"If you want to stay close to me, just ask, Sara.
We can be inseparable."
--Ian Nottingham, "Thanatopsis."

She dreams of hands. Linked. Held tight. Soft, warm, black leather against her palms, her fingers. The silver Celtic knots of a ring imprinting her skin.

And she jerks abruptly from the visions, gasping for air and swearing.

"Shit. Shit. Shit. *Fuck*."

It has been two nights since they detained him in lock-up. Two nights since he stole her breath from her body with his unyielding, warrior's grip and those impossibly intense, and yet naive, brown eyes.

It has been one day since she stopped him from killing Jake. One day since he stared up at her, determined and yet acquiescent, with anger tightening his bearded jaw, and told her his life was hers for the taking. Since he asked her if she would lift the blade against her own flesh and blood.

*Her own flesh and blood?*

And she can't stop dreaming about Ian Nottingham.

She groans, frustrated, rolls over and punches her pillow, hard...but it offers no resistance, doesn't hit back. And offers no comfort.

And, still, all she can see is his face. Begging her to believe in him. To listen to him. To want him. *"I love you...in unguarded moments."*

*"Take my hand."* She can feel the gloves covering her fist, caressing her knuckles, soothing away the white lines of tension.

She can feel his lips against her cheek...a bare whisper stroking the curve of it more tenderly than any touch. Words said once in a different context find new meaning now. Their true meaning. *"For the promise of another tryst like this one, you can keep me here forever."*

Forever. *Forever*.

"Damn it..." she murmurs, kicking the bedsheets back, shifting from side to side as her body trembles with unnamed, unadulterated desire. Since when has a stalker been her kind of man? Since when has insane devotion been her turn-on? Since when has she had this bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs aching for Nottingham, and only Nottingham, to come between them and satiate their need? "Damn it, *Ian*...."

"Yes, Sara?"

It does not surprise her to hear him speak outside her fevered imagination. To know that he has been here for minutes or even hours. She shuts her eyes tight, not wanting to see...to correlate the two gentle words, the easy question, with whatever visage of black-draped innocence is standing at the foot of her bed. She shuts her eyes tight and buries her face in the mattress, inhaling the sweat scent of her own interrupted sleep.

*"Alone at last."*

But this is no interrogation chamber. This is a place more sanctified, more intimate. Her own bedroom. And maybe if she ignores him, he'll just go away. *Right*. And maybe if she clicks her heels together and says 'There's no place like home', she'll get to go to Kansas and see Auntie Em.

"Just ask," he urges, voice blistering the back of her neck...searing her shoulder blades and the line of her spine all the way down to the sensitive hollow at the base of it. "Just ask, Sara."

*"We can be inseparable."*

*Inseparable.*

She can't. She won't. She shouldn't.

But she raises her head just a fraction of an inch...pushing her hair out of her face with trembling fingers. The wall is stark, ugly to look at in twilight, but it is better than acknowledging what stands behind her. She knows what question she will not touch. She knows what she will never speak. But she also knows what she cannot live another night without learning.

"Are you my brother, Nottingham?" She whispers it, stumbles over each syllable because the need pooling in her belly is so sharp, so terrified of the unknown, the possibility of the forbidden.

He shifts. She hears him move and wonders if he is recoiling in disgust. If he thinks she's crazy. Or if he is stifling laughter at her paranoia. He's a master at fucking with her mind and he knows it. After a few moments stretch by with a painstaking lack of speed, he surprises her with an answer. "No," he says, simply. Without guile. Without any games. "No, I am not."

She rolls onto her back...sits up halfway and tugs her cut-off t-shirt down securely over her breasts. "Then, what *are* you?" she demands, harshly, staring up, ready to face her most challenging personal demon.

And she gasps. She swears.

"Holy *fuck*."

Shining eyes. He is all eyes. And draped in nothing but moonlight.

Her hungry gaze is able to make just a superficial account of the tanned skin, the corded muscles of chest, arms, abdomen, and legs...a faint dusting of hair that grows thicker until it--and then he is above her, pinning her down with his lean, beautiful body and it is a million times more powerful than anything she has ever known. No leather separates him from her now. They are flush against each other and her shorts and tee melt, easily, from her bones and leave her as naked as he is.

She can't breathe.

She can't think.

She can't push him away. The Witchblade lays cool and dormant against her wrist, as if it is unwilling to be the third party to this surreal seduction, and she can't lift it.

She can't. She won't. She shouldn't.

"What *are* you?" she asks again, hoarsely, as her traitorous legs wrap around his hips and draw him into the cradle of her body.

The artful pink curves of his lips are so close. And she has the sudden, ludicrous thought that he has killed but never kissed. That he has tasted her blood, but never her mouth. At least not in this life.

And so she gives it to him. She offers it up. Sweet...hot...parting lips and seeking tongues. He is untrained in this, but eager to learn, so eager....and he kisses her back with ardor that makes the Blade leap to life and thrum with energy. She doesn't need to dream now, it is all here. The past, the present, the future. Shooting past their entwined bodies with the speed of light.

As she arches up and he sinks low, as they begin to move in perfect harmony, her hands loosen the queue that holds his dark hair at bay. It spills down over her as he bows his head and reaffirms his eternal allegiance. The honey-edged tendrils stroke her breasts as he unlocks the secret of her body with his. And she *knows* what the secret is. Has always known.

*"Just ask."*

Hands. Linked. Held tight. Soft, warm, tanned flesh against her palms, her fingers. The silver Celtic knots of a ring imprinting her skin.

And an answer whispered in the purifying fire of mad love.

"I'm your husband."