Forgotten Sea by Virginia Kantra Page A

breasts against the darkness of the room. “You shouldn’t be here.”
    “I won’t go back to the cellar.”
    “This is the first place they’ll look for you.”
    “I’ve got nowhere else to go.”
    “Don’t say that,” she snapped.
    It was true. So he said nothing, watching her.
    She wet her lips. “How did you get in?”
    He nodded toward her open window. “Climbed.”
    “But the heth . . . you couldn’t get past the threshold before.”
    His memories were all mixed up, but he remembered sprawling half out of the cellar door, a weight on one leg like a cement cast, a noose around his neck.
    He remembered that bastard, Axton.
    He remembered her lips, her scent, her hair falling down to brush his face. Her breath filling his lungs.
    “Yeah, I figured that out.” Slowly, so he wouldn’t spook her, he straightened his leg, stuck out his ankle. “I got rid of one. Cut it off.”
    Her eyes widened. “What about your throat?”
    He shrugged. “I can breathe.” Her kiss had done that much for him.
    “You removed Zayin’s spell ?”
    Her talk of spells made his skin crawl. He didn’t believe in magic. But he had a sailor’s healthy respect for luck. Not to mention some kind of voodoo charm hanging around his neck like a fucking albatross. Under the circumstances, he was prepared to be open-minded.
    “I don’t know about spells,” he said. “But I’m still wearing the necklace. Every time I tried to get the blade under, I damn near slit my throat.”
    She switched on the lamp that stood on her desk. He squinted in the sudden yellow light. Christ, she was lovely, all that milky skin rising above the towel, her slim, bare legs, the curve of her hip under the terrycloth.
    “Show me,” she said.
    Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.
    Wordlessly, he tugged on the neck of his T-shirt.
    She made a soft, distressed sound.
    He didn’t know what it looked like, but he could feel the cord, a line of fire around his neck, the bead a burning coal in the hollow of his throat. His skin felt hot and swollen.
    He smiled crookedly. “I don’t suppose you want to try that kiss of life thing again?”
    He thought she’d refuse. Hell, he thought she’d run.
    She took a hesitant step toward him. “When I opened your airway, it must have turned the magic outward. Do they know? Did they see you like this?”
    He wanted to say yes, to play on her sympathies, to buy her loyalty by any lie at his disposal. He had to get out of here.
    But faced with her anger and concern, he went with honesty.
    “It didn’t start to feel this way until I got outside.” He angled his head to give her a better view. “Is it bad?”
    “It looks painful. How does it feel?”
    He shrugged again, pulling the tender skin. “About the way it looks.”
    Still wearing the towel, she approached him and the bed.
    “I’m not a healer.”
    “Your healer Miriam’s been keeping me drugged and locked up in a basement. I trust you.”
    She sat beside him, the mattress dipping beneath her slight weight. She leaned away to avoid rolling against him, but his gaze was drawn to the knot of her towel, the shallow indentation between her breasts, the pulse beating just there beneath her jaw. Her hair smelled damp and clean.
    He had to close his eyes, dizzied, distracted by her nearness.
    She laid cool fingers on the raw skin of his throat. Her touch drew away the heat and the pain.
    More magic? He didn’t care. He wanted to rub himself all over her for comfort like an animal. Catching her wrist, he pressed his face into her palm. Her hand trembled against his cheek. He inhaled her, smelling her fear and the faint notes of her skin, fresh as lilies in the rain.
    “What do you want?” she whispered.
    You.
    “Help. Answers.”
    She eased back from him, her hand slipping from his grasp. “I’ll tell  you what I can.”
    He couldn’t think of any acceptable reason to grab her again, so he said, “Just tell me the truth. What is this