Page 34 of Dark Shaman: The Lost Treasure (The Children Of The Gods #98)

TAMIRA

C onsciousness returned slowly, like silk scarves being drawn across her awareness one by one. First came the warmth of Elias's body pressed against her back, then the steady rhythm of his breathing against her neck, and finally the weight of his arm draped across her waist.

Seven mornings of waking like this, and still Tamira's heart stuttered at the reality of it.

A week.

How had it only been a week since that first night when he'd carried her to this very bed and proceeded to worship her body with a devotion that still made her breath catch?

It felt both like yesterday and like a lifetime.

Time had taken on a strange quality since Elias had entered her world, each moment stretching and contracting unpredictably.

Tamira kept her breathing even, not wanting to wake him yet.

These quiet moments before he stirred had become precious, a chance to simply exist in the bubble of contentment they'd created.

Outside this room, the harem continued its eternal rhythms. But here, wrapped in Elias's arms, she could pretend they were somewhere else.

Somewhere free.

She felt the subtle change in his breathing that meant he was awake, and then his arm tightened around her, as if to make sure that she was still there, that she hadn't been a dream.

He'd told her that just the day before.

"Good morning," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the spot where her neck met her shoulder.

A shiver ran through her. "Is it morning already? I never can tell when the drapes are closed."

Outside, the courtyard illumination changed according to the time of day, creating the illusion of the passing of time.

"Your body knows." His hand splayed across her stomach, thumb stroking her skin. "Don't you have a clock somewhere in here?"

"I prefer your method of timekeeping." She turned in his arms, wanting to see his face. "Tell me, do all shamans have special training in reading the body's rhythms?"

His eyes crinkled with amusement. "It's a professional secret known only to shamans."

There it was again—the deflection whenever she probed too close to anything real about his background. She'd grown used to it over the past week, though it still stung.

Tamira knew he'd traveled extensively, that he spoke at least eight languages fluently, that he could discuss obscure philosophical texts as easily as modern science. But of his family, his homeland, his journey to becoming what he was? Nothing.

"What are you thinking about so hard?" He traced a finger along her jawline. "I can practically hear the gears in your head turning."

"I'm trying to solve a puzzle named Elias."

"Why? I'm much more interesting when I am being mysterious." He leaned in to kiss her, a clear attempt at distraction.

She allowed it, melting into the familiar heat of his mouth on hers.

He knew exactly how to angle his head, how much pressure to use, when to tease with his tongue, and when to take.

The intimacy between them was growing too fast, too much for the short time they'd been together, and yet it felt like coming home.

Like it was meant to be.

But it couldn't be. She was immortal, he was human, and anything they had could only be a fleeting moment in her never-ending life.

His hands began their morning exploration of her body, and she marveled again at how he seemed to have memorized every sensitive spot, every touch that made her gasp. No fumbling and no awkward moments. From that first night, he'd handled her body like he'd been studying her for years.

"Elias," she breathed as he moved down her throat, marking a path she knew by heart now.

"Shh," he murmured against her skin. "Let me."

She understood what he meant. Let him lead.

Let him worship. Let him avoid conversation by using his mouth for other purposes.

She should protest, should demand to take over, but the truth was that she loved this—loved being the sole focus of his attention, loved the way he seemed to derive as much pleasure from giving as receiving.

By the time he entered her with one smooth thrust, Tamira had abandoned any pretense of thought. This was what he did to her, what he'd been doing all week—reducing her from an old, cynical immortal to a woman drunk on passion.

They moved together in a perfectly synchronized dance.

In five thousand years, through countless lovers, she'd never found a partner who completed her so perfectly.

His stamina equaled hers, never flagging when she needed more, never pushing when she needed gentleness.

Last night they'd made love twice before dinner and once after, and he'd been as eager the third time as the first.

It wasn't normal for a human. She'd had enough human lovers to know that for a fact. Even the young, most virile human males needed time to recover. But not Elias.

He shifted angles, hitting that perfect spot inside her, and all coherent thought scattered like dust in the wind. Her climax built like a gathering storm, inevitable and all-consuming. When it crested, she cried out his name and felt him follow, his release triggering aftershocks through her body.

If only he had fangs and venom, the experience would be complete, but she wasn't greedy, and she thanked the Fates for giving her Elias even if she could enjoy him only for a few decades, and even though he could never give her the venom bite.

Afterward, they lay tangled in each other's arms, breathing hard, their skin cooling in the climate-controlled air. This was usually when he'd start to pull away, some obligation, real or manufactured, calling to him.

She waited for it, counting heartbeats.

"I wish I could stay here all day," he said right on cue.

"Then stay."

"You know I can't. I need to tend to my medicine garden."

"Heaven forbid your plants should suffer for want of their devoted gardener." She tried to keep her tone light despite the disappointment, but she couldn't keep out the sarcasm.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead before extracting himself from her embrace.

"The plants are delicate in these early stages, and the monsoon rains are too much irrigation.

I need to watch the new batch, especially the feverfew and goldenseal I just got from the mainland.

If they take root, I'll be able to expand my healing repertoire significantly. "

She watched him pad naked to the bathroom, cataloging the lean strength of his body.

When he emerged a few minutes later, she sat up against the pillows, sheet pooled at her waist. His eyes darkened as they traveled over her exposed breasts, but he began dressing as he did every morning.

"You could at least pretend to be reluctant to leave," she said.

He paused buttoning his shirt. "I am reluctant, but I have duties to perform.

As long as the lord of this place doesn't provide the harem with a proper physician, I'm all these people have, and all I know are medicinal herbs.

I don't even know the names of the pharmaceuticals in the clinic or what they do, but I can read the dates, and I know that most of them are expired.

Does that make saying goodbye to me easier this morning? "

"No," she admitted. "But it soothes my ego."

He crossed to the bed and cupped her face in his hands, kissing her deeply. "Your ego needs no soothing. You know exactly what you do to me. If I had my way, I'd never leave this bed."

"Pretty words," she murmured against his lips. "But you always leave anyway."

"Duty before pleasure." He straightened, resuming his dressing. "A harsh master, but one I can't ignore."

There it was again—that weight he carried, that sense of obligation to people no one had put him in charge of but whom he cared for nonetheless.

She could remind him that his main task was to keep her pleased and perhaps help her conceive, but she didn't like to be reminded that she was the property of Navuh and obligated to do anything and everything he demanded of her. Reminding Elias that he was in the same position would be cruel.

He'd chosen to help the humans in the harem, to serve as their temporary healer until a proper physician was found. It made him feel needed, even vital, and that was crucial for his well-being.

Tamira wished she had something she could offer, but her area of expertise was languages.

Even though she could potentially teach the harem children, the sad reality was that it would be useless.

They were never leaving this place, and they would never find any use for those languages, so why bother?

"Will I see you at lunch?" she asked.

"I'll try. But you know how erratic the day can be. Lord Navuh might summon me for another session, and he doesn't follow a predictable schedule."

He still hadn't told her what he and Navuh had discussed during those sessions, and she figured out that he couldn't. That didn't stop her from speculating, though. Advice? Treating some mental malady?

Immortals didn't get sick, but emotional turmoil could cause headaches, and Navuh could certainly use help with his paranoia and anger issues.

She watched Elias finish dressing. Such mundane actions, but she still committed every detail to memory.

The way he always put on his left shoe first. How he patted his pockets in the same sequence each morning—left front, right front, back left, back right.

The way he smoothed back his hair, though it would be mussed again within minutes of working in the humidity of the garden.

"What?" he asked, catching her stare.

"Just watching. Storing up memories."

A shadow crossed his face. "I'm not going anywhere, Tamira. You know that."

"Perhaps. The Fates might still surprise us."

He smiled. "Didn't peg you as an optimist."

"I'm not. I'm a pessimist. My life experience has taught me that expecting bad things to happen is more realistic than hoping for miracles."

He looked like he wanted to say more, but after a moment, he simply nodded and headed for the door.

At the threshold, he paused and turned back to face her.

"This week has been the best of my life.

I just wanted you to know in case of a disaster striking and ending us before I have a chance to tell you that. "

He was mocking her, and she lifted a pillow to throw at him, but he was out the door faster than should have been possible. She was left alone with the echo of words that she wasn't sure had been a tease or a goodbye.

She rose and made her way to the bathroom, running through her morning routine while her mind replayed countless moments with Elias, and a collection of inconsistencies that refused to form a coherent picture.

His hands, for instance. She'd watched him work with thorny plants, seen the inevitable cuts and scratches. But by the next morning, his skin was always unmarked. She'd tested it two days ago, running her fingers over where she'd seen a particularly deep gash. Nothing. Not even a faint line.

He'd said that he had developed a special salve that expedited healing, but until she saw a human healing as quickly with its help, she would remain doubtful.

Then there was his stamina—not just sexual, though that was remarkable enough. Yesterday they'd gone to the pool and when they'd swum laps, she'd pushed the pace, testing him. He'd claimed exhaustion when they'd finished, but his breathing had been barely elevated.

Perhaps the herbs he was cultivating provided uncommon benefits. Perhaps his shamanic knowledge included secrets such as the rapid healing of wounds and even the prolongation of life.

After all, he sounded much older than he looked, both in manners and in knowledge.

The salve he'd created for Rolenna worked better than any lotion their previous physician had prescribed, so there was that.

Elias's night vision was exceptional. She'd tested that too, eliminating all light in her room, and he had still navigated the familiar space without hesitation, finding her in the bed as easily as if it were full daylight.

When she'd commented, he'd laughed and said that the glow in her eyes was what he'd navigated by.

A plausible explanation.

The languages, though, were what puzzled her the most. His fluency made sense for someone who'd traveled extensively, but last night, he'd corrected her pronunciation of an ancient word not in modern Sanskrit, but the archaic form that hadn't been spoken for over a thousand years.

When she'd pressed, he'd claimed he'd studied with an old teacher who was a purist about such things.

Always an explanation. Always plausible. Never quite satisfying.