The Darkest Night. Gena Showalter
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was a tortured scream. A man’s scream, quickly followed by three others.
Present. Not past. After twenty-four years, she knew the difference.
Terror snaked her in an iron grip, squeezing the breath out of her. Even through the chattering of voices, she heard a sickening thud. She tried to stand, to run, but a sudden whoosh of air held her in place. No, not air, she realized a second later, but a blade. Her entire body jerked in surprise as the hilt of a blood-coated knife swayed just above her shoulder, embedded in tree bark.
Before she had time to scramble away, to scream, there was another whoosh. Another jerk. Ashlyn’s attention swung to the other side. Sure enough, a second blade was rooted just above her left shoulder.
How—What—The thoughts hadn’t yet fully formed when something burst from a nearby thicket. Brittle leaves clashed together in an ominous dance, the snow that had covered them sprinkling to the ground as limbs slapped and shook. Then the something raced past a ray of moonlight and she caught a glimpse of black hair and radiant violet eyes. A man. A big, muscled man was charging toward her at top speed. His expression was pure brutality.
“Ohmygod,” she gasped out. “Stop. Stop!”
Suddenly he was there, right in her face. Crouching, pinning her in place, sniffing her neck. “They were Hunters,” he said in lightly accented English, his voice as harsh and rough as his rugged features. “Are you?” He grabbed her right wrist and peeled back the material of her jacket and sweater. He ran his thumb over the pulse there. “No tattoo, like they had.”
They? Hunters? Tattoo? A tremor cartwheeled down her spine. The intruder was huge, hulking, his muscular frame surrounding her with menace. A metallic tang drifted from him, mixed with the fragrance of man and heat and something she couldn’t identify.
Up close, she could see the splatter of red on his too-harsh face. Blood? The biting wind seemed to slither past her skin and into the marrow of her bones.
Savage, the look in his violet eyes said. Predator.
Maybe I should have listened to McIntosh. Maybe the men really are demons.
“Are you one of them?” the man repeated.
Shocked to her core, frightened beyond belief, it took her a moment to realize something was…different. The air, the temperature, the—
The voices had stopped.
Her eyes widened in astonishment.
The voices had stopped, as if they were actually cognizant of the man’s presence and were as afraid of him as she was. Silence enveloped her.
No. It wasn’t utter silence she experienced, she decided a moment later, but rather…quiet. Magnificent, blissful quiet. How long since she’d known such a thing, untainted by conversation? Had she ever?
Wind rustled and leaves smacked together. Snow hummed softly as it drifted through the air, a tranquil melody meant to lull and relax. The trees breathed with life and vitality, branches waving gently.
Had anything ever sounded as magnificent as nature’s symphony?
In that moment, she forgot her fear. How could this man be possessed by a demon when he came with such lovely quiet? Demons were a source of torment, not peace.
Was he an angel of mercy, then, as the locals assumed?
Closing her eyes in delight, she drank in that peace, reveled in it. Embraced it.
“Woman?” the angel said, confusion radiating from his voice.
“Hush.” Contentment skipped through her. Even at home in North Carolina, in a house that had been built by construction workers forbidden to speak more than necessary, she always heard the echo of deep-rooted whispers. “Don’t speak. Just enjoy.”
For a moment, he didn’t reply. “You dare tell me to hush?” he said finally, angry surprise in his tone.
“You’re still talking,” Ashlyn admonished, then pressed her lips together. Angel or not, he didn’t strike her as the kind of person she should scold. Besides, angering him was the last thing she wanted to do. His presence brought silence. And delicious warmth, she realized as the chill rapidly left her body.
Slowly she cracked open her eyelids.
They were nose to nose, his balmy breath trekking over her lips. His skin glowed like smooth copper, almost otherworldly in the moonlight. All hard angles and fierce planes, his face boasted a sharp blade of a nose and black-as-the-devil’s-heart eyebrows.
Those predatory purple eyes bored into her, somehow all the more menacing framed as they were by long, feathered lashes. I’ll kill anyone, anywhere, his expression seemed to say.
Demon. No, not a demon, she reminded herself. The silence was too good, too pure and right. But he was not an angel, after all, she decided. He’d brought the quiet, yes, but he was clearly as dangerous as he was beautiful. Anyone who could throw blades like that…
So what was he?
Ashlyn gulped, studied him. Her pulse should not have fluttered just then, and her breasts should not have ached. But it did. They did. He was like the dragons in the fairy tales McIntosh had read her: too lethal to tame, too mesmerizing to walk away from.
And yet, she suddenly wanted to bury her head in the hollow of his neck. Wanted to wrap herself around him. Wanted to hold on to him and never let go. She even found herself leaning toward him with every intention of giving in to those wants.
Stop. Don’t.
Most of her life, human touch had been denied her. At five, she’d been sent to the Institute, where most of the employees hadn’t concerned themselves with anything other than studying her ability. McIntosh was the closest thing she’d ever had to a friend, but even he had not hugged or touched her often, as if he feared her as much as he cared for her.
Dating, too, was tough. Men sort of freaked when they learned of her ability. And they always learned. There was no way to hide it. But…
If this man was who—what—she thought he was, he might not care about her little talent. He might let her touch him. And touching him and his heat might very well prove to be as potent a sensation as the silence, yet so much more—
“Woman?” he repeated, the word husky now, wine-rich as it cut into her thoughts.
She froze. Gulped again. Was that…desire flickering in his icy violet irises, completely obliterating that must-kill glaze? Or was the desire she saw born of pain and brutality, her death imminent? A swarm of emotions bombarded her: another clap of fear, morbid awe and yes, feminine curiosity. She had little experience with men, and even less with desire.
What had she been thinking, leaning toward him like that? He might have viewed her touch as an invitation. Might have touched her in return.
Why didn’t the mere thought send her into hysterics?
Perhaps because she might be wrong. Perhaps he wasn’t a dragon after all, but the prince who slayed the dragon to save the princess. “What’s your name?” she found herself asking.
A tension-filled second ticked by, then another, and she assumed he wouldn’t answer. Lines of strain bracketed his rough features, as though being near her was a chore. Finally he said, “Maddox. I am called Maddox.”
Maddox… The name slipped and slid through the corridors of her mind, a seductive chant that promised unimaginable satisfaction. She forced herself to smile in greeting. “I’m Ashlyn Darrow.”
His attention deviated to her lips. Despite the snow, beads of sweat broke out over his forehead, glistening. “You should not have come, Ashlyn Darrow,” he snarled, losing all hint of the desire she’d both fancied and feared. But he traced his hands up her arms, surprisingly gentle, and stopped at the base of her nape. Gingerly his thumb tripped over her throat, lingering on the