Excerpt:
Tiny pokers stabbed
my eyes.
Another body,
warm and hard, spooned against my backside.
Ian always felt
so good, comforting and real.
His hand wrapped
around my waist, cupping the underside of my breast. A cool sheet slid off my
bare shoulder.
I was naked and
in bed. A snippet of memory interrupted my appreciation of my husband’s hand.
Wasn’t I running
from something . . .?
Fingers trailed
along my spine, heading south. The touch was wrong, unfamiliar and rough.
Hold on. That
wasn’t Ian. I shouldn’t feel the warmth of sun against my skin either. We lived
on Mars, where it was colder than a witch’s tit.
If not Ian, then
who was touching my inner thigh?
My eyelids
snapped open like a shade on a spring. Bolting upright, I bared my fangs and
grabbed the man’s wrist.
Oh, holy hell. I
was in bed with another man. I rolled away and slammed into a different body.
Shit, make that two other men. Two eye-poppingly gorgeous men.
Hey, I might be
dead, but I’m not dead dead.
“Mistress? Have
I displeased you?” said the man whose wrist I was about to shatter. Stunning
blue-gray eyes. Dark stubble lined his chiseled jawline. His dark hair was
mussed and complimented his swarthy skin tone. Dried blood smeared his neck. A
red trail led to puncture marks.
The other man’s
brown muscled chest rose and fell in rhythmic sleep. His body was fully exposed
on the white sheet. Puncture marks lined his neck, his groin and his very erect
penis.
My cheeks heated
like a furnace. Clearly, we’d had a good time.
“No. Leave me.
Both of you go to your rooms.” I dropped his wrist. The man woke his drowsing
companion, and they left as I’d commanded.
Damn. I wished I
could get the other men in my life to be so compliant.
Other men? There
were other people important to me. Why couldn’t I remember them?
I’d kill Jonathan
if he was messing with my mind again.
But yet... that
idea didn’t feel right.
Somewhere in a
dead corner of my memory, this moment seemed familiar. Jonathan, sensing my
unhappiness with our “arrangement,” had spent the early years of our relationship
attempting to please me.
This must have
been my slut phase, where we’d bring home gorgeous men and I would feast and
fuck while he watched. I enjoyed knowing it bothered him that I wouldn’t sleep
with him. Only the mortals that we found in gaming dens, brothels, even at
society events. The only other thing I would take from Jonathan besides his
money was his blood, and only out of necessity.
Fucking hell.
Ian’s go-to phrase—I remembered him now—helped resurface the reason why I was
reliving this not-so-proud moment in my past.
The plague. The
Lost Ship. The time stream. My daughter.
Oh, dear God. I
hoped she was safe.
“Good morning,
my pet.” Jonathan read a page of the morning newspaper while sipping tea from a
dainty cup. He sat on the balcony situated outside my bedroom. From his vantage
point, he could view the bed and my doings in Technicolor glory.
My heart lurched
at the sight of his arrogant beauty. I had forgotten how full of life he’d
been, especially in this time period. And, oh, how handsome he was. His raven
hair glossy with blue highlights sparkled in the early morning sunshine. The
strong line of his jaw and perfect Roman nose coupled with full lips made it
hard not to stare at him. He hadn’t yet acquired the weariness that having a
Family would place on him.
In later years,
after much bitterness between us, I no longer saw him anymore. The beauty was
tarnished, and we became as passionate as two coworkers passing the time until
their shift ended. He had become someone I had to endure rather than enjoy. Not
that I ever really “enjoyed” him because of the circumstances surrounding our
sham marriage.
The horrid image
of his death, when he’d knelt, offering Thalia his head, shattered the peaceful
moment. With a plaintive look, he commanded that I accept his fate and mine. We
both knew that Thalia, the dead queen’s heir apparent, was a vindictive bitch.
She blamed me for her mother’s death and Jonathan refused to bow down to her.
So, he did what he always did. He protected his Family by sacrificing himself
so we could escape. In his last moments, regret had filled his eyes. The wish
that we could have been different together had been silenced forever.
Seeing Jonathan
again and remembering was worse than reopening a wound and rubbing salt in it
with a lemon juice chaser. If only I could apologize to him for how awful I’d
been. I hadn’t been blameless in wrecking our relationship. I could have tried
harder to accept my fate instead of punishing him at every turn.
The temptation
to blurt out the truth bubbled inside, until I had to force myself to look away
from him. Would this Jonathan be willing to help me? Or would he use my current
predicament to his advantage?
No. I couldn’t,
wouldn’t chance it. Not with the entire colony’s lives hanging in the balance.
Would’ve,
Could’ve, Should’ve. Sew it on a patch and you’d have my life’s motto.
Yup. Regrets
sucked.
Jonathan placed
the teacup down and smiled. “Did you enjoy yourself? You seemed a bit surprised
when you awoke.”
Surprise didn’t
cover how I felt. That word was too puny, too inadequate. After a few seconds,
I found my voice again.
“Yes, we had a
good time. Thank you.” It sure looked that way.
He acted like
finding his wife in bed with other men was no big deal. It wasn’t like I would
keep them. To him they were more like pets or meals with legs.
But now, with a
century of wisdom tucked under my belt, instead of relishing in his annoyance,
I realized something. He was sad. With himself or me, I wasn’t sure. And it
didn’t matter. I had a mission to accomplish. A future to save.
Chrysalis by Angie Martin
