""Where *are* they?" Stefano roars as a glass shatters on the wall in front of him. The man before him turns to look at the brandy that drips down the stone surface and swallows fearfully. "I *told* you not to report back to me until you had them, did I not?" Stefano's eyes narrow menacingly and his meaty fist slams down on the desk in front of him.
"Uh, yes Mr. DiMera," he swallows again. "Uh, but..."
"But *what*?" Stefano's words are crisp and his intent deadly. He is beyond furious. The idea that John Black has Grace has twisted in his gut until his rage has made him almost irrational.
"Sir, Mr. DiMera sir, we.... that is to say... the- there..." the man stammers, cowering like a terrified mouse in front of his employer. A man whom he knows will utilize *any* measures necessary to retake what he considers his.
"OUT with it, you idiot!" Stefano's kuckles whiten as he resists the urge to take his fury out on this incompetent fool.
"There has been no trace of them, Sir. We have scoured the country and they seem to have disappeared without a..." The expression on DiMera's face causes a cold frisson to flicker from his head to his feet and he trips over his words, "well, without a trace. Sir." He swallows again and his stomach grows tight and nauseous as he hears the door open behind him.
"People do *not* just disappear into thin air," Stefano hisses softly. "They are out there. *Find* them." His black eyes shine with malice and the 'or else' lingers, unspoken, in the air. The man nods, his eyes wide with a mixture of relief and fear. Without saying a word, he turns and scampers from the room, brushing past Alexi as he does so.
Stefano regards his henchman with a sneer. "You have something to add, Alexi?"
The beefy blond man wobbles on his crutches and then steadies himself. "I ...." He pauses for a moment and then shakes his head. Suggesting that if Grace wanted to be found, she would have been located by now, isn't going to curry him any favors with his boss. He's already in deep with DiMera for letting Black take her. Despite the bullet holes in his leg. "Nothing, Stefano. They'll find them."
Stefano's gaze bores into Alexi, as though he can sense the Russian's thoughts. At last, he lowers his sights to the chessboard over by the fire. To the Queen and the pawn that face each other across an expanse of black and white marble.
"Grace is *mine*. John Black will *not* have her. If he thinks he can, he is a *fool*." He spits the words out with vitriol. John Black has taken one to many liberties. Stefano is tired of him, bored with the game.
In two giant strides, he gains the chess board and seizes the pawn in his fist. With an almighty roar, he hurls the piece into the fire place where it comes to rest, pale and battered and smothered in ashes.
"I will *crush* you John Black. The Phoenix does not lose!" Stefano rails stormily at the insignificant piece. He stands there in impotent fury for a moment before he turns away from Alexi and storms from the room, slamming the door so hard that the walls shudder.
Left alone in the study, Alexi watches the door for a long while, his expression thoughtful.
~
The air is heavy and moist in the dilapidated cabin as John's eyes blink open. He curses himself for falling asleep until he realizes she is still stretched out on the dingy bed.
As he watches, she stretches languidly in her sleep. John can't help but stare at her legs, long and tanned, her muscles taut and sinewy. And where her blouse falls open and reveals the tiny g-string she wears....
His heart pounds and he turns away mouth dry. He can't continue to indulge in such fancy. She is *not* Marlena. She is not his wife and his desire for her is a dangerous thing. He needs to get it under control before it begins to control him.
He pushes his aching body from the chair and makes hastily for the door. As he closes it silently behind him, Grace opens one eye and the corner of her mouth curls up into a sly smile.
*
The morning sun is blistering and John strips off his soaked shirt before he picks up the axe once again. He hefts it in his hands, and a wry grin crosses his lips fleetingly. His life is filled with small ironies and this moment is certainly not the least of them. Outside a cabin chopping wood on a swelteringly hot summer day, trying to fight his attraction to an entity that wears Marlena's face and would ensnare him with her body.
"I beat the devil, you better believe I can beat you, Grace," he mutters as he hauls the axe up. The dark, tarnished blade slices an arc through the air before it splinters the log in two. "I *will* find Marlena again." He grunts as he swings the axe again and then he works in silence.
It is only in his head that the words spin and collide until they make him dizzy and sick with guilt and fear.
<<You were willing to believe she was alive when you were with Diana. So why not when she disappeared? Was it just that she was *inconvenient*?>>
John shakes his head, trying to dispel the angry words that drill the inside of his skull with ever increasing intensity.
<<You didn't come and rescue her John. *Stefano* was the one that found me...*He* made me feel wanted and loved. And don't tell me you didn't know I was still alive. I *know* you knew.>>
"*NO!*" His grip tightens on the ancient, worn handle as muscles twitch and tighten under his ruddy skin. Everything sizzles.
He knows what is happening and he desperately tries to summon the power to halt it. Or at least slow it down.
The words that echo in his head from the night before, that soul-destroying torrent of words that had passed between them. Hell every conversation that he has had with this woman since she appeared, is feeding the mercenary's blackened psyche, and in turn, Stefano's bloodthirsty creation is tightening his stranglehold on John's mind and soul.
And what terrifies John most of all is that he knows instinctively that the mercenary is eager to claim Grace as his mate. Somewhere inside him, he knows that the darkness that threatens his sanity recognizes it's equal in Grace and is craving the competition and ruthless passion that she will provoke. And the worst part is that there are moments that John is sorely tempted to give in and let the mercenary have his way. To forget every appalling thing he has done and everything he has lost and just let the mercenary and Grace battle it out.
He feels his blood stir at the mere thought and his heart pounds as he brings the axe down violently, splitting the log in front of him like it is butter. He can't even let himself contemplate the possibility. If he can't bring Marlena back, if he loses himself, there is no telling what mayhem he and Grace could create. How many of those that they love that they might hurt. Or destroy.
He can't let that happen.
"Damn you," he mutters as he splits another log, although he is not altogether sure who he is consigning to hell. Whether it is Stefano, Grace or the mercenary, or maybe all three of them, he is just not sure.
<<You're damn right I believe you abandoned me.>>
"Shut up," he hisses to the voice inside his head and he knows who it is he blames. That he hates.
Himself.
Almost as soon as the thought enters his head, he feels her. Her eyes sear into his back with more heat than the sun and he can smell her scent. It seems to envelop him, wrapping him up in a cloak of warm, moist air and her. Marlena. Grace. His mate. Both he and the creature inside him are connected to her. Tethered to her by invisible strands of need and lust and pain. And love.
He wants her so badly he is suddenly shaking as he turns around to look at her. Every strand of her spun-gold hair glistens in the sun and her cherry lips are parted with an air of amusement. She is barefoot, her tanned legs stretching up lean and smooth to disappear beneath the hem of her crumpled white blouse. She holds two battered metal mugs in one hand and a tin in the other.
She is gorgeous.
Every nerve and every synapse in John's body screams as he stares at her. All he can think is how he wants to throw her against the wall of the cabin and bury himself inside her. Driving heat and unutterable softness and every shred of ecstasy and suffering that he merits.
His breath comes in short bursts as he feels himself harden even more. He thinks, with a certain ironic detachment, that he hadn't imagined that might be possible.
The predicament John finds himself in is not lost on Grace as her gaze sweeps over him.
"I was going to say, I hoped you weren't visualizing me when you were swinging that axe, but I rather think I'll reverse my position on that." Her eyes sparkle as she sets the tin implements on the ground and she wets her lip and makes a point of glancing at his crotch as she straightens. "You look like you're in a bit of a tight spot there, baby." Her grin is wicked. "Why don't you let me give you a helping hand?"
"Don't *touch* me!" It is all he can do to dredge up the words and they come out hoarse and unconvincing.
Grace moves until she is only inches from him. "I don't think you really mean that." She can feel the electricity that crackles between them, every place on her skin that he has ever touched, every path his hands and mouth have ever worshipped tingles until they sting with need to have him touch her again. "You can keep fighting it John, but we both know it's only a matter of time before you give in." She raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow. "Why don't you just do us both a favor and give in now?" She reaches out her hand and slides it over the rough denim of his jeans and her voice lowers. "I'm every wet dream you ever had, John, you just need to reach out and take me."
John groans as she begins to stroke him, and his head swims with the heat and her scent and the pure agonizing bliss that her touch brings.
And inside him, a voice urges him to do it. To take her and lose himself in her golden mantle. To allow her to possess him and wipe away everything. To fuck himself into oblivion...