He saw the shift in her tear-drenched eyes. Hope. Belief. In him. It nearly stopped his heart. That kind of thing was always an unexpected, beautiful gift. It shook him every single time.

“You think?” She wanted reassurance, and she was prepared to take it if he gave it to her.

“Yes, baby, I think we’ll be fine. Now tell me what happened in there.”

Her lashes fluttered. She looked at their joined hands. He had pushed her palm flat against his chest, over his heart and pinned it there with his.

“Siena,” he said softly, insistently. And waited. It took a long time before she finally looked him in the eye. “We talked about the possibility of not being able to have sex. He didn’t say that. He said no leopard sex. Not rough. Not wild.”

“Not us,” she whispered. “Elijah, that’s not you. It’s not us.”

He smiled, because she was the most beautiful woman in the world and she was his. “That’s me and that’s us too. If I have you and that’s what you need, that’s what I need. Baby, we’re going to do fine, I have no worries. You let me take care of you.”

She shook her head. “I want to take care of you.”

She was killing him. Each time he thought he loved her as much as possible, she did or said something that overwhelmed him. Filled him. He couldn’t wait to make her his wife.

He leaned down, tipping up her chin. “You are mi vida. My life, Siena, and you always will be. I love the care you take with me. We’ll make a deal. I get to take care of you while you’re pregnant, and you take care of me when you’re not.”

She smiled up at him, her eyes going bright, the shadows moving out of them. “That sounds good, Elijah. I can do that.”

He knew it wouldn’t be that simple. She’d still find ways, but at least he got her brightness back. He leaned closer and took her mouth, because he’d found she was all he really needed.

Special Excerpt from SPIDER GAME

Keep reading for an excerpt from the next GhostWalker novel by Christine Feehan

SPIDER GAME

Available February 2016 from Jove Books

TRAP Dawkins sighed as he tilted his chair back on two legs, automatically calculating the precise angle and vector he could tip himself to before he fell over. He was bored out of his fucking mind. This was the fifth night in a row he’d come to the Huracan Club, a Cajun bar out in the middle of the fucking swamp, for God’s sake. Peanut husks covered the bar and round, handmade wooden tables with a crude variety of chairs covered the floor. The bar was constructed of simple planks of wood set on sawhorses surrounded by high stools, also hand carved.