Free Rebel by Kristina Douglas Page A

his loss with grief, despair, and guilt. I had never truly given him what he deserved. Not my complete trust. And not my blood.
    Something had always kept me from that final connection, and he’d calmly made do with the Source until I was ready. I understood the curse, the reluctant need, but I wasn’t ready to offer my blood to my husband’s mouth. That night, after the Nephilim were driven from our world forever, I was planning to give him that final trust.
    Instead he’d been torn apart, screaming, as I’d tried to get to him, and my own body had been slashed open, my blood spilling on the beach among all the others, and I had reached out my hand, willing to join him in death.
    But I had lived. Eventually I had healed. The only signs of that horrible day were the lines across my body, the parallel scars from the claws of the Nephilim. And the guilt and emptiness in my heart.
    The garden had gone a long way toward healing me. There had been no medicinal plants in Sheol, since there was little illness, but flowers abounded everywhere except in the courtyard beyond my room. The patch of land outside the annex had been ready and fertile, and it had embraced the trans-plantings and the seeds I had found with enthusiasm. I had grown flowers and plants with riotous abandon, letting the brilliant color wash over me,purples and pinks, blues and yellows and every shade of red; and the feel of the rich loam on my hands, the scent and taste and delight of it all, were my rescue and my solace. Until Cain had invaded my serenity.
    I was a fool to let him affect me so. Besides, he was still up on the bluff. He appeared to have forgotten about me, thank God. I could safely tend my garden.
    The late-morning air was soft and cool, a breeze ruffling my hair and my loose clothes as I knelt in the dirt, carefully pinching back unruly offshoots. I would need to transplant some of the bloodred anemones, perhaps move some to one of the front gardens. I could put a small container garden on the tiny balcony outside of Allie and Raziel’s top-floor apartment—the anemones would provide a burst of color for Allie to enjoy during her bed rest.
    Latierra had been right. I was a sensual being—I loved tastes and textures and smells; I loved everything about the earth and the sea and life in general. It was full of such wonderful things that one simply needed to notice to enjoy. An older friend of my mother’s used to say, “Stop and smell the roses.” I’d always wondered about that—there were certainly no roses where we’d lived.
    But now I understood. And I had planted a gloriously fragrant rosebush just under my window, sothat the scent could drift into my sleep and cushion my dreams.
    I sat back on my heels, looking at the barely restrained effusion of color, well satisfied, until I heard a voice behind me.
    “This doesn’t look like you,” Cain said lazily. “It’s too wild. You’re hardly the type to let gardens sprawl all over the place, full of lush flowers and tangled greenery.”
    I looked up, not moving, and resisted the urge to scowl. I didn’t know what to say. I could hardly defend the haphazard mass of scents and colors that I nurtured so carefully. I didn’t understand it myself. “Things grow very rapidly here,” I said in a noncommittal voice. “It’s hard to keep up with it.”
    “You forget—I used to live here. Gardens will behave exactly as you want them to. You must like all this chaos, despite your outward appearance, and I wonder why.”
    I pushed my hair out of my face. “You can draw your own conclusions,” I said severely. Because he would, and my only defense was to ignore him. “Now, go away and leave me alone.”
    His mouth curved in amusement, and of course he stayed put. “You’re quite a mess,” he said, looking me over. “Your pants are caked with mud, your hands are filthy, and you’ve got a streak of dirt right”—he reached out toward my cheekbone, then