I lifted a strand of the woman’s hair and drew in her scent—cinnamon and sage—as memories I’d buried long ago flooded back.
“You’re every bit as vicious as I remember. Not that I’m surprised.” I huffed out a low laugh, and she backed away, her hair slipping through my fingers like water. “You always were the most dangerous of us all.”
She still looked the same. Not a day older. And the way she’d fought…
“Your da was a good swordsman, wasn’t he?” I searched her face, as if it might give me a clue to where she’d been. “Although I didn’t recognize those knives. Where did you get them?”
Where was she all this time? And why had she returned, after all these years?
“Stop this, Con. I have to get back to Elizabeth’s. I can’t be here.”
She darted away, but I caught her wrist, pulled her closer, and buried my face in her neck, breathing in that lovely, remembered scent. I’d given up on ever seeing her again, had thought her dead for centuries.
“You’re not going anywhere. Now that I’ve found you again, I don’t intend to let you go.”
“I am not who you think I am. I am not her, Constantine.” She fought to break my grip, her gaze darting toward the door.
“Nonsense.” I laughed, smoothing tangled hair back from her face. “Who else could you possibly be?”
I’d heard she was dead, but had never seen a body.
This was a miracle, a gift from the gods. After all this time, she’d returned to me, and this time, I would never let her go.
Witches weren’t immortal, but they could live for hundreds and hundreds of years, like vampires. And here Caye was, flesh and bone, alive and breathing, in front of me.
She yanked away and threw her head back defiantly. “My name is Logan Dean. I am not who you think I am. And I have to leave.”
I pressed closer, my words muffled by my growing fangs. “I saw you in town weeks ago… I tried to find you, but couldn’t. Where have you been all this time, mo leannan?”
Anger made me bite off the words.
That day I’d seen her in town, I was unable to think. Unable to breathe. One glimpse, and then she was gone.
Now I had her all to myself. I wrapped my hand in her hair and eased her face back until she met my gaze. Her sea-green eyes, the ones I knew so well, flashed with anger.
“Perhaps you’re a ghost.” When I ran my fangs down her throat, she shuddered, her arousal perfuming the air, muddying my already-chaotic thoughts.
I tasted her skin, ran my tongue along the velvet softness of it, until all I knew was the feel of her body against mine, her salty tang in my mouth, before pulling back to drown in her green eyes.
Her palm cracked across my face like a gunshot. The harsh sound ricocheted off the walls and she shoved me away, breaking the spell.
“Trust me, I’m not a dream. We shouldn’t even be talking. Let me go, Con.” She glanced again toward the door, but she was shaking, on the verge of crashing from the adrenaline. I tried to catch her arm, but she dodged away, as quick as she’d always been.
“Then who are you?”
She eyed me, the distance to the door, and made her play, ducking beneath my arm and nearly making it to the door before I snared her waist.
Her hand slipped from the doorknob, and I pinned her face-first to the wall with my body, pressed against her from nape to ass, my cock nestled between her buttocks. I groaned softly when she writhed against me.
“Someone you have to forget about.” She trembled, the air around us turning acrid, tinged with deception.
“Stop lying to me, Caye. You do know me. All these years, I thought you were dead.”
I hated how vulnerable my next words sounded, hated the misery beneath them.
“I’ve never forgotten you. No matter how hard I try.”
I lost my breath when she elbowed me in the gut. I spun her around and leaned into her curves, sinking into her softness.
“I am not Caye Sharpe. My name is Logan Dean,” she repeated, and this time, the name penetrated my lust-fogged brain.