Closing her eyes, she held her breath as the sharp tip sunk into her flesh like butter.
Deeper. It had to be deeper this time. More pain to end the pain.
Her grip tightened on the hilt.
“Don’t!”
Her breath hitched and her eyes darted to the tall, dark shadow on the other side of the shower curtain. The knife fell from her grasp making a loud clang as it landed in the tub.
A tattooed hand shoved the curtain aside, the force unleashing two of the hooks from the steel bar overhead.
Delara nearly fell to her knees at the sight of him and placed her hand on the wall for support. Waleron.
How did she fail to notice his scent? His footsteps? How could she make such a slip up? Because she’d been concentrating on her own pathetic tribulations and never expected him to find her here.
For months, her shack had been her haven where none could locate her—even those with extraordinary capabilities. Even Rayne didn’t know where she was, although Delara called her once a week. Rayne understood why Delara needed to be alone and when she left the island, Rayne had told her to take her time, as long as Delara was back before the baby was born.
Obviously, Delara had underestimated Waleron.
He grabbed her knife from the tub and slid it into the nylon sheaf attached to his belt on his black cargo pants. He positioned himself like a great big boulder in front of the door, his weight leaning back against it in a casual stance. She knew better. There was nothing casual about him. Ever.
She finally found her voice. “What are you doing here?” She watched his impassive face, wishing he’d give some indication as to what he was thinking.
He grabbed a plush, white towel from the rack and tossed it to her.
She caught it, but didn’t bother wrapping it around her nude form even though she was dying to hide herself from his view. Instead, she threw the towel back, hitting him in the head. It fell to his feet ignored. He never moved a muscle. The only change was his ice-blue eyes darkening. She knew what that meant. Pissed.
“What do you want, Pez?” She’d decided a long time ago that using the nickname made her feel less close to him—kept them more impersonal, more casual. At least this is what she kept telling herself. What she wanted to do was shout at him for barging into her private hell. Instead, she raised her brows quizzically, pretending his presence was of no concern.
His eyes remained focused on her, unblinking and narrowed, making his stark, handsome features look like some sort of Greek God statue. He kept his hair brutally short, illuminating the bold-black snake tattoo of his Scar that sat below his left ear and on his shoulder.
Delara stepped out of the tub as gracefully as she could manage in her state of agitation. Droplets of water and blood slipped off her skin as she placed her hands on her hips in order to appear formidable—although inside she felt like Jello—as she addressed him with unadulterated coolness.
“So? Speak or get the fuck out.” Swearing usually managed a flinch out of him since Waleron detested crude language. He once told her that it had something to do with his late mother.
“I didn’t know,” he said, gaze shifting to her self-inflicted leg wounds. Several scars lined her shins and calves, more on her thighs, and some her arms, although the faint lines were barely visible to the naked eye. “I assumed they were from...Tarek.”
She noticed him struggle to say Tarek’s name. “Yeah well, you don’t know a lot of things about me. Your choice, remember?” She yanked a towel from above the toilet and wrapped it around her head to form a turban.
“Why?” He was never was one for long, drawn-out sentences, at least not since he came back and started taking the pills.
Delara shrugged. Opening herself up to him again would be the same as slicing her Talwar across her throat and dying. She may cut, but it had nothing to do with wanting to die.
“Why Delara?” he asked in that familiar deep, husky voice that made her legs feel like marshmallows.
Telling you would be like ripping out my soul and setting it on fire. “None of your damn business.”
His causal stance gone, Waleron straightened. “You are my business, Maitagarri.”
The Basque endearment, meaning beloved, slipped over his tongue like liquid fire and unleashed the final hold on her temper. “Mr. Protector of the Senses. Always has to butt into everyone’s business. Oh, I forgot—he also has to fuck them.” Okay maybe the last was an exaggeration, but the cut on her leg was doing shit for taking her mind off the emotional turmoil swimming through her brain.
He reached her in a millisecond, his arm wrapping around her waist, while his other hand came between them and grabbed her chin, forcing her to meet his narrowed eyes.
“You,” he growled. “I was with you. Never have I been with others as I have with you.”
But he still fucked that witch bitch Trinity in exchange for her visions. Delara had never slept with another man until he did that. It was the driving force, the catalyst proving that what he and Delara once had was over. She jerked her head to the side and, despite his harsh grip, managed to dislodge it. “Yeah whatever, I don’t give a shit anymore.”
“Look at me,” he demanded.
She avoided his magnetic eyes until she figured his patience would trump her own. As soon as their gazes met, she felt the tears well. Fuck that. She slid her hand over her hip to her thigh and pressed against the open wound, just enough so that she grit her teeth in pain.
His expression darkened, “Don’t do it again.”
“Or what? You’ll put me in Rest?” That would be a relief. Sweet, coma-like state for a few years sounded like heaven right about now. Well, except for reliving the most painful part of your existence repeatedly like a scratched record. Kilter had experienced it last year when he’d attacked Waleron and the Talde. He said it was worse than soaking in a pool of acid. That rather summed it up.
The pressure of his hand on her lower back increased and she felt the sensual, soft traces of his fingers against her naked skin. His thumb on his right hand had a slight roughness to it from a scar he’d received before she’d met him. She had asked him about it once while they were sitting together one morning, his thumb casually tracing patterns on the back of her hand. He’d told her that it was from a vamp’s fang. That was it. No elaboration. No gory details. She should have known then that he’d never let her in.
Time to put an end to this before she succumbed to his touch and melted into his arms like some weak-minded teenager, instead of a Senses Tracker who could scent like a bloodhound and kill with the flick of her wrist.
She slid her forearm between them, pushed down on the crook in his arm locked around her waist and jerked away. She strode over to the bed and grabbed her jeans.
The smell of him lingered everywhere and she wondered just how long he’d been waiting in her shack before barging in the bathroom to find her slicing her thigh. Nice one, she scolded herself while tugging on her jeans over wet skin and raw wounds. Let your Taldeburu see you at your weakest. Not her most glorious moment. Ah well, just add it to her list of screw ups.
She yanked the towel from her head and threw it onto the bed. Her wet walnut hair fell in tangled strands to her shoulders. She straightened her back and jutted her chin forward as she met his stare, fully aware that her upper body remained naked to his perusal. “So, guess I don’t have to ask why you’re here.” She attempted to strengthen her voice, but instead it went up an octave and quaked. “I`m coming home in a couple days, so you`ve wasted your time.”
“You failed to answer a single email or text.”
She gestured to the shack. “You see any computer? Any phone? This is...was my place where I could be alone. Don’t take it personally,” she lied, because it was strictly personal. “I’m coming back to face him, Pez.” She held up her hand when he went to speak and the snake tattoo on the side of his neck quivered, its black eyes changing to red for a split second. But Waleron remained silent d
espite his Scar. “I will not run from him, Pez.”
“He will kill you this time,” Waleron stated in a cool, matter-of-fact tone.
She shrugged, then leaned over the bed, picked up the damp towel and unthinkingly began folding it. “Maybe.” Last time she’d seen Tarek, she’d been weak and unprepared. She was different now. “Besides, Rest can change a person.”
Waleron mumbled something with the word bastard.
“And I’ve changed too. I’m not hiding, Pez.”
“Have you?” He stood like a statue, eyes glancing with deliberate blatancy to her thigh where her wound was now covered by her jeans. “Changed?”
“God damn you,” she swore, towel dropping from her hands to the floor as she swung around to face him. “Don’t you dare use this against me!” Him witnessing her cutting had been the worst possible scenario.
“I want to know why,” he prodded again.
“You don’t have the right to know. I’ve never asked you what that Lilac did to you, so get off my case.” Suddenly feeling vulnerable under his gaze, she snatched her black-laced bra from the dresser and quickly snapped it in place then threw on her rumpled, black long-sleeved shirt.
His feet shifted the tiniest amount and she might not have noticed if it wasn’t for the moonlight catching the shiny surface of his combat boots as it filtered through the spaces between the cottage window frame and the planked wall. He remained stoic in his silence, his eyes watching as she finished dressing. She tried to act casual, but under his stare her skin sizzled.
“Don’t do it again,” he repeated with finality.
She rolled her eyes, imaging him sitting on a throne, his fist slamming down on the wooden arm. Control was his middle name. “Is that in the Senses law book? No Senses may harm themselves? I must have skipped that part. God, what will happen to me? Exile or, perhaps, death? Or do I get leniency because I didn’t know that law? Or maybe Tarek trying to kill me is my punishment? Is that my—”
He was on her in one second flat, his hand grabbing the back of her neck. “Stop. Never say that again. Ever. You are not responsible for what he did.”
Wasn’t she? She’d ignored the signs. She let him use her as a punching bag. “Let me go, Pez.”
She felt a slight twitch in his fingers when she used her nickname for him and realized, for the first time, that it bothered him.
He dropped his hand and stepped back. “You are not going back,” Waleron raised his voice. She knew he’d never hurt her physically, but still his anger raised a hint of fear. It was a reminder of what volatile emotions could do to a person. “Pack your things, Delara. We are leaving for Spain.”
Spain? What the hell? Taking a step back, she reached behind her and latched onto the ledge of a drawer in the dresser as if it could stop him from moving her. “Not happening, Pez.”
“You will go to Spain.” His jaw tightened. “I won’t have you anywhere near him.”
Her teeth slammed together with frustration. “If Tarek wants to find me, he will. Spain or the goddamn Swiss Alps. It doesn’t matter.” Oh god, why Spain? Did he know? No, Spain would be the last place he’d send her if he knew.
His hand reached for his right pant pocket and she knew before he even pulled it out that it was his red duck head Pez dispenser. He ate his pills like candy. A click sounded and a tiny, circular, light green tablet dispensed, which he promptly popped into his mouth. She often wondered what he’d do without the damn stuff—what he’d be like and how he’d manage. Most of all, if he’d go back to being the man she’d fallen in love with. Would he really go over the edge like he said he would? Would the darkness descend over him completely? Would she still love him more than anything in this entire world?
“I have to stop running.”
“Yes,” he said. “You do, but now is not the time. Pack your bags, Delara.”
She hesitated, musing over her words that would either convince him or have him throwing her over his shoulder and hauling her off to Spain, Xamien’s Talde. She wondered if Xamien knew. Regardless, no way in hell was she being packaged up and carted off without facing Tarek first. “You’ll kill a part of me that will be unsalvageable unless I face him again. I’m a Senses, Pez. Born and trained as one. If I don’t stand up for myself then what do I have left? Would you run? Have you hidden from Jasmine?” She wanted to throw something at his head and destroy his emotionless façade, but she had managed to garner a slight flinch when she’d said the Lilac’s name. She’d noticed the way his muscles in his forearms tightened and how he blinked twice.
He stood with his feet planted, arms at his sides, and hands curled into fists. Most would think he was being indifferent, but she knew better. Right now, he was fighting for self-control. Just watching the subtle uncoiling of his snake Scar was enough for her to know exactly what he was contemplating. He had demons of his own that ruled his actions. He knew why she was asking about the Lilac, understood because he had suffered more than all the Senses had. He just hid it better.
With his voice a calm, deep tone like that of a summer wind sweeping across the land he said, “Delara, what you ask is beyond my capability. I lived what happened to you, too. I felt your pain, saw what he did and never can I allow that to happen again. Never.” He began to pace the room, something he never did, glancing up at her occasionally as if to make certain she was still there. “I cannot allow this. I gave my oath to protect the Senses. An oath to protect you, Maitagarri. This is what must be done.”
“What are you going to do, tie me up and throw me on a plane? Because I won’t willingly Trace with you.” And that meant he couldn’t Trace her there. She had to be willing; it was a law. Xamien sure would be in for one hell of a surprise if she showed up in Spain.
“If I have to,” Waleron replied without missing a beat.
“Maybe it would be easier if you just beat the shit out of me like Tarek did, but this time you better finish the job because I’m not going to Spain.”
He stopped pacing, his skin tone fading to the color of her stark white bed sheets, while his hand ran across the top of his head. Okay, that was cruel, she realized. Why did she always want to hurt him? Because she wanted him to leave her alone, to walk away and stop protecting her. Nevertheless, he couldn’t. As Taldeburu his oath was to protect the Senses.
The problem was that they were tied together and it was killing them both. They had to release one another from the bonds that connected them, but the question was how when it was already too late to be free.
“You refused me when I needed you after Tarek—your choice. Yours. You fucked me then walked away with me carrying your child. Twenty years you refuse to let me go completely. It can’t continue, Pez.” Weary from this repetitive fight, she sighed. A drop of water fell from a strand of her hair and landed on her cheek below her left eye. “Pez, this… Whatever is between us has to end. I’m tired.” She bowed her head. Even saying the words exhausted her. “I can’t do it anymore. I want someone to love, who loves me in return. I want to end this part of my life. Tarek. You.” She paused. “Yeah, I put you both in the same category. Tarek may have beaten me physically, but those wounds healed. Your wounds don’t. You...you destroyed my heart. You reeled me in then cast me aside after sixty-one years of grieving your death. But, we’ve been through this haven’t we?” She shook her head back and forth, then with an air of courage raised her head and met his penetrating eyes. “You think you’ll hurt me with that bloody Scar. You know what I think? I think that you hide behind those little pills afraid that if you let them go, you will fall. Fall hard into your emotions and then everyone will see you feel. You’re afraid. Afraid to deal with your Scar, to deal with the emotions linked to Jasmine. You don’t want anyone to see you fail because that might just happen if you try.” Once he’d told her he’d try. It was that day in the Realm when he’d found out she was sleeping with the Wraith Edan. She’d known it was Waleron’s way to get her away from Edan. He didn’t want her, but he also didn
’t like her with anyone else. Well, he couldn’t have it both ways. “So, you can say you’ll try all you want, but I know more than anyone that it’s impossible. I can’t...no, I won’t settle for try because that is beyond my capability.”
Waleron’s intricate tattoo slithered, creeping up to his left ear and then down again to curl around his neck as if it were going to strangle him. Its eyes changed from black to red. She’d seen it move before, but never like this. Waleron’s neck corded with strained tension and he ran a finger over part of the tattoo. It hissed as if objecting to his soothing touch, but slid back in place.
His voice, colder than she’d ever heard it before, leaked into her veins like ice water making her shiver and she briefly rubbed her arms. “If I stop the pills I will destroy you and God knows who else. I cannot take that risk. I will not.”
She wanted to stomp her foot and throw a tantrum, but settled for an unladylike grunt. “God, don’t you get it? How many times do I have to tell you? You`ve already destroyed me, damn it.” She turned away, frustrated, and began smoothing down the already immaculate bed comforter, which was a bad idea when Waleron’s image popped into her min—lying on the bed, naked and glorious. She hastily straightened, keeping her back to him, busying her hands by rearranging the placement of her necklace and several books sitting on her dresser. “I’m coming to Toronto in two days. I won’t hide.” She tried to put irrevocability in her tone, hoping he’d let her win, but knowing better.
His footsteps were quiet as he came up behind her. She closed her eyes and tensed, knowing what was coming and yet unable to do anything but stand there. He placed his arms around her waist and pulled her back into the solid warmth of his chest. At one time, she used to put her hands on top of his, link them together, and then tilt her head back so she could rest it on his shoulder while he caressed her neck with his mouth. That was before Jasmine, before Tarek, before the pills.
FALL (The Senses) Page 8
