Mated By Fate by Christa Wick

Chapter Thirty-Three

Freshly showeredand dressed in a loose blouse and skirt, Esme hesitated outside Denver's bedroom.

Her mate was on the other side, his body still weak and ravaged with pain from the substances Quentin had injected into him. She knew from Lana and Silantra's report that nearly a dozen witches had visited his bedside, each doubtful of a cure and all of them amazed he had lived.

Esme rested her forehead against the door, forcing herself not to cry. Why the poison didn’t manage to kill Denver was clear in her mind.

She had poured part of her soul into him in the van. She would have pushed all of it down his throat if she hadn't blacked out. There was no point to living if he wasn't there to drive her crazy.

Quietly, hoping not to wake him, she turned the door handle. He had refused to see any more healers. If she was lucky, she would be able to put a sleeping spell on him and not have him fight her every inch of the way.

Stepping inside the room, she knew her plan had already failed. She could feel his gaze on her, hard and penetrating. She shut the door and approached the bed, her eyes focused on the floor.

"Camille said you were in a coma." His voice sounded like he had a throat full of gravel grinding at the words.

Esme bit at her lip, uncertain how much to tell him. The truth that Camille had induced the coma might make him furious.

Or, heaven forbid he might actually agree with Camille's malicious attempt to protect Esme. From the tone of his voice, he already wanted an excuse to drive her from the room.

Mute, she sat on the bed. Without asking his permission to do so, she reached up and grabbed the edge of the fur blanket covering him. He captured her wrists, no strength in his hands to stop her, yet determined to do so all the same.

"She said saving me almost killed you."

Esme lifted her gaze to meet his. "None of this is your fault."

His deep, pained frown rejected her assertion. She shook her head and freed her wrists with a gentle twist.

"None of it," she repeated and peeled the blanket further down his chest to do what she came in here for. To heal him completely.

As she suspected, the veins beneath his skin stood out, black and throbbing but at least no longer whipping around like a white water rapids current.

Unfortunately, while Quentin's dark magic was inert, the poison was not, which was why Denver was still ailing and weak.

Concentrating on the images, she could once again make out the pattern of his tattoos. The shoulder shield, the tree of life, words to one of the lullabies she had sung to him that first night he had been brought to clan lands. She moved her hands lower down his stomach, her fingers wrapping around his trim waist. Even with the skin disfigured from the poisoning, he was the most beautiful man she could ever imagine.

Taking a deep breath, she placed her palms against Denver's chest. Immediately, he pushed at her hands with what little force his ailing body could muster, his voice as dominant as ever as he told her plainly, "I won't let you. Whatever it is, it weakens the other witches and nothing came of their efforts.”

She continued meeting his gaze. "I'm stronger than any of them." It wasn't a boast. It was their truth, hers and Denvers.

"None of those healers were your mate. Their energy doesn't sync with your wolf." She looked into his eyes again, tears brimming in her own. "That makes me even stronger when it comes to healing you. Believe me. Trust me. Trust in our bond, mate.”

Denver blinked, the gesture a small capitulation finally granting her permission to try.

Esme released the tension she had been holding and gradually lowered her head until her mouth hovered over his rib cage.

A tilt of her head brought her nose into contact with his skin. She lightly brushed her face against his chest, skin to skin, back and forth, inhaling as she did so.

Lungs full, she slowly breathed out.

Ready no, her lips skimmed the surface of one black vein. The toxins of the poison would’ve knocked her on her ass if not for Denver’s hands on hips. Though he barely had enough strength to keep himself upright, he poured everything he had into supporting her, grounding her.

Soon, blue witch light left her to penetrate the pulsing membrane.

Black lightened to a deep indigo.

She repeated the process, her hands surfing his body at the same time. Her fingertips trailed along the smaller veins to dissolve the poison. Black ash so fine it looked like a fog pushed from his pores and floated toward the ceiling to coat its surface.

Denver grabbed her head, his eyes filled with worry, his grip strong enough once more to force her to look at him.

She let him stare long and hard into her eyes before she assured him, "I’m okay, love."

That last word seemed to shatter any remaining protests. Slowly, his fingers relaxed in her hair, but he didn't let go.

His hands moved with her head. She captured one blackish-blue nipple and sucked it into her mouth. He groaned. His hips lifted. She pressed him back down with a palm against his tensed abdomen.

Feeling the hard jab of his steel-like cock against her wrist, her chest swelled with hope.

The magic was working. Had to be if his body could manage an erection.

As her hope grew, so did her powers. Thick, corded muscles that had wasted almost to nothing became revitalized beneath her touch.

The veins receded, their color returning to a healthy faint bluish-green beneath his skin as the rest of his body began recharging, regaining the strength it’d lost.

Slowly but surely, her big, brawny mate was returning to her, in all his powerful glory.

The very moment he was nearly at full strength, her irreverently burly, virile mate wasted no time in flipping Esme onto her back.

Caught off guard, she gasped. Completely naked beneath the fur blanket, her mate clearly wanted to equalize the situation. Immediately.

Thick, calloused fingers that probably hadn’t been able to twist off a juice cap that morning deftly unthreaded the buttons on Esme's blouse. Pushing the fabric to her sides, he paused to stare into his mate's sea-green gaze. "You said love, Esme."

She nodded, acknowledging she had, indeed, called Denver love. "I said mate, too. What do you have to say about that?”

Yes, much had changed between them. But the charged, at times volatile, chemistry that ran back and forth between them like a live wire when they went toe to toe?

No way was that going anywhere. “Cat got your tongue, love?”