Fire Bound (Sea Haven/Sisters of the Heart 5)

"Not yet, malyshka."

She took a breath. She was so close. So very close. She hadn't thought it was possible, not going so slow. Not with her doing all the work. She hadn't even recognized that she was coiling so tight, the pressure building, the fire burning so hot. She was so busy working him, wanting this moment for him, that she hadn't even seen that she was so close.

"I don't want it over. Not yet."

She breathed deeply. For him. Stopping herself. For him. She didn't want to end this moment either. She was in his arms - safe. She'd always be safe with him.

"I love you, Giacinta Prakenskii. So much. You're my life. My everything. There's no more danger for you. No more putting yourself in harm's way. I can't ever do that again. Those hours without knowing..." His body shuddered against hers. His hand slid down to her bottom, fingers digging deep as he urged her body into a deeper, faster rhythm.

Fire streaked through her. She actually felt the stark terror unfolding in him for her. She thought it was the worst, those hours under the desk while overhead the roof creaked and spread more debris. On the floor were the dead men, crushed beneath the heavy fall of cement, rock and dirt. His terror was worse. She knew that. He'd been safe. He hadn't known what happened to her.

"Say it," he demanded, his other hand sliding down the curve of her back to her hip. "Say you're finished."

"Anything for you, honey," she whispered.

"Anything?" His hips bucked up hard into her.

The fire turned scorching. Her breath left her lungs in a rush. "The world."

"Babies?"

"Anything. All of it."

"Now, malyshka, with me now."

She fragmented. Shattered into a million pieces. He was there. Casimir. To catch her. To keep her safe. To put all those pieces back together. He was there. She laid her head against him, gasping for breath while her body rocked around his, gripped his like a vise, a velvet, silken glove, squeezing and milking so that he was right there with her. She would have collapsed, but his arms held her tight against him. They held each other for a long time.

"I wanted you to feel loved," she whispered.

"I feel loved," he answered. "I want to go home. I've never had a home, and that farm of yours feels like the real thing."

"It is the real thing. And it's ours. We're married." She lifted her head and frowned up at him, suspicion in her eyes. "You don't have a really weird chair or something ugly you're going to want to put in our front room, do you?"

He laughed and she felt his laughter vibrate right through his body to hers. She wanted to hear his laughter until the day she died. "I love you," she whispered again. Meaning it. She had that now. Her own family. Her sisters. His brothers. Casimir Prakenskii. Her husband.

SHADOW RIDER

Keep reading for an excerpt from the first book

in the new Shadow series by Christine Feehan

Shadow Rider

Coming in 2016 from Piatkus

Stefano Ferraro pulled on soft leather driving gloves, his dark blue eyes taking a long, slow scan around the neighborhood. His neighborhood. His family knew everything that happened there. It was a good place to live, the people loyal. A close-knit community. It was safe because his family kept it safe. Women could walk the streets alone at night. Children could play outside without their parents fearing for them.

He knew every shop owner, every homeowner by name. The Ferraro family territory started just on the edge of Little Italy. He knew every inch of Little Italy as well, and those residing and working there knew him and his family. Crime stopped at the edge of the Ferraro territory. That invisible line was known by even the most hardened of criminals, and no one dared to cross it because retaliation was always swift and brutal.

He glanced at his watch, knowing he didn't have a lot of time. The jet was fueled and waiting for his arrival. He needed to get into his car and get the hell to the airport, but something held him there. Whatever it was, the feeling he had was disturbing. The compulsion to stay was strong, and anytime that happened, every Ferraro knew there was trouble coming. He carefully and very quietly shut the door to his Maserati, rounding the hood and then retreating to the sidewalk.

Urgency was always about work, and nothing ever interfered with the Ferraro family business. Nothing. He played hard when he played, but work was important and dangerous, and he kept his head in the game when it was time to get down to business. He needed to get his ass moving, but he still couldn't force himself, in spite of all the years of discipline, to get into his car and get to the airport. The compulsion in him was strong, not to be ignored, and he had no choice but to give in to it.

A voice drifted to him above the normal sounds of the street. Elusive. Mysterious. Musical. He turned his head as two women rounded the corner just at the very edge of his territory and began walking deeper into it. He recognized Joanna Masci immediately. Her uncle, Pietro Masci, was a longtime resident in Ferraro territory, born and raised there. He owned the local deli shop, a very popular place for residents to buy their produce and meats. Pietro had taken Joanna in when his brother died years earlier. A good man, everyone in the neighborhood liked Pietro and respected him.

It wasn't Joanna who caught his interest. The woman walking beside her was dressed totally inappropriately for the weather. No coat. No sweater. There were rips in her blue jeans, although the jeans clung lovingly to her body. And she had a figure. She wasn't thin like most girls preferred; she actually had curves. Her hair was wild. Thick. Very shiny. She wore part of it pulled back from her face in an intricate, thick braid, but the rest tumbled down her back in waves. The color was rich. Vibrant. A true black. He couldn't see her eyes from that distance, but she was shivering in the cold Chicago weather, and for some reason he had an entirely primal reaction to her constant shivering. His gut knotted and a slow burn of rage began in his belly.

It wasn't her looks that caught his interest or made him stand utterly still. It was her shadow. The sun was throwing light perfectly to create tall, full shadows. Hers leaked long tentacles. Thin. Like streaks reaching out toward the shadows around her. Everywhere there was a shadow, hers connected to it with the long feelers - with long tubes. His breath hitched. His lungs seized.

She was the last thing he ever expected to happen because, frankly, a woman like her was so rare. He didn't know how to feel about it, but suddenly there was nothing else more important, not even Ferraro family business.

He had his cell phone out and punched in numbers without taking his gaze off of her. "Franco, I'm going to need to take the helicopter this morning. I have business to attend to before I can leave. Half an hour. Yeah. I'll meet you." He ended the call, still watching the two women and the strange shadow the stranger cast as he punched in another number. "Henry, I'm not going to use the car after all. Please return it to the garage for me." The Ferraro family had a temperature-controlled garage with a fleet of various cars and motorcycles. They all liked them fast. Henry took care of all vehicles and kept them in top running order.

Stefano snapped the phone shut and stepped off the sidewalk to cross the street. He held up his hand imperiously and of course the cars stopped for him. Everything stopped for him when he demanded it.

Francesca Capello prayed she wouldn't pass out as she walked with Joanna toward the deli. She'd never felt so weak in her life. She was hungry. She'd made tomato soup using ketchup and water, but that was all she'd had to eat for the last two days. If she didn't get this job, she was going to have to do something desperate, like ask the homeless woman she'd given her coat to where the nearest soup kitchen was.

Maybe it hadn't been such a great idea to give the woman her coat. Her clothes weren't the best for a job interview, but they were all she had. She needed the job and she definitely wasn't looking very professional in her faded but very soft vintage blue jeans - a perfect fit, which was rare for her to find in the thrift stores. There were holes in the knees and one small one on her upper thigh, but some

of the designer jeans featured rips. The tears in her jeans just happened to be from real wear.

"Wow, the deli's packed," Joanna observed as they stopped in front of a glass door. She yanked it open and ushered Francesca inside.

Francesca thought she might faint from all the smells of food. Her stomach growled and she pushed on it with one hand, hoping to quiet it. People were three deep at the counter and every small table throughout the room was filled.

"Popular place," she observed, because she had to say something. She'd let Joanna do most of the talking because, well, she couldn't talk. She wasn't bursting into tears in front of her friend. Not after all Joanna had done for her.