Only she wasn’t his anymore. She was gone. And he was alone in the crowd.
Dez shuddered in the throes of the memory, living it on one level while knowing it was a dream vision on another. Then the nightmare sped up to a flicker-flash of images, impressions showing how very wrong he had been, how quickly he had grown into the skin of the cobra de rey, justifying each slip and slide down into darkness. We need more cash to clean up our act, need more men, more power. We can’t go legit right now or the VWs will level the neighborhood. Can’t do it now when the Smaldone wannabes are making their big move. Then, before he knew it, he had found himself at the head of his own syndicate, part gang, part mob. All his.
More, the nightmare threw his words back at him—I’m doing this to keep Reese safe . . . to prove to her that I’m not what she thinks . . . for the neighborhood . . . for street rats like me. But really it hadn’t ever been about anyone but him. He had done exactly what Keban had taught him to do: take over, lead, control, command. And not give a shit what anybody else thought or said about it.
Another flicker. Another vision.
He woke sharp and alert—always did, always had, no matter what he’d been into the night before. His mind cataloged the morning inputs: decent bed, too-flowery perfume over the funk of stale sex, a woman’s arm over his waist. Nothing to trip his inner alarms. Opening his eyes gave him a look at a decent apartment, a woman’s hand trailing across his stomach, wearing fake nails and bloodred polish. Cheap sheets, expensive manicure.
Naked, restless, and hungry, but not for her, he got out of the bed, not really caring whether he woke her or not. He headed for the bathroom, snagging his jeans on the way, his initial mood smoothing out some when he felt the weights in opposite pockets: his .44 and the little black statuette that brought him luck.
“Hey, lover,” a feminine purr said behind him. “Going somewhere?”
He barely glanced back at . . . Darla? Carla? Something like that. She had big tits, big hair, a bitchy sense of humor, and knew the score. Which was why he was surprised she had even asked. He came and went as he fucking pleased. “Things to do,” he said, and hit the bathroom. When he tossed his jeans, something bright pinged off the vanity and plopped in the toilet.
“Shit.” He peered in, caught a wink of silver, a gleam of obsidian, and flashed hard on dark hair that framed amber-whiskey eyes that were full of vibrant joy, a love of adventure, a thirst for justice . . . and adoration. “Reese,” he whispered, his heart clutching as he remembered her as more than just a flail he used to drive himself. His mind raced on a moment of strange clarity, one where he felt like he was waking up from a terrible dream. In it, he had become a monster, a demon. A dark lord come to earth. Jesus. How had it all happened? And Reese. God, Reese. A hollow ache clutched at him. She was long gone, but she would hate what he had become. She would hate—
A static buzz whined in his ears, derailing his thoughts and making his vision go momentarily black. He shook his head to clear it, realized he was crouched over the john like he needed to puke, but didn’t.
Whoa. Maybe he was feeling last night more than he thought. He took another look at the ring, debated fishing it out, decided not to bother. It didn’t really fit him anyway.
Mind skipping ahead to the meeting he was having down at the pawnshop in a couple of hours, he pissed and flushed, and when the artificially blue water stilled, the ring was gone. But when he dragged on his jeans, he had the important stuff. Gun, check. Good luck, check. With those two things in hand, he could get everything he needed, everything he wanted. Look out world, the cobra de rey was coming.
The dream vision fragmented. And before he was really ready for it to be, it was the morning of the day before the solstice. One year and one day to the end time.
He woke sharp and alert, and his mind cataloged the morning inputs: familiar bed; the faint smell of smoke from the pyre; the stronger scent of good, earthy sex. His body was curved around a woman’s, his arm over her waist, their hands interlocked beneath her cheek. There was no irritation, none of the faint self-disgust of that vision-memory. There was only a poignant ache at the wish that he could snapshot the moment, frame it, keep it inside him: Him and Reese together at long last.
“Bad dream?” She turned in his arms, looked up at him, eyes soft and filled with all the things that had flashed through him in the vision, plus something even more precious: trust.
He pressed his lips to her brow. “Just Anntah—or maybe my own subconscious—making sure I don’t forget about my sins.” He told himself to leave it at that, but her eyes were steady on his, her fingers twined between his, hanging on as if she didn’t intend to let go. “I keep seeing myself kill Hood, keep reliving the way everything twisted itself around inside my head, so the wrong things seemed right.” When her expression turned sad and serious, he lifted their joined hands, pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “I should’ve seen what was happening, should’ve fought harder, but I didn’t. And I’m sorry.”
She closed her eyes, took a breath. And when she opened them again, the poker face was gone, tears were welling. “I told myself I didn’t need an apology, that it was enough that you got out from under the star demon’s influence.”
"You helped me get clean,” he said. “If you hadn’t gotten me into jail and away from the statuette, I don’t think even the Triad magic could’ve brought me back.”
“You saved my life; I saved yours,” she whispered.
He owed her so much more than that. And he wanted to give it to her, wanted to be with her, watch her soar. “You may not need an apology, but you’ve got one anyway.” He kissed a tear away, felt something shift in his chest. “I’m sorry.” He kissed her other cheek. “I won’t be that guy.” He kissed her lips, tasted the salt of her tears, and felt warmth flicker in the cold place that spawned the nightmares. “Never again. I promise.”
Magic sparked beneath his skin, sealing the oath as she opened to him, deepening the kiss and shifting against him, sleek and bare and already wet.
He hissed in a breath as all the blood left his head and went other, more interesting places. In the back of his mind, he knew they had to get up and out, that she had work to do and he needed to see what it was going to take to prove that he wasn’t secretly plotting behind Strike’s back. And . . . His thoughts scattered, lost to hot, openmouthed kisses. Hands sliding over soft skin. Reese rising over him, taking him inside her.
He arched up beneath her, going rigid with the hot, wet pleasure as she surrounded him, squeezed him, worked him. He touched her, kissed her, lost himself in her. Then, as she tightened around him and cried out, he reversed their positions and pinned her, surged into her, loved her. She was his, always should have been. Screw Anntah and his blithering about destined mates. She had been meant for him from the very beginning. He had just been too fucked up to see it.
“Reese,” he breathed against her temple as she came apart in his arms, shuddering and calling his name. “Jesus, Reese.”
He surged into her, planted himself deep, and cut loose. And as he came, he gladly lost a part of himself to her.
The orgasm went on, spun out, felt like magic . . . and left him just as ready to crash when it faded. His arms quivered where he was braced over her and his body was practically numb. From the look of her glazed-over eyes, she was in a similar state.
He rolled onto his back, taking her with him. “Gods, woman. I can’t feel my toes.”