure out what she was doing. Then, he shrugged – just a tiny movement of one bare shoulder. He raised the hand from his side to his chest.

Ian drew his right hand, the one sporting the distinctive, heavy ring, slowly down the left side of his neck, from his chin to his shoulder. Straightening his fingers, he lightly ran the tips of them down into the fine dusting of dark hair on his chest. His eyes were locked with hers. She watched them darken to deep, rich amber. When his fingers inadvertently grazed his nipple, desire suddenly ripped through him. Ian was caught unaware. A soft, sharp gasp escaped him. Watching him carefully, Sara said, “Stop!” He froze again. “Keep your fingers there,” she murmured, “Rub it.” His eyes narrowed a little but he did as she directed, rubbing the hardening nub slowly with shaking fingertips. She could hear him breathing now, could see the innate sensuality blossom in his parted lips and flushed cheeks. “Use your other hand too,” she guided him, “Touch them both.” Ian released a shaky sigh and dropped his left hand from the doorframe. He spread his feet further apart as if needing more solid footing to keep his balance.

He moved his right hand over and dragged his left hand slowly across his hard belly and up to his chest. Ian shut his eyes and sensuously stroked both nipples, one to each hand. At first, he just breathed a bit more heavily. Then, he whispered, “Oh god,” sensation swamping him. His eyes flew open, self-consciousness flooding them, and he gasped softly, “I can’t do this.” His fingers started to falter. “Stop!” she commanded. He stopped. Her voice mellowed again, like warm syrup, hot honey. “Sure you can,” she said, “Do it for me. You owe me this one.” It was his turn to perform for his master, she thought, as she had done for so long unknowingly; and for her too, of course. He hesitated a moment longer before his fingers took up the rhythm again. As he got back into it, his back arched a little and he moaned raggedly. Sara glanced down. His jeans were straining now at the crotch, an erection clearly visible under the thin material. She smiled and delicately licked her lips. She caught a slight, lingering taste of crème brulee and her smile deepened.

“Keep rubbing your nipple with your left hand,” she directed, “Use your right hand to unsnap your jeans.” Ian sucked in another deep, shaky breath. “Sara, please…” he started. She cut him off instantly. “Do it!” she barked. His eyes never leaving hers, Ian slowly slid his right hand down over the washboard abs. Muscles all across his belly jumped as his fingers trailed over them. His hand fumbled a little before he was able to pop the snap on his tight jeans. The small scoop of his navel and the beginning of the pleasure trail of fine, dark hair were now visible. “Unzip your pants,” she said. Panting softly, Ian struggled with the zipper on his jeans one-handed, his throbbing member impeding its downward progress. Sara stifled a laugh. “Go ahead and use both hands if you have to,” she amended. She didn’t want him to hurt himself accidentally. Moving one hand protectively between his engorged shaft and the tautly stretched material, Ian carefully eased the straining zipper down with his other hand.

The pants still covered Ian – barely. They now gaped open to expose the cleft, plum-sized head of his erection, still nestled snugly in his jeans. Sara studied him, enjoying the picture that she had created. His dark curls hung in loose, shining waves around his face. His eyes smoldered like embers, fueled by the carnality burning behind them. His sensual lips were parted to allow his soft, aroused panting. The sculpted muscles of his bare arms and chest shone beneath a thin coating of perspiration. The long fingers of his left hand still tweaked and teased his hard, puckered nipple. The only jarring note was the dark bruise and livid lump on his forehead. After opening his pants, his right hand had dropped back down to rest beside his hard thigh, where it clenched and unclenched slowly. Sara was soaking wet from watching him. And he was so ready it was almost painful. “Touch yourself, Ian,” she suggested. This time, he didn’t balk at all. In fact, he startled her by giving her a lazy, deliciously wicked smile. His eyes meeting hers challengingly, he very slowly drew his right hand across his thigh and up over his hip. “I always forget what a quick study he is,” Sara thought.

Ian carefully worked his hand into the open fly of his jeans and gripped himself familiarly. His intense, fiery gaze never left hers as he began to stroke his pulsating shaft with a quick, hard rhythm that spoke of long practice. His breathing gradually changed from soft pants to harsh grunts punctuating each stroke of his hand. Ian’s eyes fluttered shut and his head tipped back. Sara watched him pleasure himself, her heart thumping madly, her mouth going dry. Finally, she couldn’t stand it any longer. She had to touch. “Come here, Ian,” she growled. It took a moment for her words to get past the haze of lust fogging his brain. When they did though, he didn’t waste any time. Ian pulled off the jeans so quickly that he ripped them as he freed himself. Naked and blatantly willing, he was on the bed beside her two seconds later. Sara reached out to touch him and he knocked her hand away roughly. “If you even breathe on me, I’m going to come,” he grated hoarsely, “Let me catch you up.”

Sara could see the sense in that, particularly since she felt like a three-alarm fire in desperate need of a fire hose. “Bring on the hook and ladder,” she gasped. Ian lifted his face from where it now rested among her damp, lower curls. “What?” he asked. She dug her fingers into his soft hair and gave his head a little push back down. “Never mind,” she breathed, “Ignore me. You’re doing fine.” A few minutes later, he brought her to a shrieking, wrenching climax. When she could talk, Sara gasped, “I caught up and got ahead of you.” Ian pulled his body up and nuzzled his face against her neck, nipping and sucking the sensitive skin near her ear. “That’s okay,” he whispered, warm breath making her shiver, “From here on, we’ll do it together.” She turned her head and their eyes met. She knew that he wasn’t just talking about making love. He gently stroked her cheek with his knuckles. “I promise,” he whispered. She looked deep into those incredible eyes. “We’ll see,” she whispered back, not able to trust him.

Wanting Sara so badly that he was trembling with need, Ian rolled over, positioning himself between her legs. When he bent to kiss her, Sara gazed past his shoulder and around the sleeping loft, wondering where the cameras were. She suddenly tensed against him. Immediately sensing the change in her, Ian froze. “What’s wrong?” he whispered in her ear. Her arms fell away from his body and she turned her head to the side. Bracing himself with his arms, he leaned down to kiss and lick her neck. “What is it, love?” he whispered in her ear. She turned her head back to look into his eyes. A cold knot of dread tightened Ian’s stomach at what he saw there. Sara kissed his bearded cheek and left a trail of light kisses over to his ear. “I can’t do this,” she whispered, “I can’t do this knowing that he’s watching.” Ian fought to get himself under control, to clear his mind of the passion that was fueling him so that he could think clearly. He lowered himself to let his body rest against hers, burying his face snugly in the curve of her neck. His breath was warm on her ear. “It’s alright,” he whispered, “Don’t worry about it. We’ll find another way.”

His quick mind raced through a catalogue of options. Nuzzling her neck gently, his body still way overstimulated and aching for hers, Ian whispered in her ear, “Can you pretend to get sick from dinner? Can you pretend that the food was too rich and that it made you ill?” Sara seized on his suggestion. She turned her face to find his lips, giving him a real kiss that was more gratitude than passion. “Yeah,” she breathed against his mouth, “I think I can do that.” Ian tried to lift the lower regions of his body up a bit and away from Sara. He couldn’t concentrate on getting them through this safely when all he could think about was making love to her. He drew in a deep, shaky breath and moved his lips back to her ear. “It’s your show,” he whispered, “Go for it. I’ll back you up.” Her body suddenly stiffened and she moaned loudly. Pushing him away from her, Sara made a mad dash for the bathroom. Left gaping on the bed, Ian actually wondered for a moment whether his dinner really had made her sick.

“Sara?” he called, trailing after her belatedly. He entered the bathroom in time to watch her get sick into the toilet. “Oh baby,” he thought, his stomach giving a sympathetic twitch, “I didn’t mean for you to really do it.” Ian dropped to his knees on the tile beside her and slipped his arm around her. He reached for a washcloth by the sink and pushed up on his knees to run it under the cold water in the sink. Ian cuddled her on to his lap, holding her close. After wringing it out, he gently stroked her forehead with the damp cloth. Pressing his cheek against hers, he whispered, “I didn’t mean literally. Are you okay?” She dropped her head to his shoulder, whispering back, “Had to look real, didn’t it? But I sort of overdid it and it got away from me. I’m fine though.” She felt his gentle lips on her forehead and smiled, amused at his ministrations. “Are you done in here?” he asked. She nodded, reaching over to flush the toilet. She bent forward to stand but Ian scooped her up in his arms, cradling her against his body protectively. Sara instinctively put her arms around his neck. She pushed her fingers into his hair and said, “Ian, I’m okay. Really.” He carried her back to the rumpled bed and laid her down carefully.

Ian stretched out beside her. He reached out to wipe her flushed face with the wet cloth. She caught his hand in mid-reach. “I’m fine,” she said a little more emphatically. “In fact,” she added, eying the bedside table, “I think I’d like a glass of wine.” He dropped his hand back to his side, looking at her as if she’d grown a pair of horns. “You’re kidding,” he said. Sara wondered if he had forgotten their agenda for this evening. He was supposed to drug her in the wine. “Not at all,” she replied, “I think it will settle my stomach.” She saw comprehension dawn in his eyes. It was immediately overshadowed by reluctance. If Sara wasn’t feeling well, Ian wasn’t going to drug her. Irons would just have to wait another day for his blood. She watched the emotions flit through those cheaters of his, pretty much knowing what was going on in his head. But Sara took that train of thought a step further. If Ian didn’t bring Irons her blood tomorrow, he would beat Ian bloody. It would make the last beating look like a walk in the park. He might even do what they were trying to avoid; unleash one of the clones. Didn’t Ian know that or didn’t he care? Regardless of what he had done, she would not let him take another beating – certainly not on her account – and she would not let him put them both in jeopardy over some misguided sense of gallantry.

Sara looked into his eyes. “C’mon, Ian,” she said, “Do it for me. Pour me that wine.” She could see that he wasn’t happy about it, but that he too had followed the logic to its end. At the moment, they didn’t have a lot of choices. That was precisely what they were attempting to change. “Whatever you want,” he murmured, getting up off the bed. She unabashedly admired his lithe nakedness as he took the wet cloth back to the bathroom. He got the sleeping pills out of their little bottle and palmed them before he turned out the bathroom light. Back by the bed, he poured them each a glass of wine. He artfully dropped the pills into hers, where they quickly dissolved. Ian handed her the drugged wine, perversely feeling like he was betraying her all over again.

Before she could drink, he caught her hand. Sara frowned, beginning to get annoyed with him. Ian sat on the bed beside her and looked into her green, green eyes. For a moment, he felt like he was drowning. “Sara,” he said, “You do believe me when I tell you that I love you, don’t you?” She looked back into his tawny orbs. She couldn’t deny it. “Yes,” she admitted. He nodded, satisfied. Ian touched his wine glass to hers with a pure, chiming tone. “Here’s to the future,” he said. She shook her head, smiling wryly. The man just didn’t give up. “To the future,” she echoed, drinking deep. Less than five minutes later, he gently eased the glass from her hand and put it back on the nightstand. Sara was out like a light. He sighed, hating what he had to do next. Ian went back into the bathroom to get the syringe.

“You’re most fortunate that the Wielder was thirsty, Ian,” the newly refurbished mirror hissed at him. Ian stared boldly back at himself in the glass, trying hard to mask his animosity. The mirror did not care much for either his challenging gaze or his silence. “If you had not brought me my vial of blood, boy,” it continued, “I would have taught you a new level of misery. And, perhaps, come up with a little treat for the lady as well.” The last statement made Ian’s eyes narrow dangerously. A feral chuckle oozed from the glass. “Of course,” it wheezed, “No real concern for yourself, but threaten the Wielder and those hackles of yours rise like the full moon. When you toy with defying me, boy, keep that in mind. Who will protect her when you’re gone? Who will keep your lady safe then?” Ian dropped his eyes submissively. “That’s better,” the mirror said in mellower tones, “Now go get my blood for me, Ian. I’ll expect you in the Great Room at 8:00 A.M. precisely. Tell me that you understand me, boy.” Ian gritted his teeth and kept his eyes lowered. “I understand, master,” he murmured. The mirror snorted dismissively. “Good,” it said, “Go get it.”

Being as gentle as he was able, Ian took blood from the back of Sara’s leg as Immo had instructed him. He filled the syringe and put it in the refrigerator until the morning. When he was finished, Ian rejoined Sara in bed. He cuddled close to her, hugging her pliant body tight against his. He nuzzled his face in her thick hair, breathing deeply of her scent, aching with love for her. Just before he fell asleep, he whispered softly in her ear, “I’m so sorry, Sara.” She didn’t hear him.

Sara woke very early the next morning feeling unusually well rested. She stretched lithely, eyes still closed. She was moving carefully because she didn’t want to wake him. Even without looking at Ian, she could tell that he was still fast asleep. The strong personality, the mercurial mind, were not there. That thought startled her enough that her eyes flashed open to examine his sleeping face. When had she become so attuned to Ian that she could sense his essence almost like an animal does its mate? Her nascent misgivings were scattered by a sudden stab of concern. “He looks exhausted,” she thought, reaching out with one finger to trace the dark circle visible beneath his shuttered eye. Her finger brushed against the ridiculously thick eyelashes. They were as soft and silky as butterfly wings. He made a low, rumbling sound in his sleep and she quickly pulled back her hand, not wanting to wake him. “Our little passion play last night was harder on him than it was on me,” she thought.

She lifted her head off the pillow to glance at the clock on the bedside table. It was very early, just past 5:30 A.M. A thought popped into her head: “Too early for anyone to be watching.” That observation immediately led to another. “I bet Irons is still asleep,” she thought. That meant that they could enjoy each other without performing for an audience. Sara grinned. There was a swift clench of heat low in her belly, followed by a scarlet flash from the region of her right wrist. She shut her dazzled eyes and a vivid image danced behind them, so detailed it was as if she was watching it again in real time. Ian stood in the bathroom doorway, backlit by a dim glow. His head was thrown back, eyes shut, lips parted. The sculpted lines of his face were slack with passion. The long muscles of that magnificent body were taut, reflecting molten need pushing slowly toward inevitable eruption. Where the tight, faded jeans gaped open between his narrow hips, Ian held himself in his right hand. He gripped his pulsating erection none too gently, fingers moving in a hard, fast rhythm. Shining droplets of pre-cum glittered like diamonds on the head of his rigid shaft. Her lips parted as she saw his heart beat visibly in the veins of his straining sex. Ian grunted softly with each hard jerk of his hand. He looked incredibly erotic.

Sara felt Ian shift on the bed beside her. The vision scattered like a burst bubble and she opened her eyes. She studied him curiously, wondering whether the vivid image that she had just experienced had spilled past the boundaries of her mind to invade his. Although his eyes were still shut, his energy had changed. “His energy?” she thought looking away from him, startled by her ability to sense Ian in this new way. She frowned, worried. As if drawn by her concern, Ian was suddenly there, the sharp electricity of his presence unmistakable. She glanced back over at him and was immediately caught in the depths of those smoky golden eyes like a fly in a spider’s web. Sara stared into his eyes, not really understanding what was happening between them but ready to keep him at a cautious distance until she did. “Hey, Nottingham,” she whispered. Distracted, she had forgotten how it bothered him when she addressed him by his surname. Distracted too, he let it go. “Hey, Sara,” he whispered back. Ian felt it as well. Something was subtly different between them. He frowned, wondering if he was seeing things that were not there because he wanted them so badly.

Ian had woken aroused. That, in itself, was nothing unusual; for most of his adult life, his repressed sexuality had emerged through his dreams. He frequently woke with an erection. He was used to it being a private matter, however, because he always slept alone. Sara glanced down his body to see the sheet tented below his waist. Her lips twitched. Ian rolled on his side to face her and bent his knee, belatedly shielding his lack of control. “Maybe he was responding to the image in my head and doesn’t even know it,” she wondered. She was soaking wet with arousal and grateful that the female anatomy was less obvious. Ian dropped his eyes and cleared his throat, embarrassed. Her mind meandered on a circuitous route back to its original thought. “Is your boss usually awake this early?” she asked. His dark brows knit. He was unaccountably flustered and not following her train of thought. He turned his head to glance at the clock before looking back at her. He searched her eyes for a clue to what she was thinking. He got none. “Never before 7:30,” he replied, “Why?”

Sara stretched out a single finger to slowly trace the outline of a long knife scar between his ribs. “So nobody’s watching us right now,” she said, “Yes?” Sara felt her heart speed up with excitement as she watched his eyes darken to that rich shade of amber and his lips slowly curve in a deliciously wicked grin. “Ah,” he purred, putting a wealth of meaning into that single sound. He caught her stroking finger in his hand and drew it to his mouth. His eyes never leaving hers, he pressed her finger between his lips. He sucked the finger thoroughly, using his hot, firm tongue with expertise. When he finally released her wet, tingling finger, he breathed a single word: “Yes.” Sara grinned back at him, the hot, wet heat traveling downward from her finger. “We have unfinished business from last night,” she said, voice husky. Ian briefly considered asking her whether she had forgiven him for his silence. He discarded that idea almost immediately. Why remind her? If she wanted him, he was more than willing to give her what she wanted. Why muddy the clear waters of passion with past perfidies?

Ian rolled closer, his breathing deepening in anticipation. He slipped his leg between hers, sliding the rough sole of his foot slowly up and down her calf. He nuzzled his face against her neck. Soft, warm lips pressed to sensitive skin, he whispered, “Not business, my lady. Never business. Pleasure, delayed pleasure.” She rolled on her side to face him, digging her fingers into his thick, soft curls. Sara glided her leg up his until she could hook it over his hip. She felt his long, artist’s fingers stroking slowly down her spine. Sara leaned forward to press her lips to his and he met her open-mouthed. Their tongues tangled together. When they eventually broke apart, gasping, she stared into his eyes and whispered, “You were so hot last night.” Ian looked a bit bemused. “Was I?” he asked doubtfully. Her eyes narrowed as she remembered him standing in the doorway, hip cocked, head thrown back. “Oh yeah,” she confirmed in a low growl that traveled straight to his groin. “I’ll take your word for that,” he responded, his other hand wriggling between them to find her slick and ready for him.

Ian rubbed her hard, the way that he knew she liked it. Sara moaned, arching against him. “He has gotten so very, very good at this,” she thought, muscles clenching around his fingers. She dug her nails into his shoulders and pushed her leg higher, locking it around his waist. Sara cried out when he tipped her over the edge and an orgasm rippled through her. She dropped her head to his chest and fought to regain her breath. Ian pushed her back from him a little so that he could lower his mouth to her breast. She gave a soft cry as his lips closed over her nipple, where he sucked and nipped playfully. Sensations were tumbling through her faster than she could absorb them. “God, Ian, take it easy,” she gasped. He stopped just long enough to ask, “Why?” Hardly missing a beat, his mouth got busy again. She shivered and leaned forward to lick his neck where she had marked him in the elevator. Ian gave a startled, ragged moan as her fingers closed around him to guide him to her. “Now,” she begged, “Please. Now.” He lifted her leg higher and pulled her toward him as she led him home. As soon as he entered her, Ian thrust his hips upward to fill her. Sara tightened around him, holding him captive within her. He started to move smoothly, plunging into her with long strokes, then almost pulling clear only to slowly push deep back toward her center again.

Falling into Sara’s sea-green eyes and caught in the undertow, Ian felt like he was drowning. There was a sweet, inevitable peace in simply letting go. Surrendering to Sara, he abandoned himself to the heavy swell of primal love and desire that broke over him, and was dragged along in its wake. He stared at her breathless and wide-eyed while he passively lowered all his barriers. For her part, Sara felt his love surround her, buoying her up and floating her on a sweet, seductive flood. Something deep within her answered his unspoken need. It passed all of her carefully constructed walls, laughed at all of her sensible arguments, and refuted all of her impassioned denials. It answered love with love and they both heard it. Ian’s passion-darkened eyes went huge, not quite believing what he was sensing in Sara. Facing each other, bodies enmeshed, they went still, both of them knowing that they were poised on the edge of something momentous. As they reached that conclusion, all hell broke loose. The sanguine stone on Sara’s bracelet glowed and long, barbed tendrils – like bloody tree roots – slithered from the band to embrace them, locking their joined bodies together. “Ian!” Sara cried desperately, struggling to remove her arms from around him before they were trapped. It was too late. They were quickly bound by the strong limbs of the Witchblade.

Sara looked at her lover, eyes wide with panic. What had happened to Ian? Where were those lightning-fast reflexes? This was the man who could pluck a speeding bullet from thin air. Ian stared back at her from drowsy, golden eyes. “He looks drugged,” she thought desperately. “Ian?” she tried again. He blinked slowly and she saw herself reflected in those big cat eyes. “Sara?” he responded. She watched as comprehension slowly filled his eyes. Unlike her, he didn’t even attempt to fight it. He drew in a long, deep breath and stretched forward to brush his lips across hers. “Don’t struggle,” Ian said softly, “It’s pointless and would probably only make things worse.” After a long pause, he asked, “Do you have any memory of the Periculum?” Sara barely heard him. His words finally snuck around the panic that was bubbling over in her brain. “The what?” she squeaked. Ian sighed. “It’s the Witchblade’s test of a Wielder to determine her worthiness,” he said. She pressed her body backward against the mystic vines tying her to him. They tightened a bit more. “Is that what this is?” she asked. He felt her fear and he immediately tried to alleviate it. “Breathe slowly, Sara,” he murmured soothingly, “Breathe in and out to a count of ten.” She looked at him like he was nuts. “Are you nuts?” she asked, voice tight, “We’re in trouble here.” He leaned forward to gently rub his nose against hers. “And letting your fear take over will help how?” he asked.

Sara glared at him and began slowly breathing in to a count of ten. The air escaped her in a whoosh before she asked, “So, this is my Periculum?” she asked. Ian shook his head. “No,” he replied, “You’ve already been through your Periculum. You were tried and you succeeded. You just don’t remember it. This is something else.” She frowned at him, still fighting a strong desire to struggle. “If something like this had happened to me before, I think I’d remember it,” she hissed. Without moving, he managed to create the illusion of a shrug. “As you wish,” he whispered, “You know best.” Sara sighed, letting her muscles relax a bit. The tendrils binding her to Ian immediately loosened a little. She took another deep breath before she said, “Don’t humor me, Ian. Just explain to me what’s happening.” His smile was dazzling and she automatically responded before she caught herself, pulling her features back into a blank mask. “From my reading of the ancient texts,” he said, prevaricating a bit, “I would say that this is the Iunctura. It is a ritual joining that occurs when the Wielder selects her mate.” Ian did not think it would serve any purpose to tell Sara that he had learned of the ritual through his master. He did not want to mention Irons right now. If the Witchblade was to be believed, Sara loved him and had chosen him as her mate. He had dreamed of this, ached for it, but had not really believed that it would ever happen. Now, beyond all hope, it was happening and Ian wanted to share it with Sara fully. He would not tolerate any intrusion.

“Relax a little, love,” Ian whispered seductively, “Please. Just give it a try.” Sara made an effort to let go a little more of the panic and claustrophobia she felt. She concentrated on her breathing. Soon, she relaxed further within the Witchblade’s encircling tendrils. With the loosening of their bonds, Ian gained some freedom of movement and he started to make love to her again. Awestruck by the revelation that Sara loved him, he gave himself over to her completely for the first time. Unsure of her feelings and afraid of rejection, he had always held something back, unable to tear down the last wall that separated them. Now, he bared his emotions to her as he had bared his body for her the night before, blindly trusting that she would not judge or reject him. Part of him was appalled at the risk he was taking. The rest of him was powerless to do anything else. For her part, Sara was both terrified and fascinated at suddenly having Ian spread before her like an open book. Feeling like an innocent handed a pornographic masterpiece, she was guilty for wanting to look even as she eagerly began to turn the pages. They understood that something incredible was happening to them. And, though neither had fully grasped the implications yet, both knew that the Witchblade was deepening the connection between them fundamentally and, perhaps, irrevocably.

Instinct took over and they moved together as one. Passion began to break down Sara’s resistance. If she was honest with herself, she had to admit that Ian drew sensations from her body that no one else had ever even touched. Ian felt a sharp sting in his right wrist. When he glanced down at his hand, still wedged between their bodies, he saw that the Witchblade had embedded itself under his skin to plunge directly into his vein. He shut his eyes and relinquished himself to the flood of feelings that assailed him. They were coming from Sara – confusion, fear, desire, need, and, then, less accessible, more tentative, tenderness and love. Ian gasped, drinking those latter emotions in. They were cool water in the desert where he had wandered thirsting for so long. He opened his eyes wide, blinked slowly, and looked at her. Trapped in that mesmerizing, golden gaze, Sara felt their demarcations blur as an orgasm gripped her. Ian got caught up in its shockwaves and they rode it out together. As she melted in the lovely, molten heat of their joining, Sara came face to face with her feelings. She had fallen in love with Ian. In the sweet afterglow of their union and its stunning revelations, Ian drew as close to Sara as separate skin permitted. He nuzzled his face into her hair, his lips warm and moist against her ear as he whispered, “I love you so much, Sara.”

When she did not respond, Ian lifted his head to look at her. Unable to face his scrutiny, Sara shut her eyes and turned her head away. The Witchblade still cocooned them tightly, severely limiting their mobility. She could feel Ian studying her intensely. She was aware that the Witchblade had shown him parts of her that she would have chosen to keep secret. He knew how she felt. She could no longer hide it from him or from herself. Sara could hear the catch in his voice when he whispered, “Please say it, Sara. I need to hear you say it. I need it very badly.” They both seemed to be holding their breaths, waiting to see what she would do. Finally, she pulled in a deep, ragged breath. Sara felt manipulated and that made her stubborn. Logically, she knew that this situation was not Ian’s doing. He was as much at the mercy of the Witchblade’s machinations as she was. She knew she was being unfair. She knew it was wrong to punish him for seeing what she had not been ready to show him. In spite of all that, she could not seem to help herself. She simply could not say it to him yet. She was not ready. When she kept her face averted from him, Ian again begged softly, “Please, Sara.” He heard her low sigh before she answered, “I’m sorry. I can’t. I’m not ready.” Ian shut his eyes. The pain was sharp, almost overwhelming. He fought against the hurt, telling himself that Sara was holding back because she did not like to be pushed.

Sara suddenly arched her body, digging her nails into Ian’s back where the Witchblade’s tendrils held her hands. The blood-red vines clenched tighter around them. They both gasped. “Sara, stop,” Ian commanded, “Relax your body. Now.” She froze, body rigid, eyes wide. He leaned forward carefully and rubbed his cheek against hers. “Breathe slowly,” he whispered, “Relax. Accept it. Fighting it will only make it worse.” His soft, calm voice finally edged around her panic and she took several deep breaths. She made a conscious effort to loosen her muscles, letting herself go limp against him. As it had before, the Witchblade responded by easing its grip on them. Ian gasped, startled, as the inscrutable Object of Power burrowed deeper under the skin of his wrist. Feeling an echo of his shock, Sara asked weakly, “What? What is It doing to you?” Ian gave a stunted shake of his head before replying, “I don’t know. It’s gone directly into my vein. My guess is that It is connecting us, blood to blood.” She sighed, letting her head rest against the hot skin of his hard shoulder. “Blood again,” she murmured, “What will this do to us? Do you know?”

Ian gave another minute shake of his head before he realized that Sara couldn’t see it. “I don’t know exactly,” he responded, “I suspect that now we will share more thoughts, dreams, visions, feelings. We may develop a kind of telepathy, be able to communicate with each other from a distance. The Blade is offering some of Its power to me to enhance my ability to protect you.” There was a thoughtful silence before she said, “What else? There’s more that you suspect. I can feel it but I can’t quite get it.” He made a soft, thoughtful sound; impressed with her skill at reading him. “Nothing very strategic,” he mumbled, a bit embarrassed, “I was just thinking that with this new found empathy, our love making could become pretty spectacular – not that it isn’t now.” She snorted, amused in spite of herself. “Leave it to a man,” she thought, “Look at the situation we’re in and he’s daydreaming about killer sex.” She cleared her throat. “Can we do anything to get ourselves out of this?” she asked, making a concerted effort not to start struggling again. “I don’t think so,” he replied, “The Witchblade has Its own agenda. If we fight it, we will only prolong the inevitable.” Sara vented another low, frustrated noise and shifted her lower body against his, forcing a soft gasp from him.

“I have to go to work in a couple of hours. You have to go see Irons. What are we going to do?” she asked, “What does It want from us?” Ian could feel her desire to break these bonds, to be free of him. He tried to stifle his disappointment. This certainly was not how he had pictured the Iunctura when he had played it over in his head. In his dreams, he and Sara had become one in a mystic, highly sensual union that was wildly romantic. They had exchanged vows of love as they were wed soul to soul while the Witchblade linked them physically and mentally. Like so many things in life, the reality of the ritual was far more mundane. It was messy, sweaty, scary, and uncomfortable. Sara seemed to be annoyed with him, as if he had somehow brought this on them. “Maybe the Blade has misinterpreted her feelings for me,” he thought, dismayed, “Maybe it is trying to force her to love me to strengthen our connection, to make us more formidable because of the danger that we face.” As the turmoil in Sara’s mind had quieted a bit, she began to pick up some of the quicksilver musings of her partner. It came to her more in vivid images, half-formed longings, than the kind of reasoned, lucid abstractions that she would have expected from the man that she had assumed Ian to be.

With surprise, Sara realized that Ian was an impassioned romantic and, in many ways, still very innocent. He desperately wanted that dream of love that he had sustained himself with through a long, arid reality that was bereft of almost any tender feeling. Inside that gorgeous, fully adult male body, was hidden the little boy who had wanted so badly to be loved. Part of him was still that sweet child who had been smothered under a blanket of cold, dry duty. And, now, because of her reaction to this latest, peculiar development in their bizarre lives, she could already feel him pulling back from her in disappointment, trying to turn down the heat on his slow-simmering desires. In her mind’s eye, she watched the sad little boy, cold and hungry, trudge up long, dark stairs to return to his lonely room. Sara realized that he wasn’t even angry with her for her stubbornness. He was simply resigned to being denied what he wanted most yet again. Sara’s reaction came straight from her soul. The Witchblade had, after all, understood Its Wielder.

“No,” Sara whispered, heart aching, eyes tearing, “You’re not alone any more.” She lifted her head from his shoulder and looked into the shimmering, golden pools of his eyes. She had to smile. Ian looked so confused. “What is it?” he asked. A wave of love and tenderness for him swept over her, washing her clean. He felt it too. His eyes widened a moment before she said softly, “I love you too, Ian.” His lips parted but he literally stopped breathing. When his vision began to darken with dizziness, Ian gasped in a sharp breath. She laughed, delighted, at the look on his face. He shut his eyes and buried his face in her hair. “Oh, Sara, Sara,” he whispered hoarsely, “I can feel it.- what you feel. It’s real. You really love me. Oh, god. I’ve waited so long. I love you. I love you.” She felt a quick stab of joy and wondered why she had felt the need to deny how she felt. Why had she felt so threatened? “Give us a kiss?” she requested. He laughed, almost giddy with happiness, and lifted his head to press his lips passionately to hers. The kiss flamed, ignited, and was tinder for the Witchblade to flash into an erotic firestorm.

The heat emanating from her wrist caused Sara to clench her hand into a fist. As quickly as they had emerged, the Blade’s crimson roots disengaged from around the lovers and began to retract into the sentient bracelet. She moved her stiff arm from around Ian to look at the Object of Power that was now an intrinsic part of them both. The deep red stone was pulsing boldly, sending scarlet beams of light to bounce bloody shadows off the ceiling and walls of the sleeping loft. Sara was suddenly overcome by desire so intense it was overwhelming. Ian felt huge inside her, filling her completely. The sensation was incredible, unlike anything she had ever experienced. Arching his body to push himself even deeper within her, Ian uttered her name in a husky, guttural moan that sent a sweet chill racing up her spine. He rolled her on to her back, ranging himself above her, catching her hands in his to hold them down above her head. She instinctively raised her legs to lock them around his slender hips, her heels digging into his thighs hard enough to bruise.

Sara cried out wildly as Ian plunged within her, the pleasure so intense that it bordered on pain. She filled her fingers with his thick, silky curls as she gave in to her need to taste him. Leaning forward, eyes closed, her sharp teeth reopened the bite that had barely started to heal at the base of his neck. He tasted salty and sweet and wonderful. His taste was so familiar to her – well-loved, well-remembered. He tasted like hers. Now, he let out a soft, hoarse cry in response to her marking him again as her own. They came together hard, rough, fast, driven by a need that was more visceral than cerebral. They mated for the first time and, at the same time, for the thousandth time, the ten-thousandth time. The connection that had been broken by the ending of one life and the beginning of another was remended. The mystic union of Wielder and Protector was forged anew. The cycle renewed itself, began again. Behind closed eyes, against a backdrop as red as the blood they shared, as red as the stone in the band of power that linked them, they watched a panorama of images from their shared past.

Sara, clad in full armor, prepared to walk a gauntlet. At its end, through the open slit in his helm, she fixed on Ian’s glittering, golden eyes, drawing her to him past the trial she was required to endure. Bound and already beginning to feel the deadly heat of the killing flames, Sara found the familiar, now desperate, golden eyes within the hungry gaze of the watching crowd. She felt his helplessness as well as her own, their impotence against the strictures of fate. Mistress of all she surveyed, Sara lounged on silken pillows in the sultry air with the sweet heaviness of his head resting in her lap. The blazing sun stuck sparkling beams of light from his discarded armor. As her fingers coiled in thick, dark curls damp with sweat, his heavy lids slitted and eyes of molten gold, simmering with erotic promise, caught and held her. The chill dampness in the air slipped under the skin and seeped into the bones. It made the grass beneath his body impossibly green. Too late, Sara knew that she had made the wrong choice. The spark of life in the deep amber eyes was slowly dimming. As she held his body close to her own, tasting regret like cold ashes, he died in her arms. Holding his lifeless body near, she felt the quality of the air around her change, become dry, still, and stale. In the empty, crumbling warehouse, her fingers curled around the arrow embedded in his chest. Her eyes met the timeless regard of the ancient watcher observing her from above. This time the choice was clear. Her hand warmed by the heat of the Blade, Sara pulled the shaft from Ian’s heart.

They climaxed simultaneously and with an intensity that neither of them had ever felt before. Sara screamed, her fingernails digging bloody crescents into the back of Ian’s hands. He buried his face in the thick sheaves of her hair, which muffled his own wild cry. Several minutes passed before either of them moved at all. Then, Ian slid from above Sara to her side, pulling her into his arms to keep her close. Without enough energy left to care or protest, she let him move her about like a doll, already tumbling into a deep, exhausted slumber. As soon as he was sure that she was alright, Ian too gave in to the heaviness dragging at him. Wrapping himself protectively around his mate, he sighed softly and let go, drifting into a deep sleep with the hint of a smile teasing his lips. When the alarm went off at 6:45, Sara gave a soft groan of protest but didn’t wake. Ian blindly stretched out his hand to unerringly hit the button that stopped the awful noise. He did it without ever waking. Silence restored, they cuddled even closer, sleep unbroken.

Watching the lovers settle back into each other’s arms, Kenneth Irons smiled. He expected that Ian would miss their 8:00 appointment and that the Wielder would be late for work. He wasn’t upset. After all, things were falling nicely into place. Apparently, the misgivings that he had experienced the evening before were pointless and the preemptive action that he had taken was unnecessary. Irons shrugged. “No harm done,” he thought. It never hurt to be prepared, just in case. He pulled the cord by his hand, signaling the kitchen to send up his coffee. He yawned hugely, not used to being up this early. His connection to the Witchblade had given him a vividly sensual wake up call that had been impossible to ignore. He did not regret the lost sleep. Not when it meant that he had been able to actually watch the Iunctura as it occurred. And now, the Witchblade’s DNA, Its genetic longevity, were coursing through Ian’s blood as well. Like the British throne, his succession was assured – he too now had an heir and a spare in his pocket. In great good humor, Irons watched his genetic pawns as they slept for a few more minutes before he wheeled himself into the other room to enjoy his morning coffee.