by Elise Faber
“You don’t have to tell me.” She rolled to her side, resting her head on her palm. “I don’t mean to pry—”
He cut her off with a shake of his head. “It’s not that.” A pause as he tried to find the right words, ones that would do his family justice. It was almost impossible. Plus, the sky above them was almost dark. If he answered the question they would definitely be making camp outside the shield. He needed to call Dante and—
He was avoiding. Again.
Without warning, a memory popped into his head and he felt his lips turn up. “Jacob was precocious.” A laugh escaped him. “I remember one time when he couldn’t have been more than two, and he snuck out of his room, crept into my study.” He met Gabby’s eyes, relieved that though her expression was soft, it wasn’t pitying. He couldn’t have handled pity right then.
“What happened?” she prompted.
“He’d wanted an inkwell earlier that day. Naturally, I’d refused. Two guesses for what he was after?”
Gabby gave a little chuckle. “Was he able to get it?”
“Oh yes.” The recollection of the wide swathes of black ink staining the silk wallpaper, Jacob’s chubby cheeks, and forehead was directly in the forefront of his mind.
“How bad?” she asked.
“Worse than you’re thinking,” he replied. “I had to repaper the entire room. Replace the covers on an entire shelf of books. And my favorite leather chair . . . that was unsalvageable and regulated to the dogs.”
“Oh no.” She giggled then slapped her free hand over her mouth, trying her best to hold in her laughter. But he wanted to see her smile, to see the single dimple that appeared on the left side of her mouth when she grinned.
He reached for her, peeled her hand from her mouth, not realizing how close it would bring them, how quickly his body would respond to that nearness. He had one short glimpse of that dimple before her expression went hot, her pale brown eyes darkening, her lips parting, her breath shuddering out.
“I didn’t think it would be like this,” she murmured.
“Did think what would be like this?”
Truthfully, he was having a hard time concentrating. Gabby was so damned soft, her skin like silk.
“It’s just biology,” she said. “What’s between us isn’t special—” He frowned, and she added, “Dee said the bond is just about creating little magical geniuses. Which means this attraction”—she gestured between the two of them—“is just nature’s way of ensuring we get together.” He glowered, not sure which statement pissed him off more. That the only thing between them was biology, or that she disregarded the bond because it was based on instinct. When he didn’t speak, only stared, her cheeks flushed bright red. “Right?” she asked, perhaps a little desperately.
“You’re saying is that this is nature?”
“I—uh—yes?”
He sat up abruptly, went to slow down, to apologize, she didn’t flinch back at the sudden movement. Which only served to piss him off more. Because this wasn’t just instinct or magic. Maybe that was the catalyst but—
“Only nature?” he asked, knowing it wasn’t. He rose to his knees, turned to face her, less than a foot between him and her sprawled form. “That’s it.”
Tucking her elbows beneath her, she met his gaze. Her chin came up, and her voice got a little stronger. “Yup,” she said, the word finishing on a slight pop of sound. “Just nature.”
A bolt of amusement shot through him, followed in quick succession by arousal. Because her eyes were hot, because he could feel that it wasn’t just desire. She liked him, and he . . . liked her.
“Nothing except biology?” he asked, and slowly, cautiously, his hands grasped her waist, tugged her close. She came willingly, straddling him, her knees on either side of his legs.
“Yes,” she murmured, voice husky.
“Hmm.” He pulled her closer still, until the hardened buds of her nipples brushed his chest, until the scent of her, the feel of her inundated every one of his senses. “There’s nothing between us?”
A gasp slipped between her lips when he bent and nipped at the side of her throat. “Nope. Not a th-thing.”
More. His body screamed more. Hell, her body and mind screamed for more. He could feel the desire in her thoughts, recognize it in her flushed skin, her rapid breaths, the faint muskiness of arousal in her scent. Unable to stop himself, especially as she wove her fingers into his hair and held tight, he trailed kisses along her neck, up her jaw, until finally, finally, his mouth aligned with hers.
Embers of desire erupted into a full-blown forest fire.
Her lips parted immediately, and he slipped his tongue into her mouth. She moaned, fingers tightening, nails biting into his scalp, and he held her closer, needing to consume every last drop of her. Thank fuck, but she was right there with him, her lush curves pressed firmly against every inch of him, her lips moving in tandem with his, and in seconds he found himself barreling out of control.
He’d never been so aroused, so hard in his life. His magic had never been so close to escaping his grasp.
The last was what finally gave him caution.
He slowed the kiss, gentled his tongue, softened his mouth against hers.
Because though he wanted her, he wasn’t willing to wield their desire as a weapon, wasn’t willing to use their tie to push her into something physical or magical. And if he loosed his magic, Gabby’s would follow suit. He knew it because though he’d just taught her some fledging control, that control was tenuous. He could feel that in his bones, his gut, his heart—just as he’d known that the secrets she’d held close to her own heart weren’t as devastating as she seemed to think they were.
God, she’d dragged herself over broken glass for being a child who loved her mother.
How could anyone fault her that?
So he withdrew his mouth from hers and wrapped her tight in his arms, as much to hold her close, to comfort and show how much she’d come to mean in the short months of their acquaintance, as to keep himself from taking more. Then when his heart had slowed, he pressed a kiss to the top of her head, and loosened his grip.
“Let’s make camp.”
Seventeen
Gabby
She felt her mouth drop open and couldn’t do anything to stop it.
“Camp?” she asked, leaning back and looking around, for the first time aware of the fading light and quieting of the forest’s noises. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting Mason to say after the mind-blowing kiss, but it certainly hadn’t been that.
His mind should be as much mush as hers.
“Yes,” he teased, brushing the backs of his knuckles over her cheek. “You know—a fire, a tent, a place to sleep for the night?”
She glared. “Sarcasm doesn’t become you.”
One side of his mouth quirked. “Not much does. Now”—he grabbed her hips (and full disclosure, the feel of his hands there made her breath catch) and gently pushed her off him—“let’s get to work before it’s fully dark.”
“Okay.” She stood on shaky legs, made her way to her pack, and started pulling items out of her pack. Mason rose up, took a quick look at what she’d brought, then moved off and started gathering firewood.
“Can’t you just make the fire?” she asked as he picked his way through the trees surrounding them, gathering up several sticks and smaller logs. “Or teach me how?”
He chuckled. “Of course I could. But sometimes things are easier without magic.”
A frown pulled her brows together at that. Her mother had always used magic for everything, from washing dishes to pulling the dirt out of clothes. “I don’t understand. If we have the ability, why not use it?”
His head tilted at that, the same small, unconscious gesture that he’d done several times before. It reminded her of a puppy, but she didn’t think he would like the comparison.
“Besides the fact that keeping a fire going would be a huge drain on my powers, sometimes I—” He w
as quiet for a moment, as though choosing his words carefully. “I think that relying on our magic too much makes us less human somehow. Makes us out of touch with reality.” He shrugged his shoulders, a dash of embarrassment flashing across their mental connection to collide with her mind.
“But we’re not human,” she whispered.
He nodded, bringing the load back into the clearing and using the compact shovel in the pack to dig down into the earth. “I know,” he said, laying the wood down. “That doesn’t really make any sense. We’re Rengalla, not human, and we use magic all the time.” He shook his head. “It’s a stupid thought.”
She spread out the sleeping bag. “I . . . it makes sense to me.”
His head popped up, his eyes hopeful as they locked with hers. “It does?”
“Yeah,” she murmured, nibbling on her bottom lip. It felt weird to casually bring up her mother and the tangled knot of emotions that was her childhood, but Mason knew everything already. “I mean, my mother used it for everything. Maybe that’s why she—”
Her throat tightened.
Because it occurred to her that she was scrambling for an excuse as to why her mother had turned when others who’d used magic way more often had not.
Suz healed with her magic on a daily basis and she hadn’t turned. Mason and his brother’s teleported regularly. Francis used his powers to teach multiple classes all day every day.
And none of them had turned.
But her mother had. So what was it that made her different or more susceptible or—
Mason’s hand on Gabby’s shoulder startled her, but not from fear this time. Her body and mind knew and accepted he was there, that he wouldn’t hurt her. Rather, this time she’d been simply lost in thought. “I wish I could give you the answer.”
Her heart pulsed. This man.
God, she’d been so scared of him.
But inside he was so . . . much. “I know,” she murmured, taking his hand and squeezing it lightly. “Thank you.”
A pause, his hand sliding down her arm, his fingers weaving with hers. “We don’t know that it isn’t the answer.”
He didn’t reply but she could sense his desire to find a solution for her, to relieve her of her pain. That notion was so foreign to her that it took a long minute for her to accept the sincerity of his feelings. But the evidence was in their growing link, in the fact that every minute spent in his presence strengthened the connection and made it easier for her to discern his thoughts and emotions.
And those thoughts were filled not with the urge to hurt her, but to make her existence easier.
Shock wove through her, made it difficult for her to breathe.
She’d never before experienced the feeling that went along with the expression of being knocked over with a feather. But she understood it now. It wasn’t that she hated herself, that she was surprised someone could like her. She worried, yes, that she might turn out to be like her mother, and had certainly battled plenty of instances of feeling unworthy because of how she grew up, of who’d birthed her.
But more than that, she’d never felt . . . special.
God, that sounded ridiculous. She was an adult. She shouldn’t need to feel special. Yet one day in Mason’s presence, under that piercing hazel gaze, surrounded with feelings of comfort and concern, made her want to be special.
At least in his eyes.
Silence stretched between them—not necessarily uncomfortable, but taut with the memories of the past, of hope for the future.
“I’ll get more firewood,” she finally said.
Her fingers were still laced with his, and at her words, they tightened for a brief moment. The motion brought an irrational bolt of fear through her. Ugh. Mentally smacking herself, she tamped down that panic. She’d already established that he wouldn’t hurt her, that the connection between them made it so he wouldn’t want to, but . . . her past was a burden not so easily shed.
Too many men had cornered her. Too many men had touched her.
By the time she’d shoved down her panic, he had already stepped back, already given her several feet of space, and for the first time since she’d escaped her mother, Gabby felt hate—at the emotions that locked her in an impenetrable box of fear, at the debilitating memories that prevented her from living a full life in the present.
She just wanted to be normal.
Because what woman wouldn’t want the chance to be with Mason?
He was attractive, sweet, full of genuine concern, and caring. And she was blowing her chance with him.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, her cheeks hot, her eyes darting around the clearing, desperately searching for something to latch onto so that she wouldn’t have to look at him, wouldn’t have to see the disappointment in his gaze.
But he didn’t say anything, didn’t move, and when she finally did find the courage to meet his eyes, it wasn’t disappointment that she saw.
Instead, it was anger.
And though part of her wanted to recoil, to curl into a ball and wait out the emotion until it receded—as she’d done so many times before—this time she found the strength not to. Instead, she focused, ferreted out the intricacies of the feeling that swept to her consciousness from Mason’s mind, and she discovered . . . that he wasn’t mad at her. At all. The anger mirrored her own, and was directed at the circumstances of her upbringing, the things she’d suffered, the memories that were keeping them apart—
On both their sides.
Her breath caught, and shock made her heart give one heavy thump before it settled back down into a normal rhythm.
Because he was mad at himself, too. Because his past, his hurts, his memories were just as heavy.
“I don’t want you to be sorry,” he said, drifting closer. “Or to apologize for being afraid. I don’t want you to apologize for your feelings. You don’t owe me or anyone else that. Not. Ever.”
She closed the distance between them, clutched at his shoulders. “But I want to be strong like you. To move on and move forward.”
A chuckle that lacked any trace of amusement escaped him. “If you think I’ve done that—” He broke off and shook his head, stepped out of her grip.
Sadness flooded through her, a sharp spike of pain in her heart.
“But you said—”
What? What exactly had he said? That he was interested in moving on with her? Pursuing something with her? No. He hadn’t said that. He just wanted to mix their magic, to bond, to—
They were back to biology.
A wave of pure disappointment coated her like a wet blanket, chilling her to the bone.
He didn’t want her. Not like that.
“I—” He stopped and stared at her for a long moment. For the first time, she could actually feel his mind touching hers, brushing lightly, stroking gently. Her eyes burned because it felt so damned right and yet he was telling her that—
“No, Gabby. I don’t mean with regards to us. To you.” He grimaced when she winced, touching her cheek, voice earnest. “It’s me that’s the weak one. Me you should be avoiding. I’ve had the same fucking nightmare about Victoria and Jacob every night for the last hundred and fifty years. Every single night I wake up in a cold sweat, calling for them, wanting to save them when I—I—” He thrust a hand through his hair. “The truth is that I’m not strong at all. In fact, sometimes I think that the past has me in its sharp talons more than anyone else.”
No.
It was unfathomable that this man thought himself weak. When she looked at him she didn’t see weakness, only strength, only saw someone who was resilient and exceptionally capable.
She laughed, disbelieving.
“You’re laughing at me?” His hazel eyes darkened, becoming less gold and more chocolate.
“No,” she said quickly and grabbed his shoulders when he would have retreated. “It’s just that I—” She bit her lip as she tried to find the right word, the correct explanation. But there wasn’t one, so she settled on
the truth. “I know it sounds awful to say this aloud, but I guess it just makes me feel relieved that you have something wrong with you as well.”
Amusement softened the hard lines of his face, made the pain slip away.
“We’re a pair?” he asked, echoing her earlier words.
Her jaw fall open. Then she saw that he was fighting a grin and smacked him across the chest. “You’re terrible.”
“No,” he said. “I’m Mason. And you’re gathering more firewood.”
Rolling her eyes, Gabby turned and headed for the tree line. There were plenty of suitable sticks—small twigs and dried moss for kindling, larger branches to build the fire’s strength. She found a group of good-sized logs, but her arms were too full to carry them. In the end, she used her feet to push them into the center of the path, intending to drop the first load off then make another trip for the bigger stuff.
It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes before she returned to the clearing but she might as well have been gone for a decade.
Mason had gotten the fire going and erected her tent. He’d even lugged a fallen log close the hole for the campfire. The thought of cuddling in next to him in front of the warm flames appealed to her immensely.
In fact she could almost imagine it, could almost feel the dry heat on her cheeks, hear the cracking twigs, smell the smoke.
Until she looked inside the tent and saw only one sleeping bag.
“Um . . . where’s your pack?” she asked, suddenly realizing that him not having one was a detail she really should have noticed earlier.
“Inside the shield.”
“Inside the—” The sentence petered out.
“Shield,” he finished for her, not exactly helpfully. His lips twitched, and he tapped her lightly on the nose. “Don’t worry, Sunshine. I’m not expecting to share. You’ll sleep in there and I’ll stay out here by the fire.”
Part of her—certainly a self-destructive part — was disappointed that he wasn’t going to push her to share. The rest of her was relieved. She wasn’t in any position to be considering sleeping with him, not when she could barely tolerate anyone touching her.
