by Nadine Mutas
“Thorne…” She gave a small shake of her head. “I—”
“Don’t. It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted you to know.”
He released her wrist, ready to gently push her off him, when she leaned in and kissed him. Surprise rendered him motionless for a moment. Then, the heat of her lips on his sank in, zinged through him in electric currents. Everywhere she touched him—her nose brushing his cheek, her chin pressing against his, the weight of her chest pushing against his torso—tingles of warmth and pleasure sparked, ran down his nerves, making him feel as shockingly alive as if he’d just stuck his fingers in a socket. His whole body hummed with life.
Basking in her scent—fresh-cut grass and summer nights—he reached out, buried his hand in her hair, and pulled her close as he returned the kiss. Her soft sound of pleasure emboldened him. He licked her lower lip, sucked it gently, and nibbled on it.
Her breath hitched. Next thing he knew, she’d opened her mouth to him, deepening the kiss. The moment his tongue touched hers, his world drowned in pleasure.
How such a small, simple touch could short-circuit his entire system, he had no fucking idea. All he did know at this instant, was that kissing Anjali was the single most thrilling experience he’d ever had.
Not even his most sensual dreams of what she would feel like came close to reality. This—her scent, her warmth, her taste, the way she melted against him—it eclipsed any fantasy he’d created about her. The pulsing sting of his wounds forgotten at the heavenly feel of having Anjali leaning on him, her breasts rubbing against his chest, he groaned.
With a gasp, she broke the kiss and stared at him. “Oh my gods, I’m so sorry.”
The wha…? He blinked, his pleasure-soaked brain trying in vain to catch up.
She scrambled off him and righted her clothes. “You’re still hurt, and here I am, rubbing myself all over you like some mindless dog. Ugh!” Burying her face in her hands, she turned away for a second then rounded on him again. “Do you want me to get you some pain meds? Do you have Tylenol? Ibuprofen? Let me go check.” And with that she practically ran into the bathroom.
Again, he blinked, taken aback by the abrupt change in mood and pace. It took him a moment, but then reality came crashing back into his cozy little world of sensual escapism and smacked him over the head. What the hell had he been thinking kissing Anjali? Of all the stupendously stupid things he could do…
With a groan, he rubbed his palms over his face, closed his eyes. Getting involved with her like this, it would only lead to disaster. No matter how much he wanted her—and how much she apparently wanted him back—no matter how fantastic being with her felt, he couldn’t allow himself to get this intimate with her.
If the pairing of a chaya darshini and a shadow demon—the epitome of natural-born enemies—wasn’t ironic and impossible enough, there was the not-so-little issue of his past…and the secret staining it. If Anjali ever found out…
His heart plummeted, and he choked, the room suddenly devoid of air. Trembling, he sat up, grasped the back of the couch in a steel grip. He swung his legs over the side to plant his feet on the floor and leaned forward, black bleeding into his vision. Steady, Thorne. Breathe steady. He put his head between his knees, wheezing. Cold chills ran up and down his skin. The sting of his wounds was a distant ache, no match against the force of his panic attack.
She can never find out.
He’d make sure of it. By keeping his fucking distance, even if it tore him apart.
“By the powers, how can you not have a single pill of pain meds in your house?” Anjali’s voice came from the bathroom, carrying enough disbelief to topple scientific theories.
“Don’t like them,” he rasped. He hated the feeling of losing control, even a little bit, over his own body and mind. He’d rather suffer through hours of agony than be numbed and drugged.
“So you never—oh gods, are you okay?” She was at his side in an instant, lifting his head, brushing his hair out of his face. “What’s wrong?”
Her eyes searched his, and there was such worry in them. For him. A novel feeling, having someone care like that. Having Anjali care like that. He could only stare, and marvel, at what felt like a dream, a hallucination. Maybe the pain had gotten to him after all.
She bit her lip, a line forming between her sleek black eyebrows. “It’s because of me, isn’t it? You’re in pain because I threw myself at you. I shouldn’t have assaulted you like that.” She closed her eyes. “I’m so, so sorry.”
He touched her face, his thumb stroking over her silken cheek. “No. I didn’t mind. I’ve been assaulted a number of times in my life, but this was by far the sweetest.”
He watched, mesmerized, as her skin flushed darker. Tension pulsed between them, power charging the air until he was sure a single magic spark would set the room ablaze.
Dammit, he’d gotten lost again in the magic that drew him to her like a fairy to a witch’s bonfire. And he’d burn like one, too, if he didn’t get a grip and keep his distance.
“You should leave.” It came out harsher than he’d intended.
Anjali flinched as if he’d slapped her.
Crap. He cleared his throat. “I mean, your family will be worried. You should get back home.”
“I’ve got it covered. Got an alibi for the night. They don’t expect me until morning.”
“Still. You shouldn’t stay here.” He ignored the shimmer of hurt in her eyes—better cut this off right now—and looked out the window. Night held the world in her grasp. It wouldn’t be dawn for another few hours. “I’ll accompany you. Make sure you get home safe.”
He started to rise but stopped at the agonizing pain tearing up his side. Locking his muscles, he held on to the couch’s back with a steel grip, trying to hide how much he trembled under the strain. Sweat beaded on his brow. Little lights danced in front of his eyes. His stomach decided to make a somersault.
“Whoa!” Anjali lurched to her feet, grabbed his arms and steadied him. “You’re in no condition to accompany anyone anywhere. Lie back down.”
“I’m fine.” Spoken through gritted teeth and heavy breathing as if he’d just run a marathon. His chest ached like it, too.
“Uh-huh, and I’m Aishwarya Rai Bachchan.”
“Who?”
“Huge Bollywood star. Never mind.” She waved the topic away, then poked him in the chest, avoiding his wounds. “You. You need to rest, so lie back down.”
“Gotta protect you. Your charm’s depleted. You can’t go alone.”
“Well, then I’ll just have to stay here for now, won’t I?” The smile she gave him was pure cat-got-the-cream smugness.
“Fine,” he grumbled, and slumped back down on the couch.
“Hold on.” She strutted off to the bedroom and returned with his pillow and blanket.
Puzzled, he obeyed when she ordered him to lean forward. She placed the pillow behind his back, fluffed it and then gently pushed him to lie down on it. Next she spread the blanket over him and tucked it around him, careful not to disturb his wounds. Confusion making him dizzy, he stared at her.
“Are you hungry? I’ll make you something to eat. Let’s see what you got in here.” She prowled into the kitchen before he could utter a single word of protest.
Sounds of rummaging, pilfering, discontent grumbling, and—finally—a triumphant shout emerged from the kitchen, followed by the clanging of pots, plates, and utensils. He resigned himself to his fate and closed his eyes, trying his damnedest not to see Anjali’s pleasure-flushed face in front of his mind’s eye, or remember the feel of her lips on his, her tongue exploring his mouth…
Stop, stop, stop. Throwing one arm over his eyes, he clenched his jaw—and covertly readjusted his erection. He could relive that memory later, when he was alone again, and had put some permanent distance between him and Anjali.
The enticing, mouth-watering scent of home-cooked chicken drifted over from the kitchen. His stomach gr
owled, loud enough—he was sure—to wake the pixie colony in the abandoned building across the street.
“Here you go,” Anjali announced.
He opened his eyes to a bowl of steaming soup held out to him by a beaming Anjali.
“Chicken noodle soup. Good for the soul, good for the body. It’ll help you heal. I mean, I’ve got no magic to put in it, sorry about that, but it’s still really good.”
He stared at the bowl. Blinked. Swallowed past a sudden and very unbidden lump in his throat. His chest tightened with a new kind of pain.
“What?” She laughed. “You look like no one’s ever made you chicken noodle soup before when you were sick.”
He looked down, hoping his hair falling into his face hid the sheen of inexplicable wetness that invaded his eyes.
“Wait.” Anjali sucked in a breath. “That’s true? No one’s ever made you soup before when you were sick?”
Trying his best to control the trembling of his hands, he reached out and took the bowl. His focus on the steam rising from the soup, he shrugged. “Is that something people do?”
“It’s something your family does. Your parents. Didn’t your mom—”
“She died when I was born.” He ate a spoonful of soup. That taste, it would forever be intertwined now with the memory of someone taking care of him. Of Anjali taking care of him. He made a mental note to stock up on chicken noodle soup ingredients for the future, so he could relive this moment when he once more stayed away from her.
“Oh.” Her lips stayed rounded on the sound for an instant, and something fractured in her gaze. She was always so open with her emotions, his Anjali. Whatever she felt, it was right there on her face. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t know.” She cleared her throat, shadows sliding over her expression. “My mom’s gone, too.”
The words hit him like a roundhouse kick to his chest.
“She died when I was six.”
I know. He kept eating, calm and composed on the outside. Inside, he was shattering. “I’m sorry for your loss.” More than you’ll ever understand. Those damn, hollow, empty words, they tore him to shreds. They would mean nothing, nothing, to her if she knew the whole truth.
She was silent for a moment, a moment in which he died a little more with each passing second for the horrible secret he kept from her.
“It was a shadow demon, you know.” Her voice was soft but steady.
Chilling dread formed within him, spreading icy fingers through his soul, right into the darkest part beleaguered by relentless guilt.
“She was a chaya darshini, too. She was out on her own, spotted a shadow demon, and called my aunt to get reinforcements to take him down. She’d wanted to wait for backup before she fought him, but something must have happened that gave her away to the demon. When my aunt and my grandma got there, they found her dead, with traces of erebos energy near her.”
He closed his eyes, breathed past the oppressive weight threatening to crush him. “Did your family catch the demon?” How he made his voice sound so steady, so unaffected, he didn’t know.
“No. The energy residue was too faint to trace. I came into my powers a year later, and my family took me on patrols early on, but I never found the demon. I guess he moved away after—” She made a small pause then added softly, “You were the first and only shadow demon I ever saw.”
And she’d never made the connection. She knew he was only about a year older than her, and she probably figured a boy that age couldn’t possibly have anything to do with her mother’s death. Deep inside, another piece of him broke.
A gentle smile graced her lips. Such trust in her eyes. Trust he didn’t deserve. Just like he didn’t deserve her. There was a reason his family had abandoned him, cut him out of their lives like cancerous flesh. He was toxic, he was death, bringing ruin to those around him, and death didn’t deserve the affection that shone in Anjali’s eyes.
Come morning, he would let her go, push her away if necessary, and leave her life for good. Just the thought of her finding out what he’d done, of that trust and affection turning to hate and fear—it was enough to make him want to tear out his own heart. He could never have Anjali look at him with contempt. Or have her be hurt because of him. And if he stayed, if he allowed this to go further, she would get hurt. He’d taint her like he had everything else in his life.
“I need to get some sleep.” His voice sounded as rough and raw as he felt on the inside. “Will you close the shutters?”
“Of course.” She walked over to the windows, made sure the large panels covered them and would shut out all daylight. Next she tucked the blanket once more around him, stroked his hair, and whispered, “Good night.”
This pain, shredding his heart, lancing through his soul, it was worse than any injuries he’d incurred in a fight.
4
Sounds of people moving in the apartment above broke through the veil of sleep, pulling Anjali back into the waking world. Blinking, she opened her eyes, disoriented for a moment. Then, her vision adjusted to the room’s darkness. Small slivers of light glimmered at the edges of the shutters on the windows, the only indication that it was, in fact, day outside.
Her neck and back ached from lying slumped in the armchair next to the couch for hours, but she hadn’t dared move to the bed again. At some point after Thorne had fallen asleep, his arm had dangled down from the couch, and when she’d carefully tried to tuck it back under the blanket, he’d grabbed her hand—and held on. He hadn’t woken, his movement unconscious—and all the more touching for it—and Anjali hadn’t had the heart to disentangle her hand from his. So, flooded by more feels than should be legal, she’d sat down in the armchair while holding on to his hand.
And he still hadn’t let go.
Now, he stirred, his hand tightening on hers for a second, before he opened his eyes, saw their entwined hands, and released her. He cleared his throat. “Morning.” His voice was sleep-rough, the timbre so deliciously low it made her stomach flutter.
“Good morning. Sleep well?”
He nodded and sat up. The blanket fell down to his hips, revealing his bare torso, and she inhaled softly.
“Your wounds. They’re gone.”
He ran his hand over the faint pink lines of new skin, the only proof he’d been recently injured. “Yeah. I’m healed.”
“That’s incredible.”
He shrugged, muscles rolling under his now healthy-looking skin. Skin she wanted to caress, trace the rise and fall of his pecs, his abs, those lines on a man’s hips that made girls stupid, follow the outline of those muscles to where they vanished under the waistband of his pants…
She licked her lips and averted her eyes, desire pulsing in intimate places.
“I’m going to wash up.” He rose from the couch, his casual words of indifference belying the heat of his gaze. Oh, he was very much aware of the direction her thoughts had taken.
And she failed miserably at not sneaking a peek at the noticeable bulge in his pants. Her face flushed with warmth, her skin aflame. “I’ll make breakfast.”
While he went into the bathroom, she made herself useful in the kitchen, preparing scrambled eggs, hash browns, and bacon. Sounds of sizzling and the delectable scent of a hearty breakfast filled the room.
That kiss. It haunted her. What had gotten into her? She hadn’t meant to kiss him, had tried to keep a cool head and not let the attraction between them impair her judgment of his character. Getting involved with him would only make it harder to objectively evaluate whether he was good—and take the necessary actions if she found he wasn’t.
And yet… She’d never felt that kind of pull toward someone. As if her whole being, her soul, was a compass, and he her true north. It became more and more difficult not to touch him when he was close, not to give in to the powerful impulse to close the distance between them, fuse their bodies and find out just how explosive they could be together.
Not to mention how much those bits and piec
es she’d glimpsed of his past made her want to pull him into a hug and take care of him. She’d never met anyone who was in more need of having someone in their life to take care of them, to just be there and be kind.
She paused and rubbed a hand over her breastbone, as if she could thus alleviate the pain pulsing there. Gawds, how her heart ached for him.
And that, right there, was why she had to step back and keep her distance, especially emotionally.
She’d just put the food on the couch table—the only available surface halfway fit for dining—when Thorne stepped out of the bathroom. The towel wrapped around his hips hung precariously low, and she missed a step walking back to the kitchen, almost tumbling into the counter. Holy powers, that view…
He disappeared in the bedroom, breaking the spell she was under. Still, she couldn’t banish the visual memory of his wet chest, beads of water languidly running down toned muscles. Finding herself irrationally envious of those droplets and how they got to touch what was forbidden to her, she banged her head against the fridge. Gods help me.
“That will leave dents, you know.” Thorne’s voice next to her made her jump. “On the fridge.”
His lips curved up just so at the corners, and the gleam of amusement in his eyes was unfairly challenging all her good resolutions. He’d dressed in black jeans and covered that glorious chest with a slate gray T-shirt that molded perfectly tight to all those planes of muscle. Involuntarily, she sighed at so much good-looking maleness in front of her.
“Breakfast’s ready,” she said and walked over to sit down in the armchair, lest she act on any of the numerous ideas of what she could do with him, all of which violated her vow to keep her distance.
They ate in strained silence, all things unspoken between them loud enough to make her ears buzz. When the force of it threatened to suffocate her, she broke the quiet.
“Tell me about your family.” Well done, Anjali. Such a smooth way of easing into an interrogation.
He stiffened, his entire frame so tense she thought he might snap a tendon. “Why?”
