by Elise Faber
Irritation poured off her, a palpable fog that surrounded them.
One that Mason refused to disperse.
He didn’t understand quite why he needed to push her in this, why he needed to get her to bend—just a little. All he knew was that his gut told him if she didn’t make the first entreaty, if she didn’t trust him even the slightest bit, then they would never move forward.
So he waited.
And waited.
Finally, with a sigh that was loud enough to make scare the birds out of the tree above her, she snapped, “Can you explain it to me?”
He didn’t answer for a long moment, waiting until she was ready to explode in irritation. It was a technique Dante often used with new recruits. Froth them up, make them feel something, anything . . . because anger was better than fear.
And in this case, her anger directed at him just might keep enough distance between them so that he’d survive this with his walls in place.
“It’s impossible to lock down every emotion, and you shouldn’t,” he said when her lips parted, no doubt to snap at him again. “In a fight for your life your heart will be pumping, adrenaline will course through your veins. Your mind might focus exceptionally well, but you’ll never be completely free of emotion. Terror. Rage. Anxiety. They’ll all be there.” He studied her as he spoke, saw the glimmer of understanding bloom within her eyes.
Her hands unclenched. “So if I can’t even control my magic when my emotions are relatively calm, I’ll never be able to in a circumstance where I, or someone I’m with, is at risk.”
“Exactly,” he said. “Your emotions don’t get smaller in a situation where you’re fighting for your life. They grow exponentially. Until they feel like they’re swallowing you whole, choking your lungs, churning the contents of your stomach.” He took a breath as he tried to shove back his own memories, to bury the demons that made it hard for him to focus. “Do you understand why it’s critical that you cope with the lesser feelings now?”
She nodded. “If I don’t, they’ll overwhelm me.”
The way she spoke, the careful way those words marched out of her mouth, regimented soldiers in precise enunciation, made it clear to him that she’d already experienced a situation like he’d described—one filled with fear, terror, horror.
What had happened?
Except . . . he wasn’t a lover or a friend. He was a teacher.
He needed to help her learn how to use her magic. Nothing more.
“Yes,” he said and shoved away the myriad of questions that had arisen alongside the deep-seated urge to keep prodding at the prickly barbed exterior that surrounded her. Part of him wanted to know, to understand. The other part wanted to retreat.
But regardless, he’d pushed her far enough.
For now, at least.
Carefully, he pulled on his magic, readying to summon a small pocket of water. It was instinctual, effortless, even though his specialty was air. Like his brothers, he could teleport, could manipulate the air in a thousand different ways. But he knew that Gabby’s specialty was water, so he’d start with that.
The trickle of magic curled down his spine and balled in his palms. It was easy to keep the sphere of water in his hands free of outside pollutants, but he knew that it was challenging for new students.
The reason was simple, and one of those fundamental rules of elemental magic.
Like called to like.
If he called upon water, every bit of moisture was attracted to the magic. Droplets of water on leaves, moisture in the air, the wet dirt beneath their feet. Dust and grime, bacteria, microorganisms came along if the power wasn’t focused.
It took effort to keep the water in one’s palms pure.
Therefore that was where they would start. And stay until the fear that Gabby had entrenched deep inside her faded away.
“I want you to do exactly as I do,” he said and expanded the sphere.
Nine
Gabby
She watched the ball of water grow in Mason’s palm.
Brown and green and gold strands crawled over its surface, fine threads that worked in tandem to keep the moisture balled in place. Between the strands, the water glittered in the dappled sunlight, and instinctively, she knew the substance was as pure as any mountain stream.
Sensing him staring at her, she forcibly tore her gaze from the magic in his palms and brought it up to his face.
The glimpse of hardness, the slight derision that had hardened the lines of his jaw and cheekbones just moments before was gone, and though his expression wasn’t kind exactly, and he didn’t have the same scholarly concern as Francis did, there was some compassion on his face. Well, that and a whole heck of a lot of challenge.
Beneath both of those things was heat.
But what kind of heat? Anger that he had to be there? Frustration because she couldn’t complete a simple task? Or something else? Something deeper, bigger, more?
Maybe . . . he felt the same draw she did.
Stupid. Mentally knocking that thought right out of her brain, she settled on the heat being anger that Mason had promised Francis he would teach her. She was wholly incapable. Ugh. She shook her head. Enough of these mental Olympics. Gabby needed control and this was her opportunity to learn—
“No?” His question was hard, biting, the tone making her jump.
“Um, what?” she asked, scrambling to understand. “No, what?”
The sphere of water evaporated, wisps of magic disappearing off into space. “You won’t practice? I asked you to do what I do, and instead you sit there, shaking your head at me.”
Her mind finally caught up.
“N-no,” she sputtered. His eyes flashed in irritation, and her cheeks went hot. “No. I meant—” Her thoughts tangled as the anger on his face invoked a response she couldn’t control.
Her heart raced.
Sweat sheened her body.
Her hands shook.
She felt physically sick and had to stifle the urge to run.
His expression went blank and he watched her carefully. No doubt her emotions were as clear as though they’d been written on a billboard. Without warning, a memory flared to life in her mind.
Clear as day, Gabby Love. Soft fingers on her cheek. Her mother’s gentle voice. Your face always says what’s in your brain, even when your words don’t.
They’d been making chocolate cake.
She’d been desperate to lick the bowl.
And her mother had let her.
Her heart squeezed. She hadn’t thought there were any happy memories left. Not when her mother had transformed from a good person into a hideous monster in a matter of days. Not when everything for so long had been dark and terrifying and without any bit of happiness.
God, she’d tried so hard to save her and . . . it had all been for nothing.
A shuddering breath tore through her and she forced her gaze up, another shaky exhale trailing the first when it collided with the intensity of Mason’s eyes. He wouldn’t hurt her, she reminded herself. He was a LexTal. Their job was to protect, first and foremost. But that wasn’t what was driving the urge to confide in him. No, that yearning had come from somewhere else. Except . . . she wasn’t thinking about that right now. In this moment, she needed to pull herself together.
It took a few minutes before she was able to keep her tone even. “The no was for me,” she said. “For my internal dialogue,” she added when his brows drew down and then—figuring what the hell did she have to lose—she admitted, “I was arguing with myself.”
His lips curled at the corners and amusement danced in his eyes.
Her breath caught, for an entirely other reason than fear. He was sexy and he smelled incredible, an earthy spicy scent that reminded her of sandalwood.
“Do that often?” he asked lightly.
She made a face. “Doesn’t everyone?”
A little of the humor left his face. “Yes.”
“We’re a pair, aren’t w
e?” she blurted, thinking that while physically she couldn’t be more distant from the man, emotionally they were just two people with really fucked up pasts.
Her question brought his head up so fast that she jumped, the movement so jarring, so unexpected that it frightened her.
Then she shook off the feeling and raised her chin. Her statement had been an attempt at building camaraderie, at dispersing the tension that normally filled the air between them.
Clearly, that hadn’t worked.
But she wasn’t going to apologize for it.
Eyes cold, he stood in a single controlled movement, his every muscle in careful alignment, in strict order. He’d made rising to his feet look like the most graceful undertaking on the planet while she made file folders explode.
Nothing could have better illustrated the myriad of differences between them.
Mason leaned in, crowding her and his words were a different kind of hurt. A verbal snap. A rubber band meeting bare skin. Sharp and stinging.
“We are nothing alike.”
That was true. Even if she didn’t have the awful memories of her own personal years of terror, she wasn’t like him. She wasn’t graceful or rich, didn’t carry herself with inbred confidence. Hell, she’d lived in a trailer, not the opulence of the Colony. So no, she wasn’t like Mason. She was Gabrielle Swinson, born to a mother whose soul had been destroyed, a witness to atrocities no child should see. That left a mark, no matter how hard she tried to forget what had happened and focus on the future.
But to have him dismiss her so harshly—
Her rise to her feet was a hell of a lot less graceful than Mason’s.
She crossed to him, tilting her head so that she could glare into the frost that had appeared in his expression.
Any trace of softness or compassion was gone.
And so was she.
It took less than thirty seconds to roll up her sleeping bag and shove it into the pack. She shouldered it then glanced back.
“You’re right,” she told him. “We are nothing alike.”
She took three steps forward.
The shield was hard to move through, a viscous barrier that didn’t want to let her go.
“Gabby!”
She didn’t bother to answer, just kept moving forward. It was possible to make it through. Daughtry had told her that the shield was calibrated to let animals come and go.
Small animals, she remembered a few seconds in, pushing and struggling through the viscous and tautly woven purple and emerald strands, could move through much more easily. Larger animals—such as herself—with a bit more difficulty. But much like one of those finger-trap toys, the barrier itself was carefully designed to keep out larger animals and Dalshie.
So leaving would be less of an issue than getting back in.
Now was not the time for that particular worry. She was almost through.
The pressure surrounding her on all side abruptly faded and she found herself flying forward, but just as her face would have made contact with the grass and leaves and dirt, something caught her.
Mid-air—the motion so fast even her own eyes had a hard time processing the movement—she was rotated. A pair of strong armswrapped around her tightly.
Instead of dirt and leaves, her face was pressed into a hard, spicy scented chest, her body drawn parallel with the man’s beneath her. And it was a definitely all man. Hard thighs, narrow hips, flat abs—
Every bit of air flew out of her as they collided with the ground.
When she was finally able to suck in a breath, she got a nose full of Mason’s addicting scent. Because who else could it be? And perched atop him, her lungs struggling to steady, she had the inane thought that he smelled like citrus.
A touch of tangy orange. A sprinkling of bitter. Of acid.
That thought brought her back into herself.
Because she’d felt that acid.
Pushing against his chest until he released her, she distanced herself both mentally and physically. Then, without a word, she turned away. She was leaving. But an instant later, his hand caught her shoulder, stalling her attempts to flee.
“Let me go,” she gritted.
“No.” He held tight.
Wrenching her arm, trying to put some space between them and failing miserably, her words were harsh. “You’re an asshole.”
He snorted. “Clearly.”
Her struggles stalled.
“Let me go,” she repeated.
“No,” he repeated. His phone buzzed and he exerted careful, determined pressure on her shoulder until she was finally rotated to face him.
It was annoying how easily he could manipulate her body.
“Stay,” he ordered, making her temper flare all over again as he reached into his pocket and extracted his phone. His other hand stayed on her arm, his fingers too warm, evoking too many sensations that she didn’t want to think about.
Gabby couldn’t understand the words on the other end of the line and couldn’t discern anything aside from Mason’s half of the conversation, but after a few seconds, the fingers on her shoulders relaxed.
Gratefully, she stepped back.
He glared at her and followed.
She shook her head, pointed at him, and drew her finger across her throat. If he didn’t give her some space, she would be required to take drastic measures.
For some reason, her actions made him smile.
And seriously, but her reaction to that little quirk of his lips was beyond stupid. Her stomach clenched, her cheeks warmed, and her pulse, well that little S.O.B. sprinted like a thoroughbred around a racetrack.
Still, she put one foot in front of the other.
His words trailed her. “No. No disturbance.” He shook his head. “Okay, a slight disturbance. Suffice to say Gabby and I are outside of the shield. Good news is that we have our live test.”
Ignoring him as he talked, she kept walking. Maybe she could lose him in the woods
A harsh chuckle escaped her.
Yeah, right. That would happen. And unicorns regularly painted rainbows. Or maybe it should be tiny jovial fairies painting replicas of the Mona Lisa. Because that was how much confidence she had in her ability to get away from any LexTal, least of all one with the skills that Mason had.
Case in point the hot breath that brushed her nape just as she finished that thought.
“What’s so funny?”
Ten
Mason
He watched Gabby whirl, her mouth pressed flat, her cheeks flushed, her eyes filled with anger, and had to fight back the surge of primitive possessiveness shot down into the very depths of his soul.
God, she was pretty.
Fuck, but he wanted her.
“Leave. Me. Alone.” Fierce words. Intense anger.
Except . . . there was pain in those brown eyes, and it was no longer just the hurts of her past that soiled the pretty bronze color.
He’d wounded her.
He couldn’t pretend that what he’d said hadn’t hurt her, but her words—her simple description of them as a pair—had sliced him open more effectively than a blade to the abdomen. So much guilt and regret and pain—
Fuck, Victoria, he thought, wishing that so many things were different. I’m a mess.
“I can’t leave,” he admitted.
She probably figured he wouldn’t leave because he was honorable, because he was a LexTal and they didn’t allow innocents to be at risk.
His real reasons were a hell of a lot more selfish and a hell of a lot more twisted.
He wanted to be with her. Despite his reservations and that entire truckload of guilt, he liked her, even though he was expressing it like a schoolboy on the playground.
Fuck.
“I’ll be fine,” she said, still walking, her shoulders stiff but in a fragile way. As though he could blow on her and she’d crumble. “It was a mistake coming here.”
He wanted to ask which here she was referring to—the Colony as
a whole or simply being outside the shield. But she was still speaking and though the words were barely audible, the sadness laced within them eviscerated him . . . and the hostility inside his heart for feeling something for someone who wasn’t Victoria.
“I’ll never belong,” Gabby whispered. She was angled away from him, but not far enough that he couldn’t see when brushed at her cheeks, a controlled, surreptitious movement that only hinted at the depth of her hurt.
That was all the motivation he needed. The words burst from him. Anything to stop her hurts, to make her stay, to turn to him instead of away—
God, he was so fucked.
“My wife and son were killed by the Dalshie.”
Her feet did that little skitter-slide that people did when they were shocked. Then her stride evened out and she continued walking.
Mason followed.
“I know,” she said, stopping when he reached her side, those pale brown eyes filled with sympathy when she rest her hand on his arm briefly. “I’m sorry.”
Then she started walking again.
He trailed behind her.
“What do you think you know?” He tried to moderate the question, not wanting to snap at her, to hurt or scare her further. But when he imagined the things that people whispered in the corridors, the pitying looks, it was a challenge.
She glanced back at him, a simple flick of her eyes that were filled with too much perception and cut past all his defenses. Fuck if he didn’t feel the reverberation of that look in the very depths of his soul.
“People don’t talk about it,” she said softly.
“Then how do you know?”
She turned fully, her brows pulled down into a frown. “I think you’re referring to me as an individual, and not intending that as an insult of my parentage or upbringing—”
