Dark Slayer - Christine Feehan [58]
Razvan’s expression softened when his eyes met hers and he smiled. Her heart jumped in response. His smile was sweet and made him look years younger. “Good evening. You certainly are beautiful to wake up to.”
She wasn’t. She knew she wasn’t. She was in her true patchwork form—her body put together in pieces and a little mismatched here and there. She rubbed at one of the worst offending scars, the one dissecting her collarbone, and was shocked to find the ridge lessened. The healer had done more than heal her wounds. The scars would never disappear completely, but he had helped them to fade to thinner, flatter lines.
“I am not, you know.” She could feel color rising under her skin.
It embarrassed her that she no longer knew the civilities. Once, long ago, she had run a warm, happy household. Somehow, seeing that sweet smile on Razvan’s face brought bittersweet memories rushing back. There had been so much laughter and love in her house. How could her brothers have turned their backs on everything honorable and chosen to give up their souls? They hadn’t suffered the way Razvan had suffered, and he had endured the centuries of torment, being branded a criminal, despised by all those around him, his body used for vile things. Yet, still, he kept his honor.
She had told herself that her brothers had been grief-stricken over her disappearance, but she knew better. Everyone experienced loss. All five of them had turned together—unheard of in Carpathian history. She knew them better than anyone else, and she knew that meant it had been a conscious decision, not one made from too many years of lack of emotion or killing friends who had become vampire. The decision hadn’t been made because they were desolate from grief or had waited too long for lifemates. She knew their decision had been reasoned out together. They wanted power. They believed they were smarter, stronger and more deserving than anyone else. Her disappearance had been the excuse they needed to finalize something they had often discussed in the privacy of their home.
“You look so sad, Ivory.”
She never thought to hide her expressions in her lair. She didn’t hide her true form and now didn’t know what to do or how to act. She gave a small shrug. “This is a little awkward.”
“Only if you wish to make it that way. I will not intrude where I am not wanted.”
Ivory shook her head. “No, do not feel that way, as if I would not want you here. I invited you. After all these centuries, I just am not certain how to act with company.”
His smile widened, reached his eyes, warming them into soft velvet. “But then, I am your lifemate, not company. Act as you always have. I am here to learn from you.”
That hurt, struck her in her belly like a knotted fist. He wasn’t in her lair to be her lifemate in the way a man might claim a woman. She knew that. She wanted no part of that, yet she still felt slighted. It was the perverse reaction of a woman, not a warrior, and she was disappointed in herself. She had set the terms; he was merely abiding by them. She pushed at the fall of her heavy hair, more for an excuse to hide than because it was bothering her.
“I will get more at ease over time.” It was all she could think to say.
Ivory watched the wolves as they gathered around him. In spite of his older appearance, he was a handsome man. Now that the earth had revived and rejuvenated him, his frame was filled out and muscular. His hair fell in a long wave nearly to the middle of his back. It was thick and dark, and she knew from three weeks of holding him and feeding him, running her fingers through that soft, thick fall, that many colors made up that heavy mane, not the least of which was gray.
Razvan, instead of towering over the pack and bullying his way into leadership, crouched down in the midst of the six wolves and allowed them to take their time pushing their noses into him and rubbing along his legs and back.
This is Razvan. My mate.
She included Razvan in the circle of communication,