Read Online Gates of Rapture (The Guardians of Ascension) by Caris Roane - Free Book Online
Authors: Caris Roane
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mist. Had she sensed how tense he was? Or did she just know intuitively that he would worry?
She added, I just let Marguerite and Fiona know that I’m back.
We should talk.
I know. There’s a lot of ground to cover. I’m going to swim in the hot spring at the rise above your cabin. Come to me when you’re ready.
For a moment, he grew so still he wasn’t sure he was even breathing. One of the reasons he had built the cabin in this location was because of the spring. He’d carved out a small bathing area, enough for him to relax in if not to swim laps. He often soaked there trying to forget his misdeeds, God help him.
But Grace was there now.
Naked.
Leto?
Yes?
Are you all right ?
Was he all right? Dammit, he could barely breathe or think. The breh-hedden had done this to him, rendered him insensible.
I’m fine.
I’ll wait for you here.
Good. Good. He nodded, even though she couldn’t see him. He felt that she was no longer there, no longer connected telepathically. It was something that he could communicate with her at a distance, but then he was a vampire of power and she was the blue variety of obsidian flame.
His heart sank. What the hell was he supposed to do with all of this?
He lifted his arm, an unconscious gesture, and folded straight to his bathroom two stories up. The cabin had two floors and a basement. The upper floor consisted of a small study, a large bathroom, and a bedroom. He was a big man and he needed room.
Sometimes at night he would pace the length of the upper floor, from window to window, a distance of fifty feet. The bedroom had a fireplace. When he wasn’t pacing, he sat in the nearby large leather chair and stared at the burning logs, at the flames rising, at the latent power of the wood being released in the form of heat.
He tried to spend part of each day chopping wood just to rid himself of some of the deep, unrelenting tension he felt.
With a thought, he turned on the shower. He looked into the mirror. Christ, he had Grace’s blood spread over his lower face, his neck, his chest.
He feared going lower, examining more of his body, afraid of what he’d find.
But he had to know.
He glanced at his cock then drew in a deep shuddering breath. Oh, thank God. He had feared he would find blood, that in his beast-like state he would have hurt her, that he would have made her bleed. But he hadn’t, thank you, Creator.
He turned and moved into the shower, the broad circular head slamming pinpricks of water against his hair and scalp. It felt so good. He wanted to get clean, to be cleansed of all that worried him, troubled him, and guilted him up. He took his time, using a loofah and shower gel. In his ritualistic way, he began at his forehead and scrubbed carefully down his body, one limb at a time, until even his toes were burnished.
He washed his long hair and used a healthy amount of crème rinse after, the only thing that kept his mass of hair in order. He had once told Greaves that his long hair would be a constant reminder to Endelle that Greaves had succeeded in turning a Warrior of the Blood to his cause.
The truth, however, had been very different. His warrior hair was the one thing he had held to symbolically as a hope that he would return to serve Endelle as he had served all the millennia of his life, as a dedicated warrior. Toweling off, he took a shortcut with his hair and modified his hand-blast to dry it out. Sometimes preternatural power could have an in-a-pinch application. Within a minute his hair was dry, if a little bit singed.
He wrapped a towel around his waist and headed downstairs. He grabbed a beer. Before he went to the hot spring, he needed to gather his thoughts. Mostly, he wondered who the hell he was.
His tribe had come from Eastern Europe. Though his name sounded Greek or even Italian, the root was farther north. At one time, he was called Leotrim d’Istra. Other versions existed as well.
Now he was Leto Distra.
Names morphed, but the old
She added, I just let Marguerite and Fiona know that I’m back.
We should talk.
I know. There’s a lot of ground to cover. I’m going to swim in the hot spring at the rise above your cabin. Come to me when you’re ready.
For a moment, he grew so still he wasn’t sure he was even breathing. One of the reasons he had built the cabin in this location was because of the spring. He’d carved out a small bathing area, enough for him to relax in if not to swim laps. He often soaked there trying to forget his misdeeds, God help him.
But Grace was there now.
Naked.
Leto?
Yes?
Are you all right ?
Was he all right? Dammit, he could barely breathe or think. The breh-hedden had done this to him, rendered him insensible.
I’m fine.
I’ll wait for you here.
Good. Good. He nodded, even though she couldn’t see him. He felt that she was no longer there, no longer connected telepathically. It was something that he could communicate with her at a distance, but then he was a vampire of power and she was the blue variety of obsidian flame.
His heart sank. What the hell was he supposed to do with all of this?
He lifted his arm, an unconscious gesture, and folded straight to his bathroom two stories up. The cabin had two floors and a basement. The upper floor consisted of a small study, a large bathroom, and a bedroom. He was a big man and he needed room.
Sometimes at night he would pace the length of the upper floor, from window to window, a distance of fifty feet. The bedroom had a fireplace. When he wasn’t pacing, he sat in the nearby large leather chair and stared at the burning logs, at the flames rising, at the latent power of the wood being released in the form of heat.
He tried to spend part of each day chopping wood just to rid himself of some of the deep, unrelenting tension he felt.
With a thought, he turned on the shower. He looked into the mirror. Christ, he had Grace’s blood spread over his lower face, his neck, his chest.
He feared going lower, examining more of his body, afraid of what he’d find.
But he had to know.
He glanced at his cock then drew in a deep shuddering breath. Oh, thank God. He had feared he would find blood, that in his beast-like state he would have hurt her, that he would have made her bleed. But he hadn’t, thank you, Creator.
He turned and moved into the shower, the broad circular head slamming pinpricks of water against his hair and scalp. It felt so good. He wanted to get clean, to be cleansed of all that worried him, troubled him, and guilted him up. He took his time, using a loofah and shower gel. In his ritualistic way, he began at his forehead and scrubbed carefully down his body, one limb at a time, until even his toes were burnished.
He washed his long hair and used a healthy amount of crème rinse after, the only thing that kept his mass of hair in order. He had once told Greaves that his long hair would be a constant reminder to Endelle that Greaves had succeeded in turning a Warrior of the Blood to his cause.
The truth, however, had been very different. His warrior hair was the one thing he had held to symbolically as a hope that he would return to serve Endelle as he had served all the millennia of his life, as a dedicated warrior. Toweling off, he took a shortcut with his hair and modified his hand-blast to dry it out. Sometimes preternatural power could have an in-a-pinch application. Within a minute his hair was dry, if a little bit singed.
He wrapped a towel around his waist and headed downstairs. He grabbed a beer. Before he went to the hot spring, he needed to gather his thoughts. Mostly, he wondered who the hell he was.
His tribe had come from Eastern Europe. Though his name sounded Greek or even Italian, the root was farther north. At one time, he was called Leotrim d’Istra. Other versions existed as well.
Now he was Leto Distra.
Names morphed, but the old
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