"Here." He slips a broad hand around my ribs, under my right shoulder, and helps me out.
Without bothering to thank him, I stalk to the passenger side. He edges back onto the road, and we ride in silence for a while.
"Where are you staying tonight?" I ask stiffly, as we approach the edges of the city.
"Probably at a hotel."
"But if you use your own name to register, Emily could find you."
"Yes."
Ugh. Am I really doing this? "You could stay with me."
He shakes his head. "No. I won't put you in danger."
"She doesn't know me. She has no idea I'm the one who got you out, or where I live. It'll be fine." I stare out the window. I didn't sleep much last night—too worked up over the prospect of helping Oakland escape—and now that I've done it, I feel suddenly tired. I'm zoning out, mesmerized by the lines of trees flashing past.
After several minutes I speak again. "So you decided to do the job for Emily after all. I thought you had an alternate plan."
"I did, but you made me rethink it. You seemed rather averse to the idea of my killing her."
I whirl to stare at him. "Um, yeah. You could say that."
"I don't think you fully understand who she is, and what she does," says Oakland. "She's a terrible person—a thief, a blackmailer, and probably a murderer herself. I knows she tortures people regularly to get them to do what she wants."
"So she needs to be arrested and tried for the crimes, not murdered."
He shakes his head. "No human jail or court system could handle her."
"What about a magical one? Don't wielders have their own system for shutting down the crazy ones?"
"Not really. There are large magical organizations with their own rules and enforcers. They offer careers, protection—a purpose for the magic. Wielders usually belong to one of those. But there are always the rogue elements, like Emily. She works alone, and since she's not affiliated with an organization, no one has the authority to deal with her, or hold her back."
"Great. And you think she'll try to find you again?"
"Well, I botched the job. She'll want to know exactly why. If I messed it up through incompetence, I'll pay for it with pain."
I imagine Emily torturing Oakland, making him crumple before her, and I shudder. "Why did the job go wrong?"
"Her information was incomplete," he replies. "One of her contacts must have tried to screw her over by giving her faulty information."
"You should email or call her and tell her that. Maybe she won't hurt you if she knows it wasn't your fault."
"She might not. But then she would find her informants and hurt them instead. I don't want to be responsible for that."
"You wouldn't be responsible. It's not like you'd be inflicting the torture yourself, right?" I cringe even as I say it, because it sounds selfish and callous. But I really don't want him hurt. I'd rather Emily wreak her vengeance on some faceless people I don't know. "You're definitely coming home with me," I tell Oakland. "I don't want Emily finding you."
He doesn't turn toward me, only stares at the road ahead. We're in the city now, winding through Charlotte's thick lunchtime traffic.
"Can we stop for food?" he says. "I'm starved. And we'll need to go to the place where I left my car before the job. I need to get my phone and my wallet."
-13-
Call It What You Want
Since the place he was supposed to rob is beyond city limits, on the opposite side of Charlotte from the wildlife center, it takes a full three hours total to eat, retrieve his car, and get a few overnight things from his apartment. Fortunately Emily doesn't show up while we're at his place, although I keep the car running just in case we need a quick getaway.
By the time he and I finally enter my building, I'm exhausted. My toes are stinging and my bitten shoulder aches deep inside, with little flickers of sharp pain and itchiness across the surface, right under the bandages. I'm hot, thirsty, weary, and grouchy. Not even the blissful cold of the lobby air conditioning softens my mood.
I march toward the elevator, press the button, and lean against the wall on my good shoulder while I wait. Oakland stands opposite me. I'm uncomfortably conscious of his gaze, and of how unappealing I must look right now, with my makeup sweat-dampened, my hair sticking to my neck, and my feet stuffed into giant boots.
The unrelenting pressure of his eyes is too much. "What are you looking at?" I snap.
"You're tired," he says.
"No shit, Sherlock."
The elevator dings and the doors slide back. I drag myself inside and lean against the wall again. "Fourth floor."
He presses the number four. "You shouldn't have come after me. You're still hurt."
"I didn't see anyone else lined up to rescue you." All I can think about is bed. My bed. Maybe a shower first—though I'll have to go through the annoying rigmarole of taping my shoulder bandage to keep moisture out of the wound. Still, a nice refreshing shower might be worth the effort. Then again, Oakland will need a shower, too. He smells—weird. Like unwashed animal mixed with sweat. Not a good scent.
He props himself against the elevator wall beside me. "I guess I did need you." He smiles at me, and my lips quirk in response, in spite of my exhaustion. He might be smelly, but damn is he gorgeous. If I weren't in so much pain right now, I might make a move right here. I've always had elevator fantasies. None that I'd act on, because I'm no exhibitionist—but still—
The elevator stops, and the doors open.
"Here we are." I sway away from the wall, and he steadies me with the hand that isn't holding his duffel bag. "I'm number 402. Right here."
My apartment smells faintly of paint, and more strongly of citrus candles and gardenia body spray. There's an undercurrent of dish soap and cooking oil, too. I inhale, relaxing instinctively, and drop the tote from my shoulder to the floor.
And then I feel the heat of the big man behind me and I remember that I'm not alone here—that I'm letting someone else into my personal sanctuary. That I didn't plan on him being here. That my bra is draped over the chair and my panties are probably still on the floor by the laundry bag because I was in too much of a hurry to stow them properly this morning. That I have dishes in the sink and my bed is a mess of twisted sheets and dented pillows.
"Sorry it's such a wreck in here." I dive for the panties and stuff them into the laundry bag, hissing as the sudden movement tweaks my shoulder.
"What are you talking about? It's nice! Bright and airy—looks neat to me. Now if you want to know what a wreck is, you should see my brother Ryden's room at home. My sister used to tell him he should have been a pig shifter instead of a panther." Oakland's laugh, easy and relaxed, fills up the room and makes it brighter, somehow. "These windows are huge."
"Yeah, I do a lot of drawing and art stuff in here, so I need the light. This place has been perfect." I shift my weight from one foot to the other. "So—do you want to shower?"
"Sure, but after you."
I don't even argue with him. I need to be clean and comfortable, and then I want to collapse on my bed, order takeout, and eat and watch TV until I fall asleep. With Oakland here, that might not happen. I scan the room, suddenly aware that I have a lot of chairs and no sofa. There's a twin-sized air mattress under my bed, but it popped a hole last time a friend stayed over, and I haven't patched or replaced it. Where is Oakland going to sleep?
While I'm in the shower, I run through different scenarios in my mind. The one where I send him out to buy an air mattress. The one where I make him a blanket-bed on the floor. The one where I offer to share the bed as long as he doesn't touch me. And the final one, the one that sends a tingle to certain sensitive parts of me—the one where I seduce him and we fall asleep tangled up on the bed together.
I sigh, toweling off gently and re-slinging my arm. I check my feet and replace the bandages. I'm sore and tired—not really in the mood to seduce anyone. But I put on a little makeup anyway before dressi
ng in lightweight shorts and a soft jersey T-shirt. In a moment of daring, I leave off the bra.
When I step out of the bathroom, Oakland is standing by my worktable, flipping through a sketchbook. He looks up, grinning. "There are a lot of pictures of me in here," he says. "In one of them, I'm stark naked."
With a little yelp, I drop my dirty clothes and dash to his side, snatching the book and slamming it shut. "That's just for practice," I say. "You know how art students study live nude models, just to get used to drawing all parts of the human form. It's practice. Kinda boring, actually. I don't even—"
He's still grinning, green eyes sparkling.
"Go take a shower," I tell him. "You stink."
"I know." He wrinkles his nose. "I can smell me." He grabs a few items from his bag and retreats to the bathroom. "You know, if you ever need practice drawing from life instead of from memory—"
I push him into the bathroom and pull the door shut, blushing and smiling, listening to him chuckle on the other side of the door.
While he's showering, I muster enough scraps of leftover energy to clean up the place a bit. And then my hands start to shake with weariness and hunger. I didn't eat any breakfast, and not enough at lunch.
I rap on the bathroom door. "Do you like Chinese food?"
"I prefer Japanese," he responds. "It's somewhere in the bloodline."
Japanese, huh? It would explain the angle of his eyes, the smooth upper eyelids.
"Japanese it is. Anything in particular?"
At his request, I order him steak and vegetables and a lot of spring rolls. I add a shrimp bowl for myself and pay through the app. "The food is on the way. Should be about half an hour. God bless the 21st century." I move from the bathroom door back to the bed, sinking onto it. "Oh, this is too nice," I murmur, lying back against the pillows. I can't help it. My entire body craves comfort right now. I don't even care that the puncture wounds at the back of my shoulder are complaining about the pressure from the pillows. I sigh and close my eyes.
The next thing I know, Oakland has opened my apartment door and is tipping the delivery guy. He sets the overstuffed bag of food on the table and closes the door again, turning the lock.
I sit up, readjusting my shirt. I feel oddly confused and stupid. "What happened?"
"You fell asleep."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be." The smile he gives me isn't that cocky grin from earlier—it's sun-warm and summer-sweet. "I liked seeing you that way. You're beautiful, you know."
"Um, thanks." I move to sit up, and a groan escapes me before I can stop it. I fall back again.
"Stay!" he orders. "Is it your shoulder?"
"Mostly."
"Do you have medication for it?"
"In the bathroom. But I should eat something first."
"I'll bring you your food. Stay there."
"Okay then." I snuggle back into the pillows. I got used to my mother pampering me, and it's nice to have someone here to do it again—especially since that someone wears a tight-fitting white T-shirt whose short sleeves cup his biceps so perfectly.
He hands me my food, grabs me a soda from the fridge, and hops up onto the bed beside me without being asked. "What are we watching?"
"Huh?" I part my lips, fanning my open mouth. That first bite of spring roll was way too hot.
Oakland points to the TV. "The way it's set up, I'm guessing you watch TV from here a lot, yeah? So—Netflix and chill?"
My heart flip-flops, and I choke on my second bite. This damn spring roll is cursed.
Oakland pats my back, careful not to jar my shoulder; but the coughing hurts anyway. "Sorry," he says. "It was a joke."
I swallow, take a deep breath, and turn toward him. My bed is a double, which puts him close enough that his left shoulder brushes my right one. Close enough that the warmth of his body, the clean cedar-and-rain smell of him, entrances my senses, turning my mind light and liquid. Desire prickles over my skin.
"A joke?" I say softly. "Was it really?" I look into his handsome face, at the slope of his dark brows and bold cheekbones, the faint hollows of his cheeks and the curve of his jaw. His eyes dart down, and I know that the chill of desire that rushed over me left evidence, visible to him right through my thin shirt. He averts his eyes quickly, his fingers tensing around his styrofoam container of food. "I'm sorry for sending you away," I tell him. "I was scared. But now that I've had some time—I think I'm more scared of letting you go without figuring out what this could be."
"Yeah?" His eyes flash up to mine, sparking with hope.
"Yeah." I smile at him. "But before you say anything else—can we eat? I'm starved. Like, I'm literally shaking." I hold up my hand so he can see my fingers trembling.
"Eat, then," he says. "We'll talk later." And he winks at me in a way that makes my insides quiver with delight.
We watch single episodes of a bunch of different shows—some of his favorites and some of mine—talking about our fandoms, finding the intersections and divergences of our tastes. He already knows so many of mine that I feel left behind. He truly has been watching me, learning everything he can about me. He has loved me deeply, intensely, for a long time. And he's holding himself back, playing it cool and cautious so he doesn't scare me off. The panther, pacing softly closer to its prey, lulling it into complacency before pouncing. Somehow I don't think I'll mind the pouncing part. In fact, if the current state of my body is anything to go by, I need to be pounced upon, and soon.
-14-
Can't Fight the Moonlight
He doesn't make a move.
Not even after we've both made our final trips to the bathroom for the night, and all the lights are off except for the flickering TV. It's nearly eleven, and I've long since slipped under the blankets. But I don't want to go to sleep. I want him to touch me. I want it so badly I can't concentrate on the show—hell, I can barely breathe.
I could make the first move. But I want him to do it. I told him I'd changed my mind, so why the hell doesn't he make a damn move?
He hasn't even tried to kiss me.
Frustrated, I turn my head aside on the pillow and stare at his profile.
And after a second, he turns and stares back.
We lie there, half-reclined, side by side, our faces a hand's breadth apart.
I always hated looking into Jeremy's eyes for any longer than a few seconds. I'd get self-conscious and start to laugh, and then I'd dissolve into giggles and look away.
This look I'm sharing with Oakland right now—it cuts me open, rips away everything I hide behind and lays me raw and pulsing and wanting before him. And in his eyes I see an ocean of tenderness and a roaring torrent of animal passion; but he has it all dammed up behind a wall of caution. A wall that I built. He's afraid I'm going to push him away again, hurt him again.
"Tell me what you're thinking," I whisper.
He swallows. Licks his lips. Blinks long dark lashes over those green eyes. "I'm thinking you need to get some rest."
"What if I don't want to sleep?"
"You need to." He sits up, swinging his feet off the bed. "I can take the floor."
"Don't be an idiot. You're staying right here. What is this, the Victorian Era? Lie the hell down, Oakland."
He turns, incredulous and amused. "You're bossy, you know that?"
"I'm aware. Lie down."
With a deep sigh, he settles back down next to me and turns off the TV. It's pitch black for a second, until my eyes adjust and I can see again in the silvery-blue mix of starlight and moonlight shining through my apartment windows.
Oakland shifts beside me, easing himself under the blankets, and the movement brings him closer. His shoulder and arm are lightly pressed against mine. The sensation of warm, solid muscle and smooth skin send flickers through my body, like electric pulses through wires.
To hell with this.
I turn on my right shoulder, pressing my body along his side, my lips brushing his face. I kiss his smooth cheek, the
n his rough jawline—and then I set my lips against his ear and breathe softly before tugging his earlobe gently with my teeth.
He turns immediately, his hand slipping behind my neck, his mouth caressing mine for a second before pressing in, sure and firm and sweet. He kisses me again, and again, a little deeper each time, slipping his tongue between my lips, gliding in and out—I'd pull him closer if it weren't for my wounded shoulder.
"Tell me how you feel about me," I whisper into the silver dark when he takes a breath.
Something—a growl?—rumbles deep in his chest—the sexiest thing I've ever heard. "Marilyn, I love you."
I kiss him. "Again."
"I love you." He presses his forehead to mine, and the sweet intimacy of the gesture makes me flinch inside. I'm asking him to bare his feelings for me, but I'm not reciprocating.
So I whisper the truth. "I don't know if I love you. But I think I've felt something between us for longer than I would let myself admit. And after the fire, you were all I could think about. I don't want anyone else—just you. And I don't want you to ever be with anyone else but me. You're someone I admire." I trace his cheek with my thumb. "Someone I need."
His laugh is slow and rough with desire. "That's love, Marilyn."
"I think it might be." I taste his mouth again, and the tingles of delight trickle down, down, between my thighs, and I shift to press my hips nearer to his. He's hard under the shorts, the way he often seems to be around me.
He pulls away a little, and I curse my pinioned left arm because I can't touch him like I want to. "Oakland," I murmur brokenly into his mouth, "don't move away. I want you—" I drop my voice to a whisper— "I want you inside me."
"Oh hell," he groans. "Do you know how long I've wanted to make love to you? How many times I've imagined—but you're hurt, and you're tired."
"You'll be gentle with me. Please, Oakland."
He rises, and I roll onto to my back to watch him undress. It's not a show; there's no self-conscious flexing and hip-thrusting like Jeremy used to do. Oakland simply strips off his clothes—baring himself to me physically as he did emotionally. He's being so brave, because I know I hurt him before, back at the hospital, when I sent him away. And now this beautiful man has held out his heart to me. Laid it in my hand, where I could crush it if I wanted to.
The Lion and the Artist Page 12
