Something is different.

When she opens her sleep-heavy eyes and focuses on the intruder, she knows something is different. He is shivering. Like a raven in a downpour. Water drips from his black clothes, his sodden dark hair, and puddles on her floor. He looks cold, lost, alone. And he is staring directly at her. Chin up, parallel to the floor, subservience locked away somewhere...because it doesn't exist between the two of them tonight.

"Dark brown," she realizes, aloud. His eyes are dark brown. Rich and smooth and deep, like a perfect cup of coffee. His lips twitch. Not quite a smile. That would be expecting too much, she thinks.

She sits up all the way in bed, pushing the sheets aside with her feet. The rain chill hits her bare shoulders, and she curses herself for sleeping in a tank instead of her usual Academy t-shirt, but, at least, she, too, is shivering now. They're a matched pair.

"Nottingham? What is it?" she asks, softly, swinging her legs over the side and standing up.

He doesn't speak. She doesn't know why she expected him to. Instead, he moves closer, talking to her with those eyes. The Witchblade pulses against her wrist and she feels the stone flare up like a fire. Heat. Light. Sparks. Those old, familiar images of chain mail, of long, torchlit tunnels...the gauntlet...his face in the crowd. Always watching. Always there. For her.

"You can tell me. Is it Irons?" she demands, reaching out to touch his cheek...making contact even as he flinches from it. "Did he do something to you? Did he make you do something?" She searches his shuttered features for clues, for some insight into this conundrum, this walking mystery that is Ian Nottingham, this puzzle that Fate has brought to her door.

His beard scrapes against her skin as he moves against her fingers...like a child craving connection, warmth. But he is no child. He's a man. Wanting, needing things beyond a child's basic comforts. Has no one ever showed him simple kindness? Is he so fractured beneath the cloak of black that one touch, one word, can destroy his layers of carefully erected defenses?

What has this man suffered? What has he had to bear?

When he answers her...when he finally speaks...it is one hoarse word. It's a prayer. A cry. "*Please*."

"Ian? What is it?" His damp curls catch on her fingers as she cups his face with both hands and forces him to keep her gaze, to keep giving. "*Tell* me."

He turns just slightly and kisses her palms with gentle, worshipful, lips. First one. And then the other. Thunder. And then lightning. She sees. She feels. She understands. Silk... secrets...shadows...another time...the red jewel gleaming with approval, with joy, as mouths meet and limbs intertwine. Two warriors joined in carnal battle.

Him. Her. Them.

Together.

She pushes his water-logged coat to the floor...he tentatively finds the edges of her faded tank top, runs his fingers along the waistband of her boxers. He does not tug, does not pull, does not fumble to undress her...merely stands before her, still, as she unbuttons his shirt, pulls it from his black jeans.

She dries the rain from his flesh with her tongue...drinking up the droplets caught in the hollows of his collarbone, his pulse.

She knows this body. Every inch she exposes is familiar to her. She has felt the scars beneath her hands before. Has counted the taut curves of each muscle, each sinew. Has numbered the fragile bones of his face and throat with her lips. Has tattooed her name along his hips, his thighs, his groin.

But not in this life.

And that is what he wants. What he craves. What he needs.

What he has waited years for.

How can she deny him?

"*Please*," he gasps against her seeking mouth, into the cradle of a union so natural, so easy, that she doesn't even realize it is happening. He pulls back and she feels the absence of his presence, of his lips and tongue...the end of their first real kiss.

"Ian..."

Kisses him back. Harder. Again. Mouth. Chin. Cheeks. Jaw. Throat.

And, then, she takes his hand, leads him to her bed.

This age-old covenant between them requires no more thought, no heated debate. It is, simply, what it is. Her shorts sliding off, being kicked away...her tank ripping under his shaking fingers...his lean form between her legs...the way his eyes darken with pleasure at his first taste of full physical contact with another human being...and he devours her bare body with one, all-encompassing, look. Awe. Disbelief. Rapture.

"Sara...I...I..."

"Shhh...it's all right...it's all okay..."

Rocking deeply into each other...he gasps her name in time to the meeting of their bodies, to this awkward but perfect rhythm. She has never seen wonder on his face. Has never seen tears. But both are there, below her...as if he cannot believe this is happening. As if he is finding heaven when all he has known is hell. He shatters...breaks apart into fragments of bliss, of magic never before realized. And it's beautiful.

Who lit the candles? She does not know...but they are burning down to the base...red wax dripping over and making designs as intricate as the interlocking circles his tongue traces on her chest.

They come together over and over...bodies straining amidst a tangle of sheets...until the patter of warm rainfall against the windows fades into sunrise. Sometimes she is the one to lead, but more often he is the one above...his unruly hair caressing her face...and, yet, she knows that *he* is the one pinned, the one impaled and brought low.

She is his first.

His only.

His all.

He tells her this again and again with a thousand different touches. Miracles, each and every one. Until the frantic ache inside them melts into serenity, into a state of grace.

She falls asleep with the steady sound of his heartbeat against her cheek and his reverent fingers stroking her back. Touch. Taste. Sound. Scent. Sweat, sex, spilled Bordeaux and rose petals...all wrapped up in this gorgeous insatiable thing that spans centuries, lifetimes.

In the space of dreams, she hears him whisper softly to her. Nonsensical French endearments...Arabic declarations...things that transcend any of man's languages. Promises. *I love you, Sara Pezzini.*

When she awakens...she is alone in the bed, in the room, in the loft...but she feels him on her skin, breathes him in the air, and she knows he is not really gone. He has left a piece of himself here, with her, for safekeeping.

And everything is different.