A Family Affair
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. I'm just having fun with them. Enjoy!
*****
Chapter 50.
*****
Kenneth Irons grimaced as he glimpsed his reflection in a mirror in the hallway of the mansion. There were dark circles beneath his hollow eyes and his complexion was sallow and blotchy. He looked terrible, and it infuriated him to no end. Never had his bond with the Witchblade been as trying as it had been over the past few days. First, there had been that unsettling incident in the library, which, combined with his concern about Ian Nottingham's health, had made for a long, restless night. In fact, he'd been so preoccupied with the potential ramifications of Elizabeth Bronte's ghostly visitation, Kenneth hadn't clued in to the fact that he no longer sensed anxiety from Sara Pezzini regarding her Protector's well- being. That alone should had tipped him off that Ian had pulled through but it hadn't, most likely because he'd spent most of the following day reminiscing about his beloved Elizabeth and Ian's formative years while ill- advisedly consuming vast quantities of alcohol. Such maudlin behavior was completely out of character for him, but Kenneth had been desperate to numb the unexpectedly severe pain of these memories. It wasn't until Saturday afternoon that he'd received incontrovertible evidence of his prodigal son's survival, and he wasn't at all pleased by this stunning development.
Ian was certainly making up for lost time, Kenneth thought disgustedly. His erstwhile bodyguard and the Wielder were worse than a couple of randy teenagers. Apparently, they simply could not keep their hands off each other. And, courtesy of the link the Witchblade gave him to Sara, Irons was excruciatingly aware of his son's lovemaking prowess and stamina. The frequency and duration of their trysts had kept him in an almost constant state of arousal since they had first consummated their union. Owing to the unpredictability of the couple's amorous clinches, Kenneth had taken to staying in his bedroom for fear of anyone witnessing the effect the secondhand sensations had on him. The situation was humiliating -- not to mention frustrating in the extreme -- and it fueled his desire to regain the upper hand.
Last night had been particularly grueling. Initially, the anger and emotional turmoil he'd sensed from Sara had gotten Kenneth's hopes up that she and Ian would be unable to resolve their differences, and, more importantly, that he'd be able to enjoy a blessedly uninterrupted night of sleep. But his hopes were dashed shortly thereafter. He'd come perilously close to bursting into tears upon sensing the lusty young Wielder's passion ignite again. And again. It wasn't until well after midnight that Kenneth had managed to fall into a fitful slumber. But then, in the wee hours of the morning, he'd been rudely awakened by them enthusiastically going at it again. And again. He'd even begun to suspect that Sara Pezzini was fully aware of just how her "activities" affected him and was deliberately punishing him.
The strain was showing, and Irons decided that it was high time he put an end to this farce before he collapsed from exhaustion. To add insult to injury, the effects of the last treatment he'd received barely two weeks ago were wearing off with alarming swiftness. Dr. Immo had warned him that once the Witchblade chose a new Wielder, Elizabeth's blood would in all likelihood slowly begin to lose its potency, and the confirmation of this only added to Kenneth's troubles.
As he'd anticipated, the incidents with the Russians had placed him and his empire in the glare of the media spotlight. Moreover, the U.S. government was going through all of Vorschlag Industries' business dealings with a fine-toothed comb. Naturally, they wouldn't find a shred of incriminating evidence, but he could have done without the aggravation. In the span of a few short days, Kenneth's world had been turned upside down, and although he knew it was irrational, he was convinced that if he could regain control of Ian Nottingham, everything else would return to normal. At the very least, he would no longer be forced to endure the erotic marathons that his link with the Wielder continually subjected him to.
So, as he'd lain there in his bed in the wee hours, shuddering uncontrollably in the psychic grip of the Bladewielder's ardor yet again, he'd come up with a plan of action that would serve the dual purpose of alienating Sara from Ian while at the same time ensuring that Nottingham's loyalty once again belonged solely to him.
Kenneth's ego did not allow him to entertain the possibility that the nascent bond between the Wielder and her Protector could withstand the attack he was premeditating. In fact, despite the all-too-literal evidence to the contrary, he hadn't truly accepted the fact that Sara had chosen Ian, a virtual neophyte, over him. He firmly believed that once she was shown the error of her ways, she would turn her back on Nottingham. Kenneth had even managed to convince himself that the Wielder's repeated bedding of his son was an aberration on her part, that she was merely dallying with the assassin and would soon tire of him. However, he was no longer willing or able to wait for this to occur as a matter of course. Much as he hated to admit it, he would soon need Sara Pezzini's blood in order to survive. And although he would have preferred that she be a willing participant in his plans for her and the Witchblade, her survival was not at all a necessity or even a priority. His own was. Now it was time to start laying the groundwork for his strategy.
"Divide and conquer," he murmured to himself as he headed for the security briefing room and the team of carefully selected men who were awaiting his orders.
*****
As usual, Sara awoke first later that morning. She felt surprisingly well rested despite having gotten only four or five hours of sleep the night before. Raising her head, she soaked up the little pool of her saliva on Ian's bicep with a corner of the top sheet and then slowly and carefully turned so that she was facing him.
A slight frown creased the skin between his dark brows as his left hand was deprived of the comforting weight of her right breast and she felt his big body start to tense up, but he relaxed as she snuggled closer to him and petted his chest soothingly.
Once again, Sara was struck by how young he looked in his sleep. Enviably long and thick lashes cast half-moon shadows on his face, the sharp planes and angles of which were softened by the tousled mass of dark- chocolate curls framing it. Her eyes were drawn to his full lips, which were parted slightly, and she noticed that his beard and mustache needed trimming. Idly, Sara wondered how he would look clean-shaven. Even younger, she decided. Lifting a hand, she lightly brushed a finger along the strong line of his jaw.
Unconsciously, he moved into her touch, sighing, and several curly sable locks tumbled over his face. Sara couldn't resist grabbing one of them and tickling his nose with it. A few moments later, brilliant hazel eyes opened halfway and regarded her sleepily.
"Good morning, my Lady," he murmured, smiling, and Sara felt her heart skip a beat at the way it transformed his face from merely handsome to gorgeous.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," she lied, returning his smile.
His gaze dropped to her breasts, which were just brushing his chest. "That is all right. Besides, I think I must still be dreaming."
"Why do you say that?" Sara asked, feeling her pulse speed up as she saw desire darken his extraordinary eyes.
"Because you are here in my arms, and you want me as much as I want you," he told her. "That is, and always will be, nothing short of a miracle to me."
"You have no idea how beautiful you are, do you?" Sara said, brushing his hair back from his face. She smiled to see a blush color his cheeks at her compliment.
"You are the one who is beautiful, Sara, not I," Ian repudiated, gently tucking a gleaming strand of chestnut hair behind her ear. "'If I could write the beauty of your eyes and in fresh numbers number all your graces, the age to come would say 'This poet lies; such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces,''" he quoted huskily.
Sara quivered way down low in response to his deep, sexy voice and ruefully shook her head. "I'm totally serious, Nottingham. You're easily the best-looking guy I've ever slept with."
He lowered his gaze again, but not before she glimpsed the shadows in his expressive eyes. "Am I?" he murmured.
She sighed. "I'm sorry. That was an insensitive thing for me to say. But I've never hidden the fact that I've had other lovers from you, and I don't intend to start now."
Now it was he who sighed. "No, you have not, and I value your honesty, Sara."
"You're just not happy knowing that I have a past," she acknowledged. Sara took a deep breath. "Not that this is any consolation, but I've slept with a total of six guys in my life, including you," she informed him before she could think better of it. "Not exactly Wilt Chamberlain, hunh?"
Ian threw her a questioning glance from beneath his lashes. "Wilt Chamberlain?"
"Yeah, he was a pro basketball player who claimed to have slept with, like, 20,000 women." Sara traced a whorl of dark chest hair with one finger as she spoke. "I'm sure you already know this about me, Nottingham, seeing as Irons has kept tabs on me ever since I was a little girl, but I've never found it easy to get close to people, or to let people get close to me. I was what you'd call a late bloomer. I didn't lose my virginity until I was 21, and I'd been dating the guy who did the deed for nearly two months before that. I haven't been in very many serious relationships, and none of them lasted longer than six months. And although I did go out on a number of dates, there hadn't been anyone special for several months before the Witchblade chose me, and definitely nobody since then. Until you."
Ian pressed a kiss to one of her dark eyebrows. "Thank you for sharing that information with me, Sara, even though it was really none of my business," he said softly, aware of how difficult it had been for her to open up to him like that. "And for the record, I did not know your dating history. Mr. Irons never divulged the intimate details of your life to me, although he did insist that I study your psychological profile."
She shrugged one slender shoulder self-consciously. "I just didn't want you to think that I'm easy."
"Even if you had been as promiscuous as Mr. Chamberlain, it would have made no difference to me," he told her. "You are my reason for living, Sara. You give my life meaning."
Sara met his gaze, her green eyes serious. "That's an awfully high pedestal you're putting me on, Ian."
He shrugged. "You are a True Wielder and I am your Protector. But aside from that, you are a woman of honor and unsurpassed bravery. You do what is right, not because it is expected of you, but because that is who you are. Helping people comes naturally to you, Sara. I truly believe that your capacity for generosity is limitless."
"Okay, stop with the accolades, Nottingham. You're making me out to be some kind of saint, and nothing could be further from the truth," Sara protested. "I'm just an ordinary woman. Or at least I was before Witchy here latched onto me."
"You are too modest, my love," Ian murmured, nuzzling her cheek.
"Hmmm. Betcha didn't think so last night when I was giving you head," she smirked. "That was definitely not the act of a saint!"
Startled hazel eyes met hers. "Well, it certainly felt heavenly," he blurted out, and Sara burst out laughing. After a moment, he joined her, his husky laughter making her spirits soar. Framing his face with her hands, she tenderly kissed him on his smiling lips.
"What was that for?" Ian asked when she pulled back.
"What, I need a reason to kiss you?"
"Never, my love. 'Being your slave, what should I do but tend upon the hours and times of your desire? Nor dare I question with my jealous thought where you may be, or your affairs suppose, but, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought save, where you are how happy you make those. So true a fool is love that in your will, though you do any thing, he thinks no ill,'" Ian quoted.
Sara frowned. "You're not my slave, Nottingham. You don't belong to anybody. Not Irons, not me. You got that?"
"Oh, but I do belong to you, Sara. Heart and soul," he said quietly. "Nevertheless, you and I both know that I am not yet my own man. I am nothing but what Mr. Irons made me. However, thanks to you, I have come to believe that I have the capacity to evolve and to eventually become whole in spirit and in mind," he placed a hand on her as yet flat belly, "as well as someone that our child will be proud to call his father."
"I don't agree that you're nothing but what Irons made you, Ian," Sara said vehemently. "First of all, you're my Protector. He had nothing to do with that, although, much as I hate to admit it, he did me a huge favor by training you to be a walking lethal weapon. Second of all, on several occasions you made a conscious decision to defy him by helping me out, saving my life in the process. Those aren't the actions of a mindless slave. You don't give yourself enough credit for that," she told him.
"Before I met you, I never questioned the orders Mr. Irons gave me," Ian said slowly. "I told you before that I have done things at his behest that would shock and appall you, Sara, but I do not think you realize just how efficiently I did my job."
"That's all in the past now, Ian. I'm willing to put it behind us."
"Are you, Sara? When confronted with the hard evidence of my past actions -- and Mr. Irons will undoubtedly make certain that you are -- you might not be so willing to let bygones be bygones. Plus, the fact of the matter is I will kill again."
Sara stiffened. "No," she said with finality, "your days as an assassin are over, Nottingham. There's absolutely no room for argument on that subject."
He nodded. "Agreed. However, I feel I must warn you that I will show no mercy to those who dare to try to harm you. I will kill your enemies without a second thought," he said coldly. "As someone who is sworn to uphold the law, are you certain you can live with that, Sara?"
Sara could not suppress a shiver as she met his unflinching gaze. "It's not like I have much of a choice, do I?" she muttered, glancing down at the bracelet on her right wrist, whose blood-red stone was glowing gently.
"We always have a choice," he said, his hand stroking the taut line of her back gently, "even when it seems as though we do not."
"Really? Try telling that to Cleopatra, Joan of Arc, and Elizabeth Bronte, just to name a few. I bet they'd beg to differ," she said morosely. "Besides, aren't you the one who believes in destiny?"
"To a certain extent, yes, I do. But I have learned that the choices we make in life have far-reaching consequences. For instance, you could have cast aside the Witchblade at any point prior to the Periculum, but you chose not to," Ian told her.
"Funny thing about that. Several times, I took the bracelet off with the intention of never wearing It again, and somehow It always ended up back on my wrist. But ever since It went medieval on my ass a couple of months ago, I haven't been able to remove It. Gabriel says that's because It's bonded to me on a cellular level."
"He is correct. Only in death can It be removed from your wrist."
"Or until It abandons me when I need It most. That's another cheerful little tidbit Gabriel shared with me. Is it true?"
"Unfortunately, yes. Legend has it that the Witchblade always abandons Its Wielder in her darkest hour."
"Gee, that's a comforting thought." Sara heaved a huge sigh. "Doesn't all of this ever get to you? I mean, neither of us asked for this, but here I am, the Wielder, and here you are, my Protector. Haven't you ever asked 'Why me?'"
"No. When your destiny is laid out for you like mine has been since childhood, you do not tend to question your fate. However, I have often wondered what my life would have been like had I not been raised by Mr. Irons. This time spent with you and your family has given me some idea of what I missed out on," Ian said wistfully.
"Have you ever tried to find out who your parents were?" Sara asked curiously.
He shook his dark head. "No."
"Why not?"
Abruptly, he rolled away from her to lie on his back and stare up at the ceiling, his eyes becoming distant with memories. "When I very young, I used to fantasize that I had been stolen from my parents as an infant by gypsies. Being highly superstitious, the gypsies feared that I was cursed after I started having visions and speaking in foreign tongues. I decided that they were the ones who left me on the orphanage's doorstep," Ian murmured. "But as I grew older and saw how prospective adoptive parents invariably rejected me upon learning about my 'special abilities,' I came to the conclusion that I was wrong. Although I let Mr. Irons think I believed his story about my biological parents dying in a car crash shortly after my birth, I never truly did. You see, the real reason I have never searched for them is because I am afraid to find out that they abandoned me when they realized that I was different."
"Oh, Ian!" Sara said, her soft heart aching for both the lonely little boy that he'd been and the scarred man that he'd become. 'No wonder he became so devoted to Irons,' she thought to herself. 'He was the first person to be completely unfazed by the visions. To a child desperate for love and acceptance, even a cold son of a bitch like Kenny must have seemed like a godsend.'
A single tear escaped Nottingham's right eye, leaving behind a glistening trail. "You did not realize that I was such a coward, did you, Sara?" he whispered.
"You're not a coward, Ian! You're one of the bravest men I know," she said, opening her arms to him. "Come here."
He moved into her warm embrace like a man seeking shelter from a storm and rested his dark head on her chest. She felt him tremble against her and saw that he was struggling mightily to control his emotions.
"Let it out, baby," Sara encouraged him softly. "I've got you, I've got you."
She held him as heart-wrenching sobs wracked his body, her hands stroking his back and shoulders soothingly. As his hot tears fell on her bare skin, Sara abruptly realized that this was the first time she'd ever heard him make a sound when weeping. Before, his tears had always been silent, and if she hadn't glimpsed them she never would have known that he wept. Instinctively, she knew this was a product of his upbringing, and she cursed Kenneth Irons to the seven corners of hell for the towering cruelty that demanded that a child never make a sound when crying.
*I'm sorry my questions upset you, Ian,* she sent remorsefully when he had finally cried himself out.
*It's okay. I didn't realize how painful that subject still is. I guess it's because it has never been resolved,* he replied, his "voice" subdued and introspective. *Does it frighten you that I'm so damaged, Sara?* he suddenly asked her, raising his head to look at her, his bright- red eyes clearly apprehensive.
*A little,* she admitted without hesitation. *But given the sadistic bastard who raised you, I think it's pretty amazing you're not more fucked up than you are.*
*Um, thanks,* he said, his lips quirking. *I think.*
*Besides, you're only chipped, not broken,* she told him, ruffling his soft hair.
*Chipped?*
*Okay, maybe slightly cracked,* Sara shrugged, grinning. *Like me. Thing is, everybody I know has issues -- except maybe Jake -- some big, some not so big. It's part of being human. We all have to work them out in our own way. All it takes is time.*
*The great healer, hmm?*
*Exactly. Speaking of time . . .* Sara lifted her head and glanced at the bedside clock. *Damn! It's almost 9:00. We'd better get a move on if we wanna be on time for that pancake breakfast.*
Ian sat up. "Oh! I wanted to get there early so young Joseph could teach me how to make pancakes," he said aloud, obviously dismayed.
Sara stared up at him. "You're kidding, right?"
He shook his head. "No. I really like pancakes, but I do not know how to make them. This seemed like the perfect opportunity to learn how."
"Well, why don't you jump in the shower first, get dressed, and then head on over there. I'll be right behind you," Sara suggested, stretching languidly.
He started to get up but then hesitated, eying her nude body. "We could share the shower," he proposed. "That way, we could arrive together."
"Uh, not a good idea. Remember what happened the last time we shared the shower. We'd be lucky to get there by 10:00," Sara said, smirking.
"Hmmm," Ian tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Perhaps we could call and see if Joseph is running late," he grinned.
She grinned back at him. "Now there's an idea."
*****
More to come. Much thanks to everybody who has left me feedback. My muse and I crave it, so keep it coming!
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. I'm just having fun with them. Enjoy!
*****
Chapter 50.
*****
Kenneth Irons grimaced as he glimpsed his reflection in a mirror in the hallway of the mansion. There were dark circles beneath his hollow eyes and his complexion was sallow and blotchy. He looked terrible, and it infuriated him to no end. Never had his bond with the Witchblade been as trying as it had been over the past few days. First, there had been that unsettling incident in the library, which, combined with his concern about Ian Nottingham's health, had made for a long, restless night. In fact, he'd been so preoccupied with the potential ramifications of Elizabeth Bronte's ghostly visitation, Kenneth hadn't clued in to the fact that he no longer sensed anxiety from Sara Pezzini regarding her Protector's well- being. That alone should had tipped him off that Ian had pulled through but it hadn't, most likely because he'd spent most of the following day reminiscing about his beloved Elizabeth and Ian's formative years while ill- advisedly consuming vast quantities of alcohol. Such maudlin behavior was completely out of character for him, but Kenneth had been desperate to numb the unexpectedly severe pain of these memories. It wasn't until Saturday afternoon that he'd received incontrovertible evidence of his prodigal son's survival, and he wasn't at all pleased by this stunning development.
Ian was certainly making up for lost time, Kenneth thought disgustedly. His erstwhile bodyguard and the Wielder were worse than a couple of randy teenagers. Apparently, they simply could not keep their hands off each other. And, courtesy of the link the Witchblade gave him to Sara, Irons was excruciatingly aware of his son's lovemaking prowess and stamina. The frequency and duration of their trysts had kept him in an almost constant state of arousal since they had first consummated their union. Owing to the unpredictability of the couple's amorous clinches, Kenneth had taken to staying in his bedroom for fear of anyone witnessing the effect the secondhand sensations had on him. The situation was humiliating -- not to mention frustrating in the extreme -- and it fueled his desire to regain the upper hand.
Last night had been particularly grueling. Initially, the anger and emotional turmoil he'd sensed from Sara had gotten Kenneth's hopes up that she and Ian would be unable to resolve their differences, and, more importantly, that he'd be able to enjoy a blessedly uninterrupted night of sleep. But his hopes were dashed shortly thereafter. He'd come perilously close to bursting into tears upon sensing the lusty young Wielder's passion ignite again. And again. It wasn't until well after midnight that Kenneth had managed to fall into a fitful slumber. But then, in the wee hours of the morning, he'd been rudely awakened by them enthusiastically going at it again. And again. He'd even begun to suspect that Sara Pezzini was fully aware of just how her "activities" affected him and was deliberately punishing him.
The strain was showing, and Irons decided that it was high time he put an end to this farce before he collapsed from exhaustion. To add insult to injury, the effects of the last treatment he'd received barely two weeks ago were wearing off with alarming swiftness. Dr. Immo had warned him that once the Witchblade chose a new Wielder, Elizabeth's blood would in all likelihood slowly begin to lose its potency, and the confirmation of this only added to Kenneth's troubles.
As he'd anticipated, the incidents with the Russians had placed him and his empire in the glare of the media spotlight. Moreover, the U.S. government was going through all of Vorschlag Industries' business dealings with a fine-toothed comb. Naturally, they wouldn't find a shred of incriminating evidence, but he could have done without the aggravation. In the span of a few short days, Kenneth's world had been turned upside down, and although he knew it was irrational, he was convinced that if he could regain control of Ian Nottingham, everything else would return to normal. At the very least, he would no longer be forced to endure the erotic marathons that his link with the Wielder continually subjected him to.
So, as he'd lain there in his bed in the wee hours, shuddering uncontrollably in the psychic grip of the Bladewielder's ardor yet again, he'd come up with a plan of action that would serve the dual purpose of alienating Sara from Ian while at the same time ensuring that Nottingham's loyalty once again belonged solely to him.
Kenneth's ego did not allow him to entertain the possibility that the nascent bond between the Wielder and her Protector could withstand the attack he was premeditating. In fact, despite the all-too-literal evidence to the contrary, he hadn't truly accepted the fact that Sara had chosen Ian, a virtual neophyte, over him. He firmly believed that once she was shown the error of her ways, she would turn her back on Nottingham. Kenneth had even managed to convince himself that the Wielder's repeated bedding of his son was an aberration on her part, that she was merely dallying with the assassin and would soon tire of him. However, he was no longer willing or able to wait for this to occur as a matter of course. Much as he hated to admit it, he would soon need Sara Pezzini's blood in order to survive. And although he would have preferred that she be a willing participant in his plans for her and the Witchblade, her survival was not at all a necessity or even a priority. His own was. Now it was time to start laying the groundwork for his strategy.
"Divide and conquer," he murmured to himself as he headed for the security briefing room and the team of carefully selected men who were awaiting his orders.
*****
As usual, Sara awoke first later that morning. She felt surprisingly well rested despite having gotten only four or five hours of sleep the night before. Raising her head, she soaked up the little pool of her saliva on Ian's bicep with a corner of the top sheet and then slowly and carefully turned so that she was facing him.
A slight frown creased the skin between his dark brows as his left hand was deprived of the comforting weight of her right breast and she felt his big body start to tense up, but he relaxed as she snuggled closer to him and petted his chest soothingly.
Once again, Sara was struck by how young he looked in his sleep. Enviably long and thick lashes cast half-moon shadows on his face, the sharp planes and angles of which were softened by the tousled mass of dark- chocolate curls framing it. Her eyes were drawn to his full lips, which were parted slightly, and she noticed that his beard and mustache needed trimming. Idly, Sara wondered how he would look clean-shaven. Even younger, she decided. Lifting a hand, she lightly brushed a finger along the strong line of his jaw.
Unconsciously, he moved into her touch, sighing, and several curly sable locks tumbled over his face. Sara couldn't resist grabbing one of them and tickling his nose with it. A few moments later, brilliant hazel eyes opened halfway and regarded her sleepily.
"Good morning, my Lady," he murmured, smiling, and Sara felt her heart skip a beat at the way it transformed his face from merely handsome to gorgeous.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," she lied, returning his smile.
His gaze dropped to her breasts, which were just brushing his chest. "That is all right. Besides, I think I must still be dreaming."
"Why do you say that?" Sara asked, feeling her pulse speed up as she saw desire darken his extraordinary eyes.
"Because you are here in my arms, and you want me as much as I want you," he told her. "That is, and always will be, nothing short of a miracle to me."
"You have no idea how beautiful you are, do you?" Sara said, brushing his hair back from his face. She smiled to see a blush color his cheeks at her compliment.
"You are the one who is beautiful, Sara, not I," Ian repudiated, gently tucking a gleaming strand of chestnut hair behind her ear. "'If I could write the beauty of your eyes and in fresh numbers number all your graces, the age to come would say 'This poet lies; such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces,''" he quoted huskily.
Sara quivered way down low in response to his deep, sexy voice and ruefully shook her head. "I'm totally serious, Nottingham. You're easily the best-looking guy I've ever slept with."
He lowered his gaze again, but not before she glimpsed the shadows in his expressive eyes. "Am I?" he murmured.
She sighed. "I'm sorry. That was an insensitive thing for me to say. But I've never hidden the fact that I've had other lovers from you, and I don't intend to start now."
Now it was he who sighed. "No, you have not, and I value your honesty, Sara."
"You're just not happy knowing that I have a past," she acknowledged. Sara took a deep breath. "Not that this is any consolation, but I've slept with a total of six guys in my life, including you," she informed him before she could think better of it. "Not exactly Wilt Chamberlain, hunh?"
Ian threw her a questioning glance from beneath his lashes. "Wilt Chamberlain?"
"Yeah, he was a pro basketball player who claimed to have slept with, like, 20,000 women." Sara traced a whorl of dark chest hair with one finger as she spoke. "I'm sure you already know this about me, Nottingham, seeing as Irons has kept tabs on me ever since I was a little girl, but I've never found it easy to get close to people, or to let people get close to me. I was what you'd call a late bloomer. I didn't lose my virginity until I was 21, and I'd been dating the guy who did the deed for nearly two months before that. I haven't been in very many serious relationships, and none of them lasted longer than six months. And although I did go out on a number of dates, there hadn't been anyone special for several months before the Witchblade chose me, and definitely nobody since then. Until you."
Ian pressed a kiss to one of her dark eyebrows. "Thank you for sharing that information with me, Sara, even though it was really none of my business," he said softly, aware of how difficult it had been for her to open up to him like that. "And for the record, I did not know your dating history. Mr. Irons never divulged the intimate details of your life to me, although he did insist that I study your psychological profile."
She shrugged one slender shoulder self-consciously. "I just didn't want you to think that I'm easy."
"Even if you had been as promiscuous as Mr. Chamberlain, it would have made no difference to me," he told her. "You are my reason for living, Sara. You give my life meaning."
Sara met his gaze, her green eyes serious. "That's an awfully high pedestal you're putting me on, Ian."
He shrugged. "You are a True Wielder and I am your Protector. But aside from that, you are a woman of honor and unsurpassed bravery. You do what is right, not because it is expected of you, but because that is who you are. Helping people comes naturally to you, Sara. I truly believe that your capacity for generosity is limitless."
"Okay, stop with the accolades, Nottingham. You're making me out to be some kind of saint, and nothing could be further from the truth," Sara protested. "I'm just an ordinary woman. Or at least I was before Witchy here latched onto me."
"You are too modest, my love," Ian murmured, nuzzling her cheek.
"Hmmm. Betcha didn't think so last night when I was giving you head," she smirked. "That was definitely not the act of a saint!"
Startled hazel eyes met hers. "Well, it certainly felt heavenly," he blurted out, and Sara burst out laughing. After a moment, he joined her, his husky laughter making her spirits soar. Framing his face with her hands, she tenderly kissed him on his smiling lips.
"What was that for?" Ian asked when she pulled back.
"What, I need a reason to kiss you?"
"Never, my love. 'Being your slave, what should I do but tend upon the hours and times of your desire? Nor dare I question with my jealous thought where you may be, or your affairs suppose, but, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought save, where you are how happy you make those. So true a fool is love that in your will, though you do any thing, he thinks no ill,'" Ian quoted.
Sara frowned. "You're not my slave, Nottingham. You don't belong to anybody. Not Irons, not me. You got that?"
"Oh, but I do belong to you, Sara. Heart and soul," he said quietly. "Nevertheless, you and I both know that I am not yet my own man. I am nothing but what Mr. Irons made me. However, thanks to you, I have come to believe that I have the capacity to evolve and to eventually become whole in spirit and in mind," he placed a hand on her as yet flat belly, "as well as someone that our child will be proud to call his father."
"I don't agree that you're nothing but what Irons made you, Ian," Sara said vehemently. "First of all, you're my Protector. He had nothing to do with that, although, much as I hate to admit it, he did me a huge favor by training you to be a walking lethal weapon. Second of all, on several occasions you made a conscious decision to defy him by helping me out, saving my life in the process. Those aren't the actions of a mindless slave. You don't give yourself enough credit for that," she told him.
"Before I met you, I never questioned the orders Mr. Irons gave me," Ian said slowly. "I told you before that I have done things at his behest that would shock and appall you, Sara, but I do not think you realize just how efficiently I did my job."
"That's all in the past now, Ian. I'm willing to put it behind us."
"Are you, Sara? When confronted with the hard evidence of my past actions -- and Mr. Irons will undoubtedly make certain that you are -- you might not be so willing to let bygones be bygones. Plus, the fact of the matter is I will kill again."
Sara stiffened. "No," she said with finality, "your days as an assassin are over, Nottingham. There's absolutely no room for argument on that subject."
He nodded. "Agreed. However, I feel I must warn you that I will show no mercy to those who dare to try to harm you. I will kill your enemies without a second thought," he said coldly. "As someone who is sworn to uphold the law, are you certain you can live with that, Sara?"
Sara could not suppress a shiver as she met his unflinching gaze. "It's not like I have much of a choice, do I?" she muttered, glancing down at the bracelet on her right wrist, whose blood-red stone was glowing gently.
"We always have a choice," he said, his hand stroking the taut line of her back gently, "even when it seems as though we do not."
"Really? Try telling that to Cleopatra, Joan of Arc, and Elizabeth Bronte, just to name a few. I bet they'd beg to differ," she said morosely. "Besides, aren't you the one who believes in destiny?"
"To a certain extent, yes, I do. But I have learned that the choices we make in life have far-reaching consequences. For instance, you could have cast aside the Witchblade at any point prior to the Periculum, but you chose not to," Ian told her.
"Funny thing about that. Several times, I took the bracelet off with the intention of never wearing It again, and somehow It always ended up back on my wrist. But ever since It went medieval on my ass a couple of months ago, I haven't been able to remove It. Gabriel says that's because It's bonded to me on a cellular level."
"He is correct. Only in death can It be removed from your wrist."
"Or until It abandons me when I need It most. That's another cheerful little tidbit Gabriel shared with me. Is it true?"
"Unfortunately, yes. Legend has it that the Witchblade always abandons Its Wielder in her darkest hour."
"Gee, that's a comforting thought." Sara heaved a huge sigh. "Doesn't all of this ever get to you? I mean, neither of us asked for this, but here I am, the Wielder, and here you are, my Protector. Haven't you ever asked 'Why me?'"
"No. When your destiny is laid out for you like mine has been since childhood, you do not tend to question your fate. However, I have often wondered what my life would have been like had I not been raised by Mr. Irons. This time spent with you and your family has given me some idea of what I missed out on," Ian said wistfully.
"Have you ever tried to find out who your parents were?" Sara asked curiously.
He shook his dark head. "No."
"Why not?"
Abruptly, he rolled away from her to lie on his back and stare up at the ceiling, his eyes becoming distant with memories. "When I very young, I used to fantasize that I had been stolen from my parents as an infant by gypsies. Being highly superstitious, the gypsies feared that I was cursed after I started having visions and speaking in foreign tongues. I decided that they were the ones who left me on the orphanage's doorstep," Ian murmured. "But as I grew older and saw how prospective adoptive parents invariably rejected me upon learning about my 'special abilities,' I came to the conclusion that I was wrong. Although I let Mr. Irons think I believed his story about my biological parents dying in a car crash shortly after my birth, I never truly did. You see, the real reason I have never searched for them is because I am afraid to find out that they abandoned me when they realized that I was different."
"Oh, Ian!" Sara said, her soft heart aching for both the lonely little boy that he'd been and the scarred man that he'd become. 'No wonder he became so devoted to Irons,' she thought to herself. 'He was the first person to be completely unfazed by the visions. To a child desperate for love and acceptance, even a cold son of a bitch like Kenny must have seemed like a godsend.'
A single tear escaped Nottingham's right eye, leaving behind a glistening trail. "You did not realize that I was such a coward, did you, Sara?" he whispered.
"You're not a coward, Ian! You're one of the bravest men I know," she said, opening her arms to him. "Come here."
He moved into her warm embrace like a man seeking shelter from a storm and rested his dark head on her chest. She felt him tremble against her and saw that he was struggling mightily to control his emotions.
"Let it out, baby," Sara encouraged him softly. "I've got you, I've got you."
She held him as heart-wrenching sobs wracked his body, her hands stroking his back and shoulders soothingly. As his hot tears fell on her bare skin, Sara abruptly realized that this was the first time she'd ever heard him make a sound when weeping. Before, his tears had always been silent, and if she hadn't glimpsed them she never would have known that he wept. Instinctively, she knew this was a product of his upbringing, and she cursed Kenneth Irons to the seven corners of hell for the towering cruelty that demanded that a child never make a sound when crying.
*I'm sorry my questions upset you, Ian,* she sent remorsefully when he had finally cried himself out.
*It's okay. I didn't realize how painful that subject still is. I guess it's because it has never been resolved,* he replied, his "voice" subdued and introspective. *Does it frighten you that I'm so damaged, Sara?* he suddenly asked her, raising his head to look at her, his bright- red eyes clearly apprehensive.
*A little,* she admitted without hesitation. *But given the sadistic bastard who raised you, I think it's pretty amazing you're not more fucked up than you are.*
*Um, thanks,* he said, his lips quirking. *I think.*
*Besides, you're only chipped, not broken,* she told him, ruffling his soft hair.
*Chipped?*
*Okay, maybe slightly cracked,* Sara shrugged, grinning. *Like me. Thing is, everybody I know has issues -- except maybe Jake -- some big, some not so big. It's part of being human. We all have to work them out in our own way. All it takes is time.*
*The great healer, hmm?*
*Exactly. Speaking of time . . .* Sara lifted her head and glanced at the bedside clock. *Damn! It's almost 9:00. We'd better get a move on if we wanna be on time for that pancake breakfast.*
Ian sat up. "Oh! I wanted to get there early so young Joseph could teach me how to make pancakes," he said aloud, obviously dismayed.
Sara stared up at him. "You're kidding, right?"
He shook his head. "No. I really like pancakes, but I do not know how to make them. This seemed like the perfect opportunity to learn how."
"Well, why don't you jump in the shower first, get dressed, and then head on over there. I'll be right behind you," Sara suggested, stretching languidly.
He started to get up but then hesitated, eying her nude body. "We could share the shower," he proposed. "That way, we could arrive together."
"Uh, not a good idea. Remember what happened the last time we shared the shower. We'd be lucky to get there by 10:00," Sara said, smirking.
"Hmmm," Ian tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Perhaps we could call and see if Joseph is running late," he grinned.
She grinned back at him. "Now there's an idea."
*****
More to come. Much thanks to everybody who has left me feedback. My muse and I crave it, so keep it coming!