Yes, Bree was beautiful with her soft hair waving around her face, like the painting of an angel.
Not the Christmas-card type, but the angels from his day, with swords and arrows and smiles that woke the sun and broke armies of war-proud kings. That kind of sweetness remade worlds.
And destroyed vampires like him. Innocents invited tragedy because, well, beasts would be beasts and angels would ultimately suffer. Mark tried to freeze his heart as he strode forward, but the bitter lesson of his memories melted like cobwebs in the wind. Hunger rose in his blood.
The corners of Bree's mouth quirked up in a hesitant greeting. He was struck with yearning to kiss those wide, generous lips. He could tell they were warm, just like every part of her he'd already touched.
SHARON ASHWOOD is a novelist, desk jockey and enthusiast for the weird and spooky. She has an English literature degree but works as a finance geek. Interests include growing her to-be-read pile and playing with the toy graveyard on her desk.
Sharon is the winner of the 2011 RITA® Award for Paranormal Romance. She lives in the Pacific Northwest and is owned by the Demon Lord of Kitty Badness.
Possessed by
An Immortal
Sharon Ashwood
This book is for those wonderful readers who have stuck with me through the years. Those e-mails, tweets, posts and visits at my signing table mean more than you know. Hugs to you all.
Contents
If you press me to say why I loved him,
I can say no more than because he was he,
and I was I.
—Michel de Montaigne,
French philosopher, 1533–1592
Chapter 1
Seawater soaked Bree up to the waist. When the rocky shore slammed into her knees, she wasn’t sure if she’d fallen or if the choppy waves had thrown her. Her arms automatically folded around the child sheltered against her chest. Jonathan whimpered, his voice achingly small in the darkness. She scrabbled forward, hauling him with her in a one-armed crawl until she reached a scruff of grass and ferns. It was hard going, half stumbling, half climbing as the shore rose sharply from the beach.
Bree tried to look behind her but from where she knelt, she couldn’t see the man below. For a fat, old, whiskery fishing guide, Bob was strong. And a coward. And cruel.
Curse him! She clung there for a long moment, palms smarting from clambering over the sharp rocks. Vertigo seized her, the tug of the surf still haunting her blood and bones. It’s okay. We made it, at least for now. She cradled Jonathan, trying to give the four-year-old a comfort she didn’t feel.
They’d left the ocean below, but not water. Rain pounded against her back and shoulders, dripping through her hair and down her face to mix with tears and sweat. The only light came from the boat below, where Bob was turning the craft around. She was still panting, still needed to rest, but she couldn’t let the moment pass. Bree stood and wheeled around, instinctively pulling her coat closer around Jonathan.
“You promised to take me to town!” she screamed toward the bright light of the boat. It was a useless protest, but Brianna Meadows had never been the demure, silent type.
“Count yourself lucky!” Bob bellowed back. “I saw you to dry land.”
“They’ll kill us!”
“Better you than me. I’m sorry for your boy, but you’re nothing but trouble.”
“But—”
He said something else, but the words shredded in the rain and wind. The motor roared as the boat picked up speed.