Dancing in the Shadows

Ayiana

Chapter 16

The interview room at Manhattan P.D. was a cold place, with barren walls, a scarred wooden table, and a single fluorescent light that cast the same harsh glare over good guys and bad alike. Detective Hughes paced the room, glancing over at Burch's bodyguard every so often with a look Joe could only describe as venomous.

The bodyguard was the only witness who could place Elliot at the scene of the crime. Joe watched the two men argue over the details of that night, and shook his head. Burch killing Moreno—that he might have understood, given what they now knew of Moreno's loyalties. But evisceration seemed out of character, even for Elliot Burch.

"Let's go over it one more time," Greg said. "What happened after you took Burch to the park?"

"He told us to wait at the car while he went on a walk."

"Burch pays you what . . . forty, fifty grand a year as a bodyguard?" Joe asked skeptically. "And you just let him go waltzing off in Central Park alone at 2 a.m.?"

"Mr. Burch pays me sixty-three five a year to do what he tells me," Pierson snapped. "And he told me to wait at the car."

Joe gave up. They were getting nowhere fast. Hughes was still firing questions when Joe left the room.

"How long did you wait?"

"I don't know. Maybe fifteen, twenty minutes."

"That's when you heard the gunshots?"

"Yeah."

Joe entered the observation room, closed the door, and flipped off the audio switch. Diana was there. He'd called her, but she hadn't arrived yet when the interrogation had started. Her hair was tied back, and in her t-shirt and jeans she had a clean, fresh look that made him think more of rock climbing than police work. He had a sudden mental image of her dressed in spandex and clinging to the side of a cliff, and was startled by an unexpected flare of attraction.

"So what do you think?" He'd taken his jacket off for the interview, but now he shrugged it back on, covering his confusion.

"I just got here," she said. "Fill me in on the highlights."

"Pierson puts Burch in the park at the same time Moreno was killed." He tugged the jacket down, straightening it. "Claims he saw blood on his clothing."

"What about a motive?"

"Money. Moreno was costing Burch millions. And that's not all. Pierson claims he was paid a hundred grand to hush up what happened in the park."

"So look at his bank deposits."

"We did. It checks out."

The door opened again and Hughes came in. "I think we gotta go for a search warrant, Joe. Blood stains on Burch's clothes would nail it down."

"Then do it."

Hughes nodded, left, and Joe turned back to Diana.

"Elliot Burch. Can you believe it?"

"No."

He looked at her, surprised. They were so close to solving this thing with Moreno and she was slamming on the brakes? "Come with me." He led her to his office, pushed the door closed behind her, and walked around his desk to his chair. "Talk."

"The case is bogus, Joe." Diana dropped her bag on the couch. "Somebody set the whole thing up."

"Well then somebody did a damn good job." Joe folded his arms on the desktop. "Look, do you think I have a choice here? I've got motive. I've got opportunity. And I've got a witness."

"Look me in the eye and tell me you honestly believe Elliot Burch ripped these two guys to pieces," Diana said. She leaned forward, resting her weight on her palms. "Come on, Joe. Don't let them use you. You're better than that. Go with your instincts."

He sat back, unnerved by her proximity. "I don't like this any better than you do. But when I moved into this office, I took an oath."

She backed away a step and folded her arms. "Can you come over to my loft later on tonight?"

"Why?"

"Because I think there's some things you need to see."

 

********************

 

The memorial service for Steven and Sam took place by the mirror pool. The still waters reflected the blue sky and pale, wraithlike clouds of early summer. The entire community had gathered to say their goodbyes, but Vincent and Catherine stood well back from the others, giving them priority.

Catherine was worried about Vincent. She knew he blamed himself for both deaths, and that the grief he felt was magnified by his deepening hatred of Gabriel. It was starting to frighten her, this darkness she sensed growing in his heart, but there was little she could do to help.

Father's low voice echoed through the cavern, drawing her attention back to the moment and to the overwhelming sadness of shared loss.

"As we remember Steven and Sam, we must remember more than our grief," Father said. "We must always remember their faces. The sound of their laughter. The joy they shared with us."

Catherine reached for Vincent's hand, wrapping her fingers around his and giving what little comfort she could. She wanted to offer more, wanted to lean her body more fully against him, but something about the stiff set of his shoulders told her that such an advance wouldn't be welcomed. The time had not yet come when he could share his grief, even with her.

"Sam lived a very full life," Father said, "but Steven was scarcely more than a child."

Brooke began to sob quietly, and Mary put her arms around the girl's shaking shoulders, drawing her close. But at Catherine's side, Vincent stood absolutely still, his shadowed eyes the only evidence of his feelings.

"They both died too soon, their lives cut short by a brutal intruder."

Vincent's fingers tightened almost painfully around Catherine's, and she looked over at him, but he was staring into the mirror pool, seemingly unaware of her presence.

"They were armed only with their courage. But they died as bravely as any soldier."

A young man, standing on the cusp of adulthood, and an old one, the panoply of life drifting behind him like the wake of a great ship—that men such as these should have met such brutal ends seemed profoundly unjust.

"We will always remember how much we love them," Father said. "And let us never forget how much they loved us."

As though by some silent signal, two people Catherine didn't know stepped forward, emerging from the group with simple clay urns cradled in their arms. Without speaking, they removed the tops of the urns and stepped to the water's edge. The air was cool, but there was no breeze to scatter the ashes that fell from the urns in twin streams, blackening the surface of the pool and blotting out the summer sky as Father concluded the service.

"Let these waters carry them to every part of our tunnels, and into every corner of our world. Steven . . ." Father's gaze settled first on one urn, and then on the other, and his voice trembled as he spoke a final, quiet benediction, "and Sam . . . will always be part of us."

Father dropped his head, his body seeming almost to shrink in upon itself with silent grief as the mourners filed out of the chamber, their shuffling footsteps a melancholy counterpoint to Brooke's sobs. But Vincent made no move to go, and Catherine waited, her eyes on the spreading stain of ash in the pool. She would stay with him until he was ready to leave.

"Brooke," Father said, touching her arm, "it's time to go."

"No!" She choked out the word, her voice thick with tears. "I won't leave him."

She stepped to the pool's edge, her eyes hardening with sudden purpose, but Father caught her arm and pulled her into a tight hug.

"They're gone, child."

For an instant, Brooke struggled against Father's hold, but then she buried her face in his shoulder and flung her arms around him in a desperate hug. Beside Catherine, Vincent watched without comment, his tightly controlled emotions and stiff posture giving no hint to his thoughts. Father looked up, and he and Vincent exchanged a single, pain-filled glance. Then Vincent turned, and without looking at Catherine, led her from the chamber.

They walked without speaking, but he didn't release her hand, and she knew he waged a fierce inner battle with the anger and grief that threatened to unleash that other part of him. The part that frightened him. The part that was more animal than man.

Her chamber was closest, and by tacit agreement, they went there. When they arrived, Catherine lit a candle by the bed and turned back to look at him.

"Talk to me, Vincent."

There was no response. He stood, still and silent, just inside the entry.

"Vincent—"

"My fault, Catherine." The words chilled the air and hovered accusingly in the shadows. "They died because of me." He dropped his gaze, his hands fisted so tightly that Catherine half expected to see blood dripping to the floor.

"No." She cupped his chin with her hand and forced him to look at her. "They died because Gabriel sent a murderer into the tunnels." Somehow she had to make him understand that the only people to blame for this tragedy were the man who'd pulled the trigger and the man who'd sent him.

"You can surround yourself— lose yourself—in if-onlies and what-ifs. But it won't change anything. Two dear friends have been taken from us forever, and that's sad, and tragic. But you can't blame yourself for it. If you do, it'll only destroy you, too."

He was silent for a long time, but he didn't move away from her. When he finally spoke, his voice was halting, and she had to lean close to hear him.

"I’m afraid," he said. "This . . . anger that grows inside of me. I fear it will consume me."

"I won't let that happen, Vincent. I'm here with you. Let me share my strength." She put her arms around his waist, held him tight, and reached out to him with her mind. It felt a little presumptuous, this conscious manipulation of a precious gift that was as magical as it was mysterious, but it was the only thing she could think to try, the only comfort she had left to offer.

For a moment, he didn't react. Then he shuddered, took in a great, trembling gulp of air, and dropped his head, holding her with near desperate strength as he gave in to the searing agony.

She'd seen him cry before, but never like this, never these horrible wracking sobs that overcame him now, and she pulled him closer, held him tighter, and wished with all her heart that she could take away his pain.

When at last he grew calm, she led him to the bed and pulled him down beside her. He was still weak from his encounter at the carousel and his subsequent battle with Gabriel's hired assassin, and the tidal wave of grief had taken his last remaining reserves. Which was probably why he didn't object when she urged him to lie down, didn't prevent her from removing his boots, or from lying down beside him, or from pulling up a blanket to cover them both. He just held her close, sighed, and closed his eyes.

He was asleep almost before the pillow settled beneath his head.

 

********************

 

Elliot paced the floor of his office. He'd long since taken off his jacket and loosened his tie. Now he had his hands on his hips as he spun back to face George Walker. He couldn't believe it had come to this, to utter and complete financial ruin.

"Tap into the Cayman Islands cash reserve," he said, trying to keep his desperation out of his voice.

Walker shook his head. "We used that cash to shore up the Battery project."

"Well then sell the damn site!"

"You can't sell it, Elliot. It's already been attached. Haven't you been listening to a thing I've said?"

Elliot fought down a wave of panic as he met Walker's gaze.

"It's over," George said quietly.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I'm going to recommend that we file for Chapter Eleven. Immediately."

Elliot stared at him, stunned and heartbroken. All his dreams, gone—turned to dust by an enemy he'd never even seen.

George looked away as he stood up. "Maybe I'll still be able to salvage something."

"He's done this." Elliot's voice was choked. He swallowed . "Gabriel—" He took a long breath, calming himself. "Okay. What we have to do is find him."

"Find him. We can't even prove that he exists!" George shook his head. "Elliot . . . you don't need an attorney. You need a shrink." Without another word, he picked up his briefcase and left the room.

Elliot sat down heavily. His dreams were gone. Cathy was gone. In a matter of weeks, he could find himself right back where he'd started all those years ago. He fought back tears as he slid open the top drawer of his desk and stared at his gun. Dropping his head back against the chair, he tried to decide, to choose. Slowly, he reached into the drawer. But instead of picking up the gun, he reached behind it to lift out the ring Vincent had given him.

When he looked up, Diana was watching him from the open doorway. She came in, closing the door behind her, and he dropped the ring on his desk as he stood up. This was exactly what he didn't need right now.

"What can I do for you?"

She folded her arms as she came to a stop in front of him. "You can start by telling me exactly what happened that night at the carousel."

"I don't know what you're talking about." No way was he going to turn Vincent over to the police. He could at least do that much for Cathy.

"I think you do. I think you saw everything that happened that night." Her eyes locked on his as she continued. "And I think you know who Vincent is."

He heard the exhaustion in his own voice when he answered her. "I'm afraid I can't help you. I'm sorry."

"You're a lousy liar, Mr. Burch."

He laughed bitterly. "You know, there are people who would say that I was a very good liar."

"Maybe at one time, but you're out of practice."

She had an honest look about her, and he almost felt like he could trust her, but he'd never been a man to give his trust easily—with one glaring exception. And she was gone forever.

"Why don't you talk to me?" she said. "Why don't you tell me what you're thinking and what you know? It's the only way you're going to save yourself."

Elliot turned back to his desk and picked up the ring. He rubbed it between his fingers. If he talked, there was still a chance he could save some small piece of his empire. Slipping the ring into his pocket, he leaned his hip against the desk and looked her straight in the eye as he hammered the final nail into his own coffin.

"I think it's time for you to go."

 

********************

 

When Vincent awoke, the rest of the community was asleep, and their solitude, in this peaceful haven far beneath the city, was complete. Beside him, Catherine slept on, her head pillowed on his arm and her body curled into his. His senses were filled with her soft weight and the light, clean scent of her hair and skin, and he wished he could preserve this moment—freeze it forever in translucent golden amber and store it in the leather pouch he carried next to his heart.

He knew that he should return to his own chamber, but he couldn't bring himself to leave her. The contentment he felt in her presence weighted his body and stole his will to move. And he was weary of the constant struggle against his desires, tired of denying himself the simple pleasures that other men took for granted. He and Catherine had loved before. They had a son. Did this not count for something? Must her faith in him, in the two of them together, be denied forever?

She made a small sound and rolled over, nestling close, seeking his warmth even in her sleep. The blanket tangled at her hips, and he reached for it, pulling it over her shoulders before putting his arm around her waist—holding her close, but not so close that he couldn't study her while she slept.

There was something ethereal about her, her face relaxed in sleep and lit only by the soft glow of a handful of candles. Entranced, he lowered his head to brush a kiss against her temple, a bare whisper of contact, meant to soothe rather than wake her. And yet, when he pulled back he found her watching him.

She touched his chest, her eyes soft with sleep as they sought his. "How are you feeling?"

"Better." He slid his hand up her back to the gentle dip between her shoulders and remembered a story he'd read as a child—a fanciful tale about how shoulder blades were the earthly remnants of angel wings. "Thank you."

Unbidden, a fragment of conversation came back to him, something he'd said to Father when Lena had first come to the tunnels. He'd wondered what it might be like to be someone else's possibility. At the time, he'd considered it a fantasy, an impossible wish granted only to normal men. But he'd been wrong. He was Catherine's possibility, and she was his. It was a breathtaking revelation—as if a small stone whose form he'd admired and which he'd carried in his pocket like a talisman had suddenly revealed itself to be a flawless diamond.

He wanted to tell her what he was feeling, but he didn't have the words. And he wanted to show her how much he loved her. But he still feared that other part of himself, the dark and violent part that might yet slip free of his control and hurt the one person in the world whom he loved above all others.

And so he lay there, frozen with indecision, until she took his hand in hers, brought it to her lips, and kissed his fingers—the way she had all those months ago when he'd first told her about Lisa. Then, without taking her eyes off of his, she pressed his palm against her chest so that the steady beat of her heart pulsed against his skin. She didn't say anything, but she didn't need to. He saw the message in her eyes. Felt it in their bond.

Yours.

He drew in an uneven breath as his body came to life, nerves and muscles quivering beneath clothing that felt suddenly too tight, too restrictive. She must've known what he was feeling, must've sensed the need that rose in him like a tide, but she remained perfectly still. Through sheer force of will, she was controlling her emotions, and yet he could sense them when he tried, could feel her rising desire locked behind a carefully constructed barrier. Even now, in this deep and intimate silence, she was trying to give him what she thought he needed. It was a struggle they shared, this fierce battle against the primal force that simultaneously drew them together and threatened to destroy them.

Awed by her courage, he slid his hand up to trace her collarbone, the curve of her shoulder, the graceful arch of her neck. She didn't flinch, not even when his nails grazed her throat and hovered over the delicate throb of her pulse.

"You are . . . so beautiful," he murmured, his breath stirring the hair at her temple.

She laced her fingers through his and tucked their joined hands beneath her chin, and when she looked at him, her eyes were bright. "I love you."

He gazed at her mouth as she spoke, at the subtle shadings of color—from deepest pink to palest peach—that formed the boundaries of her lips. Fascinated, he untangled his hand from hers and traced a path along that line, staring at the contrast of her skin against his. How could it be that something so fragile, so captivatingly beautiful, could withstand the brutal hazards of his clawed hands?

She lay still beneath his touch, but he felt her eyes on him, sensed her pleasure in her deeply indrawn breath, and in the way her mouth gave easily beneath the light pressure of his touch. Her tongue flicked once, and then again, at the sensitive tip of his finger—a silent invitation, one that was at once unconscious and utterly provocative.

Unable, and unwilling, to deny her slightest wish, he slid his fingers into her hair and bent to kiss her. He meant it to be brief, a tender testament to her beauty, but he had trouble ending it, and when he finally dragged himself away, she whispered a protest and reached up to tangle her fingers in his hair. The thick mass spilled forward onto her face, and he started to move back, but she stopped him, pulling him closer instead, until his mouth settled on hers once more and she hummed with pleasure, and he knew he would do anything, anything at all, if only she would make that sound again.

Her lips parted beneath his, beckoning him closer, and he leaned in, careful to keep the bulk of his weight off her slight frame. There were so many textures to explore—the smooth surfaces of her teeth, the soft inner lining of her lips, and the slow, erotic slide of her tongue against his—that he knew he would never tire of kissing her. But when she probed the edges of his lips with her tongue, he hesitated, fearing her reaction to his strangeness—only her hands were still buried in his hair, and she held him still, and in a moment he forgot his uneasiness as new sensations assailed him and he knew that here, too, she accepted him completely.

The realization touched off explosive desire, and a low growl rumbled through his chest as he bracketed her head with his arms and took control of the kiss, tangling his tongue with hers. She was his. Always. The soft curves, the sweet lips, the silken hair . . . his. He rained kisses across her face, along her jaw, down the arch of her neck and into the hollow of her throat. He paused there, nuzzling. Tasting. Drinking in her scent. And she clutched at his shoulders and pulled him closer, her body rising against his in a silent, ageless demand.

In another instant he was poised above her, her arms pinned above her head, her hair scattered across the pillow in wild disarray. She looked up at him with eyes that begged for more even as his hips pressed hers deep into the mattress.

And all at once he realized how close he was to losing control.

He rolled away, his heart pounding, his chest tight as he struggled to bring in enough of the chilled tunnel air to cool the need that threatened to overwhelm him. But when he looked at Catherine his eyes were drawn to the moist fullness of her lips and he wondered where he'd ever gotten the idea that he could protect her from this.

"Vincent?" The passion-clouded tones almost made him reach out for her again. "What is it?"

"Catherine . . ." He didn't dare meet her eyes, certain that if he did he would be lost. The words he needed to say stuck in his throat. He swallowed and forced them past reluctant lips. "The way may yet be dangerous. Are you certain?"

She cupped his chin in her hand and waited until he looked at her. "I've never been more certain of anything in all my life," she said, and there was a huskiness to her voice that stirred something deep inside him. "All that I am, all that I have, is yours."

A distant voice echoed through his mind, demanding that he accept what she was offering. Devour it. Make it part of him—and in so doing, claim her as his forever. And yet he must not frighten her, must not to allow the Other to seize control. Did he have the strength to love her safely? Did he have the courage to try? And if he turned away from her now, what would happen to them?

Still she held back, protecting him from the intensity of her emotions, so that though he could see her desire in her eyes and feel it in the way her hand trembled against his skin, the bond was almost silent. The decision was his—to retreat to the safety of distance, or to risk everything on their dream.

His pulse was calmer now, though the heat of passion still warmed his blood, and he looked into her eyes and knew, somehow, that it would be all right. He couldn't have said why he was suddenly so certain, he only knew that he had to trust her faith in him, had to believe in possibilities, if only because to do otherwise would ultimately destroy them both.

Slowly, without dropping his gaze from hers, he lowered his hand to the curve of her ribs, tracing each one through her sweater. The fabric was soft, with little nubs of yarn that tickled his palm, but the bones beneath were firm. As he explored, he kept his eyes on hers, searching for any sign of doubt in her response, but he encountered only her rising excitement. It was there in the sudden hitch in her breathing, the growing intensity in her eyes, the tightening of her fingers against his shoulders. And when at last his thumb brushed against her breast, she gasped, her body arching toward his.

He marveled at the warmth of her response even as he regretted his inexperience. There was so much he didn't know, so much he had to learn about how to give a woman pleasure. How to give Catherine pleasure. And yet he knew she enjoyed what he was doing, that rather than repulsing her, his intimate touch seemed only to heighten her desire.

When he hesitated, uncertain how to proceed, she reached for his hand, folding it so that he cupped her breast in his palm, and for a moment, he forgot to breathe. She felt magical, like nothing else he'd ever touched, and she must have sensed his stunned amazement, because when he looked up, she was smiling gently at him.

She tugged at the edge of his tunic, and he sat up long enough to free himself of sweater, tunic, and vest—items designed not only to protect him, but to spare the community the strangeness of his form. Setting the clothing aside, he turned back to her, alert for any hint of unease. But there was none. Instead he sensed only pleasure as she put her hands on his shoulders and slid them down his chest. The light touch of her fingers against his skin, with no fabric barrier to muffle their effect, made him gasp, and her eyes flew to his as she drew back.

"Too much?" she asked.

"No." His voice was hoarse. Ragged. "Please . . ."

She touched his shoulder, and he lay back against the pillows, putting his arm around her as she leaned over him and traced delicate patterns against his skin.

"I always wondered," she said, "what you looked like." She smiled a little, though he couldn't tell if she was amused by him or by her thoughts. "I used to think it must be pretty awful for you to be so careful all the time." Her hand came to rest against his stomach and she looked up. "But you're beautiful."

Her gaze was clear and direct, and he knew she truly meant what she was saying, and somehow, hearing it from her, he could almost believe it himself.

"Thank you," he whispered.

She lifted her head to give him a puzzled look. "For what?"

"For believing in me."

He cupped the back of her head with his hand and pulled her close, and she settled easily against him, laying her head on his chest and wrapping her arm around his waist. He stroked her hair while her breath whispered through the thick fur on his chest, and for a while, it was enough. But soon a restlessness grew inside him. He was no longer satisfied just to have her close. He wanted to feel her skin against his, and slowly, he eased his hand under the hem of her sweater.

The small sound she made startled him, and he drew back, afraid that he had offended her in some way. But she merely lifted her head and brushed a series of nuzzling kisses across his chest.

"Please." She stroked her hand down his side and across his stomach, lingering just above the button closure of his pants. "Don't stop."

Her touch sent a shiver of awareness along his spine, encouraging him to try again, and this time when she caught her breath he understood that she was only giving voice to her pleasure. Their pleasure.

"It feels—"

"—like a miracle." He finished for her.

She nodded against him. "Exactly like a miracle."

He brought his other hand up beside the first, so that he held her close, his palms flat against her back, fingers splayed across her skin and running up against the delicate edges of her spine. Catherine lifted her head to press tiny, nibbling kisses across the hollow of his throat, the juncture of his shoulder, and along the line of his jaw, and he held her against him, his hands pressing against the tender skin of her back while he sank into the exquisite pleasure of her touch and wondered where he would ever again find the strength to be apart from her.

She stretched up, reaching for his kiss, and he shifted her to a more comfortable position against his chest and slid his hands into her hair. He whispered her name against her lips, the syllables like warm honey on his tongue—sweet, rich, dark, and utterly bewitching as he took her mouth with his. His thumbs brushed against the petal-soft skin of her cheeks while the kiss went on and on until the intensity of it all nearly overwhelmed them and they separated, breathing hard. And even then he held her body tight against his, his eyes locked on hers.

He saw her love for him in the luminous depths, as well as her desire, and his body responded, calling out for completion. He pulled her back down, her weight barely noticeable, his lips meeting hers once more as he slid his hands under the edge of her sweater and massaged the delicate skin of her lower back. But even this was no longer enough. He wanted more, so much more, and he moved his hands up and around, stroking her through the thin cotton bra, pressing his fingers into the soft outer contours of her breasts.

"Vincent." She choked out his name, pulling away from his kiss, her back arching, hips pressing urgently against him so that he could barely restrain the growl that rose in his throat. There was something desperate in the way she looked at him—the way her fingers tangled in his hair, and the way her chest rose and fell with the frantic beating of her heart. "I need you."

"I know," he said, and he almost didn't recognize his own voice, so thick was it with desire. He must have her, must make her his. There was no other path for them now.

He cradled her face in his hands. "We will go together," he said, "with courage—"

"—and with care," she finished. Her eyes held his in the dancing shadows.

He nodded and pulled her in for another kiss, a final tender reminder of his love before the maelstrom he feared was coming. "Whatever happens," he said, "know that I love you."

He was still worried, but Catherine only smiled and relaxed her fierce grip on her emotions, and for a moment, it was all he could do just to breathe. And then there was no stopping, no turning back, no hesitation. There was only the urgent driving demand of their love.

Reaching for the hem of her sweater, he pulled it up and over her head, leaving only the simple cotton bra protecting her from his gaze. She reached behind her back, and an instant later that too fell away. She pulled it off and shoved it aside, and then she was kissing him again, her breasts pressed against his chest, her skin like warm silk beneath his hands.

He wrapped his arms around her and rolled, bringing her under his body and supporting himself above her as the kiss went on and on and their hands danced across each other's skin in a desperate quest for ever greater intimacy. Power surged through him. And desire. And passion so strong, so overwhelming, that he growled low in his throat. It was a predatory sound, a mating call, and she responded to it with a soft moan of her own as she pulled at his shoulders and pushed her hips against his.

They couldn't get close enough, and he felt rather than heard her murmur of impatience as she tugged at his clothes. He slipped away, and it seemed as though it took forever to free himself, but then he was back to help her with her skirt, and finally there were no more barriers between them, and he was dimly aware that he should stop, should wait, should give her one last chance to change her mind, only he couldn't stop, not now. It was far too late.

The quiet sound she made at the back of her throat called to him, and his nostrils flared with the heady scent of their shared passion, and she moved, opening to him, her hands pulling at his back and her eyes begging him for something he couldn't name. And then instinct took over and he knew only that he had to have her, had to feel what it was to be part of her. His body acted seemingly of its own accord, and he flung his head back and fought a sudden desperate need to roar his triumph when finally, blissfully, their bodies melded into a union so perfect, so incredible, that he froze, staring down at her in awed disbelief.

Her smile was bright, her gaze both tender and heated, as she lifted her hips and pulled him closer, her fingertips like individual points of fire against his sensitized skin, her body warm and soft and welcoming beneath his.

"Don't stop." Her voice was little more than a whisper, a desperate plea. "Please."

The words drifted past him to fade into the shadows, and he answered their call, moving, shifting, responding to the rising demand of a need too long denied.

And then, without warning, the Other was there.

Wild-eyed, with slavering fangs and lewd grin, the Other advanced on Catherine, cruel intent in its menacing gaze. No. This would not happen. Could not happen. Vincent snarled, a dangerous rumble that was both possessive and challenging, but the creature only leered and licked its lips as it stretched hooked claws toward the fragile rise of Catherine's breast, intent upon domination, upon possession.

"Vincent." Catherine's voice, low and urgent, reached out to him through the thick haze of confusion and anger. "You have to trust me. Believe in me. In us." She touched his face, bringing his gaze back to hers, holding him there as her faith rose toward him, radiant and true. Thwarted, the Other reared back in blind pain. It thrived on darkness and shadows, its soul nourished by nightmares. With no recourse against the shimmering tapestry of emotion that bound Vincent and Catherine so tightly together, it vanished, leaving behind only the faint echo of its frustrated howl.

After that, Vincent lost all sense of time and place, but it didn't matter because she held him in her arms, surrounding him with her love, her trust, as months of desire and self-denial coalesced in a fierce, driving rush to fulfillment. She gave him everything, answered his every demand with her own passion, her own hunger. And then, almost too late, he sensed the approach of a vast cataclysm.

For an instant, a single heartbeat, he hesitated. But she caught him, her small hands fierce at his waist, refusing to let him go, bringing him with her as they fell into a shattering release that washed away all his doubts, all his insecurities, so that it seemed to Vincent almost as though their separate souls merged into a single luminous being, complete and whole in ways neither had ever been before.

It was a long time before he became aware of himself again and found that he'd twisted away from her as he'd collapsed, so that now he lay beside her. He gathered her into his arms, tucking her in close against his warmth, and pulled a blanket up to protect her from the cool tunnel air that was already drying the sweat on their skin and raising tiny goosebumps along her arms. She was drowsy, her body utterly relaxed in his arms, and he sensed in their bond a deep, abiding peace.

She said something, but she was already half-asleep, and the words blurred together in a quiet ripple of sound that made him smile against her hair.

"Rest now," he whispered, and his heart soared with the knowledge that she had been right. Their future, no longer constrained by his fears, seemed suddenly filled with possibilities. "And know, always, that I love you."