Fire, Fury, Faith Read online

  Serwa swatted away the mental image of Issa doing this to another girl, his experience exceeding her own. But one of them needed to know what they were doing, why not him? But, ah, she couldn’t begrudge him his experience, not when he was making her feel so glorious.

  Like a real woman.

  Issa lowered Serwa to the comfortable pallet, their mouths never parting. Languid swipes of tongue over teeth, gums, and lips ripped her girlish dreams to shreds. No silly daydreams she’d had compared to this. The real Issa set her ablaze with a mere kiss, a simple touching of mouths that wasn’t simple or mere at all.

  “Issa,” Serwa moaned when he removed her dyed flax top, revealing smooth, large breasts that seemed to swell and sizzle under his heated gaze. Self-consciously, she moved to shield them with her arms. Silly, really, since Serwa, like most females of her tribe, regularly wore no upper-body covering when they were in the protected enclosure of their village. But no male had ever looked upon her the way Issa was now—with animal hunger.

  “No, don’t.” Issa palmed a breast, eyes wide in wonder and satisfaction. “You’re so beautiful, lovelier than I’d imagined. And”—his voice went low and tight—“I imagined quite often and with embarrassing results.”

  Embarrassing results?

  He nudged her thigh, and she felt rather than saw his “embarrassing result.” But it wasn’t embarrassing at all. In fact, the way it fell against her—thick, long, and heavy—he had much to boast, the result magnificent if not a bit intimidating. Could her untried, untrained body accommodate such a size, such a man? Serwa would soon find out, for Issa had just removed their lower coverings, their naked bodies as perfectly glorious as the moon shining above.

  “It’ll hurt some the first time, but I’ll do my best to prepare your body for me.”

  It was a heart-warming but unnecessary admission. For Serwa knew of the pain, of the blood that often followed the giving of a girl’s maidenhead, her mother the source of maternal wisdom and caution.

  “I trust you.”

  Issa smiled and nodded, his head going low, warm, ravenous mouth opening then closing over her left breast. He cupped and suckled. Serwa’s response was immediate. Hands went to Issa’s head, holding him in place, demanding without words, more of…? She didn’t know what, but she assumed Issa had a plan. He always had a plan, a natural-born leader and strategist. Her warrior.

  Teeth then tongue grazed her painfully aching tips, pulling then releasing, sucking then squeezing, biting then licking. Over and over. He was driving her mad with pleasure. Her nails dug into bulging shoulders, seeking stability, anything to keep her rooted to the earth, keep her from floating away on the foggy current of lust and love.

  “So sweet.” Kiss. “So perfect.” Suck. “So sexy.” Lick. “So mine.” Bite.

  Going ever lower, he mumbled other endearments into her stomach, her hips, her inner thighs, her rich, uncharted—“Oh, Issa, that is sooo wonderful, so—” Serwa swallowed her next words, Issa’s mouth then tongue finding a small, viciously throbbing bud that had her entire body clenching, hands and toes curling. Back arched like a prepped crossbow, legs spread up for an offering to the Temple of Issa, an unexpected scream tore through her, mouth wide, eyes open, seeing nothing but the canopy of stars overhead.

  He devoured the offering, tongue circumnavigating her folds, an explorer searching for hidden treasures, her body the map, key, and booty. Fingers opened the treasure chest and delved inside, gingerly probing with tender strokes and thrusts, the slow burn raging into an inferno Serwa couldn’t fathom or control.

  His lips, tongue, mouth, and hands were everywhere, scorching her, pushing her down a hill then up a mountain, around a valley then over a river. Serwa’s senses dulled then sharpened, ears filling with the sounds of tongue slipping and sliding into and over dripping wetness, a warrior’s growls of satisfaction stoking the flames even more.

  “Issa, please,” she begged, no longer able to take the delicious torture, his relentless tongue and fingers in so deep, soooo deep. Hands cradled her bottom, holding her in place while he feasted, a farmer devouring the fruits of his labors.

  When she yelled her release, he still didn’t stop. No, Issa sucked and sucked, licked and bit, prodded and plundered until she shook, writhed in endless spasms that overtook her mind, compelling her hips up, demanding, seeking, begging.

  Then his weight was on her, his large, sweaty body pushing her into the pallet, nudging her legs apart, making room for him. Like the mindless submissive Issa had made Serwa, she numbly obliged, opening her thighs to him, needing more of his brutally delicious torture.

  Yet her body was prepared for him, by him. Slick, supple, and sanguine, he effortlessly glided into her, the breaking of her maidenhead, the journey from girl to woman a sharp, painful stab that came crashing in and over her. A swelling tide of aching need, the desire to know her body and Issa’s and what they could do together warred with the fullness of him stretching her, making her his, even in his controlled silence and stillness.

  Serwa’s yelp of pain upon his entry had stilled his movements. His face was tight with his own controlled need. Eyes shadowed with concern, perhaps even regret.

  But, oh, she didn’t want him to regret this, the pain ebbing, her body slowly relaxing, adjusting.

  Serwa ran one delicate finger over his creased brow, down his regal nose, and over his ripe lips. “It was just a moment of discomfort, Issa. I’m fine now,” she said, trying to reassure him, hoping he wouldn’t stop.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered against her lips, kissing her with a gentleness that would surprise the men who’d had the misfortune of ending up on the wrong side of his spear.

  “I’m not. Now make me yours, totally, completely, and forever.”

  He gave the barest of a smile before turning feral, midnight eyes alighting with repressed yearning, body slick with trembling muscles, raging desire. Then he was moving. In and out. In and out. In and out. And she was lost, caught up in the maelstrom of this man, his lovemaking, his primal claiming.

  “Wet. Tight. Mine.” Holding himself above Serwa, eyes focused and locked on her, Issa repeated the three words, heavy breathing filling each contented pause.

  He was so happy, so fierce, so handsome, so hers.

  Fluid, rhythmic movements grew in strength, in force. Issa’s backside and hips tightened under her caressing hands. Chest dipped low, covering her steamy breasts.

  His hoarse voice broke through the silence of the forest floor. “Wrap your legs around my waist.”

  She did, and, oh, he sank deeper, filling her in a way she didn’t think possible, his width stretching, making room. The fire began anew, his short, hard thrusts moving them and the pallet. Grabbing on to her shoulders, Issa buried his face in her neck, kissing her, his breathing heavy.

  Serwa could sense something building in him, perhaps the same thing growing in her, a volcano poised to erupt from its confines, taking out all in its indomitable path.

  “Are you ready?” Without waiting for a reply, Issa lifted his hips. He reached between them, found the little pleasure pulse, and circled it with his thumb. Oh, yes, he could do that forever.

  Apparently, Serwa didn’t require forever. Three more sure treks around that bud and she was done, exploding around him as he exploded within her. Her body throbbed, reaching and grasping for that last bit of glorious tension, heralding her fall into the ring of fire.

  “Love you, Serwa,” was all she heard before the lava consumed her, the present infringing on the past, a pitiless reminder of where Serwa truly was and what was happening to her.

  There was pain, so much excruciating pain. She burned. Everything burned. Everything hurt. Her skin, eyes, organs melted under the demonic flames. She struggled to hold on to the flashback, her only connection to sanity, to relief, to him.

  Eyes blurry from tears, Serwa focused, cradling the memory to her burning bosom, not yet ready to give in to the demon’s cruel snare.

>   Issa was slipping away from her, hoisted and handled like a wild animal, her father’s guards kicking and punching him, spitting words of fury and indignation. Their sanctuary found, invaded, sullied. Then her protector roared. The same terrifying rage that burst from him when he had gallantly placed himself between a giant forest hog and the daughter of his enemy.

  With the speed of the beast he had wounded with only a spear and shield, Issa lunged. Righteous, naked body glistened with calm determination. Fists, elbows, and knees flew, landing with rough, accurate crunches, blood spilling, bones breaking.

  Three more guards came into the clearing. Spears raised, ready to do their chieftain’s will. Undaunted by the odds, Issa glanced at Serwa, then at the pile of leaves where he’d stashed his own weapons. He could reach the daggers in seconds and kill her father’s men before they had a chance to drag her back home. But she knew what he was thinking. Issa needed to defend himself but had no desire to kill any more of her tribesmen…her family. His only desire now was for peace.

  Backing away from the approaching men, Issa cautiously made his way to Serwa’s side. He accepted the deep-blue jute wrap she handed him and covered his lower body, warrior eyes never wavering from the men before him.

  From the shadows of the guards’ broad shoulders, a stinging voice sliced through the night. “Where is she? Let me through.” Parting for their chieftain, the men stepped aside and allowed Serwa’s father to pass.

  Tall. Angry. Disappointed. Her father and chieftain looked more menacing than Serwa had ever seen him. Gone were the multicolored, beaded bi-horn chieftain crown and the tree bark ceremonial robe she’d last seem him wearing, enjoying the annual gathering, smiling at her mother with adoration.

  The way a husband should look at his wife. The way Issa looks at me.

  But that happy, contented man was now buried under a daughter’s betrayal. An intricately woven blue, red, and black battle wrap replaced the ceremonial tunic. His bare chest glistened with sweat as if he’d been running all night.

  Searching for me.

  Her father stared at her, fury clearly warring with love. She knew what he saw. A female of eighteen years who’d spent the better part of the night learning a young man’s body while permitting him to learn her own. The very daughter the chieftain had kept too close to his side, denying Serwa the attention of tribesmen who wished to get to know her better, perhaps to one day take as a wife. But no man was ever good enough for the chieftain’s only child. A suffocating existence she was loath to experience one more day.

  “Please, Baba,” she pleaded when he raised his spear and took a step toward an unarmed Issa.

  He ignored her. “So you think to procure a peace treaty by dishonoring my daughter?” His eyes raked Issa with unhidden scorn, gripping the wooden handle of his weapon even tighter.

  Serwa began to shift in front of Issa, but a grim, firm headshake from her warrior stilled her quivering legs.

  Long moments passed, neither man speaking nor moving, hard, stalwart gazes locked. Her father’s guards smartly stayed out of their chieftain’s way, taking a defensive posture around Issa, spears and oval-shaped hippopotamus hide shields in hand. But not too close, Serwa noticed. Everyone in her tribe had heard of Issa, and no one, not even her father’s guards, relished the idea of taking on the twenty-one-year-old undefeated warrior. The fact that the first three guards through the clearing were still writhing on the forest floor, with broken limbs and useless weapons by their sides, could not have gone unnoticed by the three remaining guards. The way their eyes shifted from the downed warriors and back to Issa let Serwa know that if they attacked, they would do so as a unit, increasing their odds of victory.

  Three against one. Not fair odds. For them.

  Finally, her father spoke, his voice softer but no less deadly. “I’ve heard the words of the Seer, listened carefully to his vision of boats, men, and chains.” He cleared his throat, then signaled for his men to step back and lower their spears. “Your treaty has merit,” the chieftain admitted, surprising her, his face impassive. “I’ll do all in my power to protect my village. Aligning with your father’s tribe,” he ground out the words as if they were bitter fruit on his sensitive tongue, “will benefit us all.” He lifted the hand that didn’t contain his spear, holding it up and out to her. “But I protect my family. Come, daughter, I’ll take you home to your mother so you can”—his hardened gaze flicked to Issa—“wash the filth of the night off you.”

  Serwa stiffened at the insult aimed at her beloved. She cast her father an irritated glance before moving her attention to the man standing rigidly beside her, his fists balled as tight as his jaw was clenched.

  When Issa spoke, his voice was steady and controlled, yet it held a shard of ice, a filament of threat.

  “My Serwa.” Step. “My love.” Step. “My responsibility.” Step “Mine to protect.” Step. Staring up at the six-foot chieftain, Issa snarled, “Always.” He leaned in closer, his voice no less commanding for its gentleness. “My. Wife.”

  Her father’s eyes went wide with shock before a tidal wave of flames crashed into her, sending Serwa to her knees, her mouth opening on a scream of agony. The pain sent the memory four hundred years into the past where it belonged, the present crushing her under its cruel blaze of malignant heat.

  The words of the demon slithered into her ear, his foul intention the fuse, his words the match.

  “Heal this, Angel.”

  Burning.

  Pain.

  Darkness.

  “Issa! Help me.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  March 2012

  New York City, William Randolph Hearst Burn Center

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  The heart monitor seemed to thrum as loud and foreboding as the belfry of the Cathedral of Our Lady, alerting the townspeople to impending doom. The scent of Healer magic—rosemary and cinnamon—was a comforting contrast to the disinfectant smell typical of hospitals. Yet the aromatic magic couldn’t eviscerate the disquieting smell of sulfur and burnt flesh. No, the foul stench lingered, clinging to healing skin, organs, and hair.

  A strong, tan hand touched Issa’s slumped but durable shoulder.

  “She’ll be all right, my friend.”

  Issa shook his head, shoulder-length dreadlocks itchy against his wide neck, the chair that held his stocky, five-nine frame hard and uncomfortable.

  “How could this have happened, Nathaniel?” Issa’s voice was calm, steady even. Suppressed tears buried under layers of controlled rage.

  Issa watched as Nathaniel slowly made his way around him and to the flat bed on which an unconscious Serwa slept. Dahlia, a Healer Angel, stood in the same spot as Nathaniel a mere twenty minutes ago. Her persistent scented magic the reason for the otherworldly vapors swirling about the recovery room.

  Nathaniel raised his hand. Long fingers stretched out toward Serwa, followed by a cautious glance at Issa, silently seeking permission.

  Issa nodded, trusting his mentor, the only one of their kind he would grant such a privilege.

  Those strong, gentle fingers lifted black, wavy hair out of vacant eyes, and Issa’s heart sank that much deeper, darkened that much more. Winter brown eyes that always sparkled like the first day of spring when they alit on him were now a dull shade of battlefield gray. The luster and vibrancy were absent, lost to the violence and horror of the day.

  When Issa had first seen those death eyes staring blankly up at him, his initial reaction was to close her eyelids. He’d even reached out to do just that. But he stilled, his hand trembling from the acidic realization. They were gone, or rather Serwa’s eyelids were in the process of re-growth. And while Healer magic was swifter and more effective than human medicine, it wasn’t always immediate, especially when the damage was so great.

  He’d relaxed his hand, lowered his own eyelids, and taken a deep, steadying breath. Serwa was alive. He had to keep telling himself. Alive. Alive. Alive.

  “Worry not, the
burns will heal, Issa. In a few days and with two or three more treatments, Serwa will be as she was.”

  Not as she was. In body perhaps but not in mind.

  Issa gave an annoyed snort before standing. The overused hospital chair wobbled from the force but remained upright. He walked to the window, his eyes glazing over with exhaustion and impatience. After a minute they cleared, latching onto a fading mural on a church wall across the street. Blue, red, white, black, and yellow mingled together in a tapestry of exquisite peace, angelic wings wide and welcoming, shading, protecting, and loving, cradling the earth and its people in unspoiled, everlasting grace. The bright, midday March sun turned the uninspired design into something more, an invitation to the community, an appeal to self, a reflection of hope.

  “Is he in custody yet?” Issa turned away from the mural and the message that forgiveness and strength were only a prayer away.

  Nathaniel shook his head, his own frustration adding to the dreary pulse of the sterile room. “According to the first responders, the demon fled the human realm right after he manipulated and assisted a small band of humans into setting a series of bombs.”

  Fled, yes, but not immediately. The demon had waited, biding his time until a Healer arrived on the scene. In Issa’s opinion, that was his real objective, the bombing a simple ploy to bring a Healer to him. And that Healer, unfortunately, had been Serwa. My Serwa.

  But why would a demon intentionally risk the wrath of angels? Surely the miscreant had to know the firestorm such an act would unleash. The same firestorm he’d engulfed Serwa in, sealing the demon’s fate. A husband’s fury no less ferocious than the fires of Hell.

  Perhaps it should have, but the reason for the attack mattered not to Issa. The irreprehensible deed executed with premeditated malice, typical of rogue demons, was already done. No, the demon’s motivation held no importance to Issa. He would leave that level of investigation to Nathaniel. All Issa desired, all he ached to do was have his pound of demon flesh.