North of Need (Hearts of the Anemoi, #1)

by Laura Kaye

  “Aw, yes, ice cream, please.”

  She shook her head. “So easy to please.” The flashlight revealed half gallons of chocolate chip cookie dough, chocolate chunk, mint chocolate chip, and peaches and cream. A girl alone in a cabin couldn’t have too much ice cream. She turned to him for his preference.

  “Scoop of each?” He rocked forward on his elbows like a kid hoping his mom would say yes.

  It was such an incongruous action given his size and age—a little older than her, she guessed—that she laughed. She covered her mouth with her hand, unused to the sound, unfamiliar with the lightness of being it caused. “Okay,” she finally managed. “Why not.”

  Bewildered by her own reactions, Megan chose peach for herself and prepared his sampler bowl. She nodded him over to the sofa with their dessert and curled into her favorite corner. How odd to be so comfortable with him when just an hour ago she’d been prepared to assault him with an iron poker. She couldn’t explain it, but felt the rightness of it down deep.

  §

  Owen watched Megan’s lithe form retreat from the kitchen before springing into action and following her. Her actions, her words, the flash of her blue eyes and heating of her soft cheeks—everything about her already intrigued him.

  She was so much more than he’d been shown.

  Bowl in hand, he sank into the opposite corner of the couch. He waited until she had her first spoonful, then dug into the ice cream with fervor. He tasted a little of each. The flavors exploded on his tongue, the cold creaminess filled him with strength. Gods, between the coldness and the sweetness, he couldn’t get enough. He looked up when Megan chuckled. “What?”

  “I take it the ice cream is a hit?”

  Damn, what he wouldn’t do to see more of that smile, reserved as it was. “So good.” He stretched closer and peered in her bowl. “Is that the peach?”

  She nodded and spooned the cream between her lush pink lips.

  His spoon sagged in his hand as he watched. He stifled a groan when she licked her lips and he added another attribute to his newfound favorite dessert: dangerous. Because it made him want to throw his peach ice cream away in favor of tasting it from her tongue. He looked down into his bowl and decided to save the peach for last. So he could savor the same flavor coating the inside of her mouth.

  Once he refocused on the ice cream, he became a man on a mission. He plowed through the mint, then the chocolate chunk, then the chocolate chip cookie dough—ice cream and cookies together? He was powerless to stop the little moans that escaped his throat as he ate. Between the dessert and his company, he was in heaven. Well, heaven on earth.

  And, oh gods, the peach ice cream was the sweetest sin. The thought that this was what she tasted like, right now… He had to shift in his seat.

  When had he last taken such pleasure in the world? In another being? He savored the dessert, forced his thoughts to focus on the goodness of it. Because the last thing he wanted was to focus on the answers to those questions.

  When the scoops were all gone, he tilted his bowl to spoon out the melted cream.

  “You so want more.”

  Owen’s gaze cut to Megan’s face, painted with humor and a challenge to deny her words. He couldn’t. “I do. But I’ll hold off for now.” He rubbed a hand over his stomach, stretched in satiation. Her smile grew, and it touched him in strange places. And he thought he’d enjoyed the ice cream.

  She twisted her lips, but her eyes danced with amusement. “You sure?”

  “For now.”

  “Okay.” Megan carried their bowls to the sink and returned to the couch, picking up the discarded blankets in front of the fireplace as she moved. She curled back into her seat and draped a blue one over her lap. “So.” She picked at an invisible thread in her lap. “Is it soon yet?”

  “Soon?”

  “Yeah, you know, you said I’d get some answers ‘soon.’”

  “Ah.” Her expectant gaze pushed him to open up, no matter his hesitancy about overwhelming her by telling too much, too soon. “Well, what would you like to know?”

  She stared at him a long moment. “How did you end up on my doorstep tonight? How did you know my name?” She scooted toward him as she spoke, readjusted the throw over her legs.

  Owen debated, then took a leap of faith, hoping she’d leap with him. “I know what this sounds like, Megan, but I was sent here. For you.” He released a deep breath. “A Christmas gift, of sorts.”

  She shook her head. Her brow furrowed over narrowed eyes. Her fingers massaged one temple. “What does that even mean?”

  “Just what I said.”

  “But, who would send me a”—she gestured to his body—“man? As a Christmas present?”

  He swept his hair back off his face. The breathy way her voice had lowered when she’d said “man” made it necessary to shift in his seat. Again. He dropped his hands to his lap. Damn borrowed jeans. “Well, when you say it like that, I might as well be the hired entertainment at a, uh, what do you call it? Oh, a bachelor party.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.” She looked away and smiled. “And I think you mean bachelorette.”

  Soft pink bloomed over her cheeks. His fingers itched to know if the skin would feel as warm as it looked. “Perhaps. And, I know you didn’t.” The smile melted off his face as he recalled what he’d learned about her, before his arrival to this place. “You’ve had a rough go of it, Megan.”

  Her whole body stilled. “And you…know…about my rough time?”

  “A little.”

  “Like you knew my name without my telling you?”

  Owen nodded, appraised her reception of this information. Her thought process worked out in her facial expressions, but she wasn’t running for the hills. Or grabbing the fire poker again. So far, so good.

  “You realize this is all totally weird, and a little creepy?”

  “I can see how you’d feel that. I’m not trying to frighten you, though, just being honest.”

  Megan traced a seam in the blanket, picked at it. “And, uh, how did you come about this information without my sharing it?”

  “From a mutual friend.”

  “A mutual friend.”

  At the tremble in her voice, Owen moved closer on the couch and grabbed the hand twisting the fabric in her lap. He squeezed, hoping the gesture gave her some reassurance, then intertwined his fingers with her smaller ones. For a moment, he got lost in the sensation of touching her. His senses thrilled. She was so warm, so soft. His heart yearned. Amazing how important, how necessary, physical connection to another was to the soul.

  Why had he denied himself this for so long? How many winters had he remained elemental to avoid the awkwardness and betrayal he’d been certain awaited his homecoming to the Realm of Gods? Isolation had become his own personal brand of hell. Made no difference that it had been self-imposed. Then, he’d felt he had no choice.

  “And who might that be?” Her voice drew him from his thoughts. She brushed her thumb against the heel of his.

  This was where it would get interesting. He took a deep breath, fully prepared to tell her the truth.

  She scrambled up and jumped away from the couch. “What the hell? Again? Really? Now you have something to say? Get out of my head already!”

  Alarmed, Owen sprung to his feet. “What’s the matter?”

  “Oh, nothing,” she said, her voice shaky and exasperated. “Just going crazy over here. Don’t mind me.”

  He rubbed his hands against her biceps, trying to ease her. “I don’t—”

  She waved a hand. “I know. Never mind.” She sagged within his grip. “Apparently, I’m not ready for this conversation.” She said the last part louder, and directed it out into the empty space of the room instead of to him.

  Owen squeezed h
er arms, ignoring the physical urge to pull her into his, and bent down to look her in the eyes. “Okay, then. Well, you just let me know.”

  Chapter Six

  Megan stared at herself in the mirror, the flashlight throwing up a long oval of gold from its perch in the sink. She’d had enough weirdness for one day and promptly announced she was tired and going to bed after the annoying voice-from-beyond butted in with his two cents again. She froze. Since when had she decided the voice was a him?

  She half believed she would wake up any minute and find this had all been one bizarre-o dream. Except for the little, er, big problem of the very real, very flesh-and-blood male currently parked on her couch for the night.

  Peeking into the living room through the bathroom’s connecting door, she called out, “You gonna be okay out there, Owen?”

  He was lying on his back, long flannel-pajama-clad legs crossed at the ankle and arm up over his head. Cover off to the side. No shirt. Jeez, his chest was broad and defined, stomach cut with ridges of muscles. He turned a lazy gaze from the fire to where she stood in the doorway. “I’m good. Thank you, for everything.”

  Good, indeed. She’d never look at that couch the same way again. She hugged herself. “Okay, well, give a shout if you need anything, or just help yourself. G’night.”

  He nodded. “Good night, Megan.”

  Megan ducked back through the door, leaving that one open in case he needed the bathroom in the night. She trailed through the bathroom out to her bedroom—the cabin’s only bedroom—and closed the door behind her.

  She frowned. It locked from the inside, so there was no locking him out. Which, hmm, now that she thought about it, kinda negated the fact that she’d locked the main door to her bedroom.

  “You better be right,” she said, head tilted back to the ceiling. “It better be ‘okay,’ just like you said it would be.” She stilled, listened. Of course. Never talkative when she wanted. Stupid voice. She climbed in bed and arranged the covers. “And don’t even think of pulling any Dickens-esque ghost tour tonight, either. You’d be a day too late, anyway.”

  With a huff, she settled back into the pillows. Aah, so warm, so comfortable. God, she needed some rest. Everything would look clearer in the morning.

  Her eyes trailed to the ceiling, but the glow-in-the-dark stars didn’t shine tonight. There hadn’t been enough light to set them to glowing for her. She felt John’s presence anyway. Here, in this place that had always been just their own. “I miss you, John. I’m sorry there’s a strange man in our house. But I couldn’t leave him out in the storm, ya know? Hope you don’t mind too much. He’s kinda nice.”

  She turned on her side facing outward, punched the pillows to get comfortable. Her mind wouldn’t settle. She flipped to the other side. Closed her eyes. Concentrated on falling asleep, which chased it further away. She couldn’t even pretend she didn’t know what the problem was though, because she had no trouble concentrating on the man sleeping on her couch.

  Owen. A complete stranger she’d met so recently she could count the hours on one hand. It was ridiculous she was giving him any special thought at all. But the more she told herself that, the more her brain conjured images of their evening together. The timbre of his voice complimenting her. The intensity of his dark gaze. Those little moans of pleasure he made over their dinner, and the ice cream. The way she forgot she was alone.

  Owen made her think things, feel things, want things she hadn’t allowed herself to even consider in the previous two years. Things in her darkest hours she couldn’t have even conceived of having again. On the one hand, it felt like she’d just lost John yesterday. But, on the other, sometimes it felt like he’d been gone forever. Like maybe he’d never really been here at all. Was two years enough time to let her eyes—her heart—open to the world around her again?

  “Stupid,” she mumbled into the pillow. “Way to get ahead of yourself, Megs.”

  Sleep eluded her for a long time. She tossed and turned. Her ears strained to pick up any telltale signs of Owen’s movement, but everything was quiet. At one point, she toyed with the idea of going out and stoking the fire. The air was downright cold, though she was comfortable in bed with the covers piled high and deep. With only those chenille blankets, though, Owen would get cold if the fire died completely, but she hated the possibility of waking him. Finally, she settled for just checking on him. If she could see he was asleep like he was supposed to be, maybe she could settle herself.

  Megan crept from bed and threaded through the bathroom. She couldn’t see his eyes from across the great room, so she tiptoed closer until she could confirm they were closed. His soft, slow breaths told her he was out. The chenille lay twisted around his calves and feet, leaving all that broad, toned flesh of his chest and abdomen exposed to the chilled air.

  Her fingers itched to pull the cover up over him. Hmm. Probably overstepping. She nodded to herself and returned to bed. This time, she fell right to sleep.

  §

  Her cries woke him. He flew into a sitting position and listened as she whimpered and called out plaintive, half-formed words.

  Owen debated for only a moment before hauling himself off the sofa. He strained to read the clock on the hearth, and barely made out it was a little after two. Except for a few orange coals on the bottom, the fire had gone out.

  In the darkness, Owen cut through the bathroom and pressed his ear against the door to her room. She let out a high-pitched cry. His chest tightened. He was here for her, and she needed him. Quietly, he turned the knob and stepped into her room. He stilled as he made out the arrangement of furniture. “Megan? You okay?” he whispered.

  Just as he suspected, she was asleep. He padded around her bed and knelt beside it.

  Her face was crumpled in anguish. The small, feminine hand that hung off the edge of the bed twitched and clenched. He grasped it with his own. Softly. Gently. “Sshh, angel. I’ve got you.”

  Her hand stilled, clutched back. The strained sounds quieted. Her face relaxed. That his touch soothed her ignited a satisfied warmth throughout his chest. He wanted to bring her solace, happiness. He wanted to be the only one to ever again do that for her. It was why he’d been made in this form. Why she’d made him. Even if she didn’t know it yet.

  For long, quiet moments, he studied her peaceful countenance. She was lovely, beautiful even, her complexion mirroring the peaches and cream they’d shared. Blonde waves surrounded her face in a soft frame and tumbled down over her shoulder. He longed to brush the stray curls off her forehead, her cheek.

  His need to touch her further meant it was time for him to return to his own makeshift bed. A man of his word, he would bide his time, to the extent he could, and let her come to the realization that she needed him. As much as he needed her.

  He carefully untangled his hand from hers, watching her face to make sure he wasn’t disturbing her. Missing her touch instantly, he retreated. But as he reached the bathroom door, she exhaled a low moan. His heart seized. He froze, pulled in two directions. When she did it again, he simply couldn’t leave.

  He’d stay. Facing the bed, he laid himself on the floor as close as he could. He reached up, gently reclaimed her hand, and repositioned her just enough for the mattress to support their hands’ weight. Resting his head on his folded right arm, he shifted until he was as comfortable as possible.

  She was quiet again, peaceful. He smiled and closed his eyes.

  §

  Megan blinked into consciousness, luxuriating in some of the best sleep she’d had in ages. God, what a difference it made. She yawned, then rolled onto her back as a stretch gripped her muscles. Something warm and heavy restrained her hand. Megan looked down and gaped.

  Stunned, she yanked her arm out from under the big masculine hand that could only belong to one person. She shifted to the bed’s edge and peered over, knowing
what she’d see but not understanding it. Owen. Stretched out along the whole length of her bed. Her eyes raked over his body, drinking in his tousled black hair, miles of bare skin and cut muscles, the black trail of curls that led down to his pajama bottoms, which had settled low on his hips. Dangerously low.

  Damn. She couldn’t have built a better model if she’d tried. Even in the dim pre-morning light, his physical perfection was obvious.

  Movement drew her gaze back to his face and she blushed. Dark eyes blazed up at her. Totally busted.

  “Morning.” His sleepy voice was pure gravel.

  “Morning. Um, what are you doing down there?”

  “Don’t be mad.” He tugged his hair out of his face. “You were crying in your sleep, having a bad dream, I guess. But when I held your hand, you stopped.”

  Her heart expanded in her chest. He’d laid there all night? Just to ward off her nightmares? She wasn’t sure how that made her feel, but certainly not mad. “I’m not mad, but how long have you been laying there?”

  He eased up onto one elbow. “Came in around two.”

  “Owen!” She pushed into a sitting position. “You’re been on the floor for hours? You must be freezing.” Her brain finally moved past his beautiful near-nakedness to the realization that nothing separated his bare skin from the cold, hard wood or the unheated air. He didn’t even have a pillow.

  He rose to his feet, yanked at his hair again. “I’m sorry. I’ll just…” He thumbed over his shoulder.

  “No. I told you, I’m not mad. I just can’t believe you slept on the floor all night. For me.”

  “You needed me.”

  Three simple words. She sucked in a breath. So much meaning, so much potential. She’d been alone so long. Her heart pounded against her chest, as if trying to get to him. As he stood, shuffling his feet and looking anxious, her world wobbled, then full-out tilted on its axis. She did need him. She knew it was crazy, that she could never explain it to someone who hadn’t been here, but despite only knowing him for twelve hours, they had a connection. She felt it. And his words told her he did too.