She couldn’t fight the truth any longer. She couldn’t fight the knowledge that even if she wasn’t Liza Johnson, then she still had no idea who she was.
Or what she was.
If she had been one of Phillip Brandenmore’s experiments, then only God knew what he had done to something as basic as her very DNA.
“Science hasn’t reached that peak.” He finally sighed. “Your DNA can be altered but never completely changed. A Core Level DNA test, as we discussed before, isn’t the answer either. Because those core genetics can, in certain instances, be changed but nothing can change it back. As for the memories, I can’t explain those, Liza.”
Miserable, so frightened of what was coming, it was all she could do to hold back the shudders that would have worked through her. Terror waited on the fringes of her control, just waiting to strike, to take over her mind with all the shadowed, barely remembered nightmares that haunted her sleep.
“It happened the weekend of that wreck.” She had pinpointed that much at least. “I remember waking up in the hospital, and there were bandages on my face. Dad said the wreck had damaged it, but I remember thinking then, sensing, that he wasn’t being honest—not completely. And when they removed the bandages, there was a second that I didn’t know the person staring back at me from the mirror they gave me.”
She remembered that.
As Stygian took her in his arms, Liza remembered that moment as clearly as she would always remember that first kiss she had shared with Stygian.
Staring in the small mirror, she had seen her eyes, her hair, her face.
Her nose was too rounded, the arch of her brow hadn’t been right. There had been something odd about the shape of her lips and the sharp, high cheekbones. But there had also been the knowledge that there were several scars marring her body that were too old to have been caused by that wreck.
“Stygian.” Her lips trembled as more tears escaped her control and slid from her eyes. “I’m scared. I’m so scared.”
She was suddenly terrified of what was coming, of what memories could spill free when Liza Johnson accepted, to the very depths of her soul, that she no longer existed, and released whoever was trapped inside.
“No.” That growl, it was pure, wild Wolf—a low rasp of danger as primal and fierce as any animal that walked on four legs. “No fear, Liza. Trust me. Trust me to guide you through this. To hold you when it hurts, to protect you if there’s danger.”
In a few short steps he was before her, hands gripping her shoulders, holding her firm, capturing her gaze as flares of brilliant blue gleamed in the black background of his gaze.
“Trust me, Liza, I’ll protect you.”
Lips trembling, her chest tight with the need to cry, Liza laid her head against his chest.
She needed to hear, to feel the beat of his heart.
She needed the warmth of him wrapping around her, holding her, providing a haven in a storm of spiraling emotions and fears.
“No fear, baby,” he whispered again, his arms wrapping around her, his head lowering until his lips were against her ear, his strength holding her on her feet. “No matter what comes, no matter what happens, no matter who you are, I’ll be here, and I’ll hold you.”
Curling her fingers into the material of his shirt, she closed her eyes tight.
“Hold me now,” she cried out, the pain burrowing so deep inside her that she felt the raking talons of it digging into her heart.
A surprised gasp left her lips as he curved his arm beneath her knees and lifted her until he was cradling her in his arms.
A feeling of intense feminine weakness swept over her as she looped her arms around his neck and let her head fall to his shoulder.
“I’ll hold you, baby,” he promised as he moved into the bedroom, but rather than laying her on the bed, he sat in the heavy, wide chair that sat in the corner of the room. “I’ll always hold you.”
Cupping the back of her head as she gazed up at him, he held her in place, his head lowering, his lips settling against hers.
In less time than it took for her heart to beat, Liza was ready for him.
CHAPTER 21
Her br**sts were swollen and sensitive, her clit throbbing, her pu**y becoming moist and aching. Her skin was sensitive, the mating mark at the bend of her shoulder and neck tingled, became heated. She wanted him to touch the mark, wanted his lips on it, wanted to feel his tongue licking over it.
Her lips ached for his kiss, her body burned for his touch. Her fingers tingled with the need to feel his body beneath them. To stroke his powerful body, feel his muscles flexing beneath the dark bronze flesh.
Staring up at him, drowsy sensuality thundering through her body, a small, uncontrolled whimper left her lips as his tongue pressed against the seam of her lips. The spice and cinnamon taste of his kiss infused her senses, heated her blood, and had her arching closer, desperate for more of him—for that deeper, harder kiss. For all his hunger, driving and uncontrolled as they both lost their senses in the pleasure.
Closing her lips on his tongue, Liza drew more of the sensual taste to her sense, reveling in the exquisite sensations beginning to spin through her senses.
Only here could she find peace. Only in Stygian’s arms, in his kiss—his touch.
Turning, shifting in his arms until she could straddle his powerful thighs, Liza gave in completely to the pleasure rising inside her. Dragging her skirt up to allow her thighs to spread further over his, Liza ground her aching pu**y against the hard ridge of his c**k as it rose beneath his jeans.
Quickly undoing the three small buttons below her neck, Stygian then gripped the hem, pulled his lips from hers and as Liza slowly raised her arms, he stripped the top from her.
The shell was tossed aside carelessly, forgotten as he found the front clasp of her bra and flicked it open.
“Stygian.” Arching in pleasure as his hands cupped her br**sts, Liza felt the pinpoints of heated pleasure beginning to flare through her.
The rasp of his sensually rough palms cupping and stroking the under curve of her sensitive flesh sent a surge of heat flaring in her ni**les. The tender peaks tightened further, becoming so engorged and sensitive that the need for touch was nearly painful.
Already tight, the hardened tips throbbed, pulsing in need as his fingers avoided the nerve-ridden buds to stroke and caress the flesh around it. And he was killing her. She needed his touch there—no, not just his touch—