Ice Storm (Ice 4)

And now she was lying in his arms, entwined with him, her body aching, her soul hurting, her heart ready to explode. They’d had rough sex, kinky sex, silly sex, deliciously nasty sex. And then, God help her, they’d made love.

He’d moved deep inside her body, his eyes looking into hers, his hands cradling her face with devastating gentleness, and he’d been motionless as he came inside her. And then he’d said, “I love you.”

The monster, the butcher, the man who’d put a bullet in the head of a pregnant fifteen-year-old, who worked for terrorists and sadists and genocidal maniacs, had told her he loved her.

And even more horrifying was the undeniable fact that she loved him, and always had. Even when she’d thought she’d killed him. Even if she had to kill him again, she loved him.

And there was no way she could live with that sick, awful knowledge.

She could run. She, who never ran, never faltered, never shirked her duty. She could slip out of his sleeping arms, pull on her clothes and leave this place. Just vanish, into the night air.

She could do it—she had the skills. Peter wouldn’t find her. He’d certainly be able to, but he wouldn’t do so. He’d let her go, because he’d know that she wouldn’t run unless she absolutely had to.

And he could take over the Committee in her place. He was better at keeping Harry Thomason’s delusions at bay, and he knew everything she knew. She still had to fight her emotions, the feelings breaking through her icy calm. Peter had made peace with that long ago. He had no emotions, except when it came to Genevieve. He could take care of business with icy composure, find out who and what was behind this latest string of disasters, and make sure whoever they were were stopped. He could see that Killian was set up in the style he was demanding. And meanwhile Isobel would be gone. Where no one, not even Killian, could find her.

It was almost as if he were hearing her thoughts in his deep, exhausted sleep, because he stirred, his grip tightening, and muttered a soft grunt of protest under his breath. As if he knew she was going to run.

He’d try to stop her, of course. He was good enough to get away with it. Almost.

But in the end he’d let her go. Because he didn’t want to love her any more than she wanted him to.

Their lives were ones to be lived alone. Solitary, empty. No room for other people.

The room smelled of sex, creating a thick, drugging atmosphere, and her body hurt. She slid out of his arms, carefully enough that he didn’t waken, and made her way to the small, rusty shower, closing the door and turning on the water full blast. They hadn’t been able to upgrade the plumbing, not without involving outsiders, and as she’d told Peter with macabre humor, they’d then have to kill them. But the water was hot and plentiful, and she let it stream down over her as she cried.

And then Killian was there with her, crammed into the metal cubicle, holding her, pressing her head against his shoulder as she wept, her face against the place where she’d shot him.

She thought they’d have sex again, and she wouldn’t have argued, though her legs were so weak she could barely stand. But he only held her, taking the cloth and washing her body with a slow, exquisite tenderness that had nothing to do with sex.

He kissed her gently, brushing the water and tears from her face. “It’ll be all right,” he whispered, meaningless words of comfort.

She didn’t believe him. It didn’t matter. Taking comfort from him was even worse than loving him, and after a moment she made herself push away from him, step out of the shower and grab a towel.

She expected him to follow. She expected him to take her back to that bed, and she would have gone.

But he didn’t. He stayed in the shower, and through the glass door she could see him leaning against the wall, the water beating down on him, his eyes closed. He looked…defeated. Just as she felt.

There was fresh underwear in the closet. Her clothes were still on the living room floor, and she didn’t want to put them on. Not the tailored trousers, not the cashmere sweater, not the leather heels. She didn’t have any choice. She dressed quickly, twisting her wet hair up into a tight bun at the back of her head. There was a mirror, and she didn’t want to look. But pride made her.

No one would think she was ageless. She looked exactly like what she was: young and stupid again. In love with a monster.

She heard the signal from the hidden doorway, and she snapped to attention, pulling the mask of Isobel Lambert back over Mary Curwen’s lost face.

By the time Peter made it into the room, there was no sign that poor girl had ever existed.

“Sorry,” he said. “Were you awake?”

He had blood on his clothing. “What happened?”

“They took Mahmoud.”

“Who did?” Her last moment of weakness vanished, replaced by an icy rage. “Did they kill him? Whose blood is that on your clothes?”

“As far as I know, Mahmoud’s still in one piece. They’re holding him for ransom. In excha

nge for Serafin, in fact. And it’s Reno’s blood.”

She could feel the ice spreading through her veins, stinging, numbing. “Did they kill him?”