Race the Darkness

by Abbie Roads

  Gently, slowly, carefully, he pulled himself through her slickness. The friction of her wrapped so tightly around him was a beautiful mercy. He paused, just the tip of him still inside her, then just as easy slid back into her heat.

  “Damn,” she said, her body matching his movements.

  He settled more solidly over her, their bodies touching everywhere. He buried his face in her hair and continued the steady pace. Forced himself to go slow, when what he really wanted was to go at her with everything, all of him. Every little piece. He wanted all of her. He wanted her heart and mind and body and—fuck—her soul. He wanted to brand her, mark her, own her, make it known to everyone that she was his by burying himself so deep inside her that when he came, a piece of him would live inside her forever.

  But this time—her first time—wasn’t the time for wild, deep, and dirty pumping.

  She shifted her hips and he slid impossibly deeper. “Xander. I need more. Harder. Faster.”

  His restraint shattered. His body exploded against hers. Pumping and thrusting, giving her what she wanted, what he needed. Faster and harder and deeper.

  “Xander. Xander. Xander.” She chanted his name as if it were magic. Her body clenched around him.

  His orgasm gathered, pulling energy from his extremities, the power of it converging on his dick. Control vanished. He rammed into her. Her legs wrapped around his waist, and he couldn’t tell who was saying what—hell, it probably wasn’t even words—but they were fucking loud. And it was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard.

  * * *

  Wow. Holy wow. Isleen giggled. She couldn’t help it. The sound effervesced out of her on a wave of genuine joy. Never in her life had she ever felt what she’d just felt with Xander. He chuckled, his breath teasing her hair.

  “Damn. That was ama—” His voice sliced off. He lifted his head and cocked it to the side, listening to something. Carefully he withdrew from her body, the friction of that small movement sending a spark of desire up her spine.

  He tore out of her grasp so unexpectedly that her arms stayed around the airspace his body had inhabited as if she were holding on to a ghost.

  “Shit. Fuck. Goddamn. Stay here.” His tone wasn’t friendly or even mildly cordial. He leaped off the bed, snagged his jeans, and rammed his legs into them, then ran across the bedroom and disappeared down the stairs.

  What. Just. Happened? Isleen sat up in bed. For the first time, she noticed her surroundings. The bedroom overflowed with cheerful morning sunshine bouncing off the fat, blond logs of the cabin’s walls. A railing overlooked the downstairs, but from where she sat, she couldn’t see beyond the ceiling, walls, and windows. She scooted to the edge of the bed. “Xander?”

  Somewhere downstairs a door opened.

  “She’s gone.” Row’s voice quivered with each word, making her sound her age. “I’ve looked everywhere.”

  “Row—” Xander tried to cut in.

  “When she didn’t come down for supper, I checked on her. Poor thing looked like she’d fallen asleep the moment she got out the shower. I didn’t wake her up. But this morning when the front door was open—open, Xander—I knew. I just knew something had happened to her.”

  “Row—” Xander tried again, his voice louder this time.

  “Your father is useless. Matt’s already left for his run. I don’t know what else to do. Should we call the police?”

  Isleen snagged the sheet off the bed, wrapped it around herself, and headed to the stairs.

  “Row—” This time both she and Xander said it at the same time.

  Xander and Row turned toward her.

  “Well, shit.” Row clasped her hand over her granny Maude’s portrait. “I just interrupted… I knew there was something special between the two of you.” Row’s wrinkled face took on a wise-ole-owl expression as she looked back and forth between them and chuckled to herself.

  “It’s not like that,” Xander said.

  Isleen’s attention zeroed in on him, and she felt a wrinkle of confusion furrow into her forehead. It was like that. They’d just made love.

  “No, no, no. No explanation needed. You’re both adults. Consenting adults. What you do is none of my beeswax.” Row jumped up and down and clapped her hands like an excited little girl. “But I am so happy for you both.” She grabbed Xander, who stood at least a foot and a half taller than her, and gave him a squealing, happy hug.

  Xander was tall and broad and made of muscle and male strength, but he melted into a little boy version of himself while Row hugged him. It was so sweet and tender that water came to Isleen’s eyes. This happy crying was getting to be a bit much. But there was so much to be happy about, wasn’t there?

  She ducked back into the loft and dressed, then headed down the stairs to join them. Row latched on to Isleen the moment she was within arm’s reach and gave her the same treatment as Xander. Isleen soaked it up like a flower in need of rain. “I’m sorry I scared you. I didn’t mean to.”

  Row pulled back and clasped Isleen’s face in both her hands. “Don’t you ever apologize for being…” She trailed off, not finishing.

  In love. Isleen’s mind filled in the blank. She was in love with Xander. Had been since her first dream of him.

  “Now you grab your honey and come on down to the main house.” Row released her and moved out the still-open doorway. “I’ve whipped up a batch of my famous butterscotch pecan pancakes. They’re Xander’s favorite.”

  Isleen felt the smile in every muscle on her face, felt joy swelling inside her. This life here with Row and Xander and Gran was gonna be better than any dream she’d ever dared to imagine. She turned to Xander.

  His scars were blood colored. “Go.” His lips pulled back over his teeth in a sneer of disgust. The only thing missing was him spitting out the bad taste. “Go without me.”

  The fragile bubble of her happiness popped. “What’s wrong?”

  “Damn it, Row, that was pretty underhanded. Not gonna work.”

  Isleen heard his every word; she just didn’t understand any of them.

  Xander turned his attention to her. “Go with Row. You shouldn’t miss her pancakes.”

  None of this situation was what she’d expected to happen after they made love. She’d expected to spend the whole day lounging together, exploring each other—body and mind. She hadn’t expected this. Him telling her to leave. Maybe what they’d just done meant more to her than to him. Her stomach sank so low it hit the ground.

  “Don’t order me around.” She packed her tone with irritation to mask the hurt. She turned her attention to Row. “I can’t wait to try your butterscotch pecan pancakes.” She linked arms with the lavender-haired lady, and they sashayed across the porch and down the steps.

  Focus forward. Forward.

  The grass was cool and damp underneath Isleen’s feet. A slight breeze ruffled her hair and was filled with the scent of clean air and green growing things. A crown of trees ringed the yard, and a strip of gravel came out of the forest to stop at Xander’s front door. They passed from the open lawn to a whimsical trail carved through the woods. It was the kind of path she’d expect to read about in a book. Only it was real.

  Sunshine filtered between the leaves and branches, lasering cheerful yellow rays throughout the landscape. Birds whistled back and forth, and a woodpecker hammered a hollow tree. The ground was mossy and soft and the most brilliant shade of green she’d ever seen. This place was the most beautiful place on earth.

  “He’s not mad at you,” Row whispered. “He’s mad at me. Remember how I said he and his father haven’t spoken in over twenty-five years? Well, Xan hasn’t stepped foot in the main house since the day he became a legal adult. I think there are just too many painful memories there. And I—damn—shouldn’t have used you to press him. I’m sorry. I’ll talk to him after breakfast.”

 
Her heart latched on to Row’s explanation. Could it really be that simple? “Xander should’ve explained that to me. Not acted all… Go. Go with Row.” She deepened her voice in an imitation of him.

  Row chuckled. “Sweetie, he doesn’t have a lot of experience when it comes to relationships. He’s going to fuck it up a few times before he figures it out. And let’s be honest—he was an asshole. All the Stone men are. It’s genetic.”

  Chapter 11

  Isleen’s first shower post-torture-trailer had been last night. It’d been an efficient scrubbing-away-the-past kind of shower. Afterward, she had been so exhausted that she’d crawled in the giant bed, sunk down in the mound of pillows, and zonked out. Until she found herself outside with Xander.

  But this shower, this one was pure pleasure. The shower nozzle rained warm water over her, sluicing and sliding down her body in the most soothing of caresses. Energy and excitement and gratitude coursed through her. Gran was alive. And Row was wonderful. And Xander… Being with him went beyond the physical into the mythical. They shared a connection that seemed only possible in fairy tales, but was somehow real. She could feel it in the way he looked at her, almost like he absorbed her, instead of seeing her.

  Her new life was extraordinary. It really was. Happy tears swelled and spilled and mingled with the water as she washed her hair and body with beautifully scented soaps. The smells were a miracle to her nose so long deprived of appealing aromas. She rinsed the last of the suds from her body and then gave full freedom to the happy tears.

  But her stomach tightened in on itself, tighter and tighter, until it felt like a heavy stone in her gut. Was she that hungry? Row’s butterscotch pecan pancakes were waiting for her when she got out of the shower, but this didn’t feel like hunger.

  The stone in her stomach moved, traveled up her throat, and gagged her. She coughed, but the sound was no ordinary clearing of the throat. She recognized it for what it was—a sob. Before her brain could rein in the madness, another sob caught her, bending her double under its dark wave.

  No. Life is good now. I’m happy now. I’m safe now. Her pep talk had no effect.

  The past—all the things she’d shoved down into that grave in her mind—was about to rise from the dead. The eruption of horror and terror and ugliness was about to bury her.

  Too weak to fight, she sank to her knees, crying for the happiness she’d only touched with the tips of her fingers. She could’ve had a wonderful life. A life where horror didn’t exist. She wanted that life. She deserved that life. Not this fear. Not this pain.

  She slammed her forehead into the tile floor. Lights glittered in her vision, and a starburst of agony burned in the middle of her forehead. An odd thing happened: some of the past sank back into its hole. She whacked her head against the floor—harder this time. Then again. And again. Until she’d reburied all those memories so deeply she’d need a deep-sea drilling rig to find them.

  A hot poker of pain thudded in the center of her forehead, and it felt wonderful. Physical pain was easy. Cuts and bruises healed on their own with no effort on her part. She stretched out underneath the spray, her cheek resting against the tile wall, and closed her eyes. On the back of her eyelids, red and orange strobes of color pulsed and faded in perfect time with her heartbeat.

  A knock on the bathroom door startled her upright. Dizziness swayed her body, and her vision throbbed in time with the thumping of her forehead.

  “Isleen?” Roweena’s tone carried the same frantic edge it had when she’d thought Isleen was missing.

  “Yes?” Isleen tried to pack as much normalness in her voice as possible.

  “No hurry or anything. I just wanted to let you know that breakfast is ready.”

  “Um, go ahead and start without me. I’ll be a few more minutes.” Isleen pulled herself to her feet, leaned against the tiled wall until the world stopped rocking, and then turned off the taps. Other than the pounding in her head, she felt surprisingly all right. Almost as if nothing had happened, when what had almost happened was a mental eruption of volcanic proportions.

  “Sweetie, is everything all right?” Row’s voice, speaking without the noise of shower, was laced with compassion and concern.

  “Yeah.” The lie slipped out smoother than it should have. “Just lost track of time.”

  “Well, I’ll see you in a few minutes then.”

  “Yep. Just a few minutes.” Isleen waited, breath caged in her lungs, for Row to say something further, but only silence stood on the other side of the doorway.

  She rocketed out of the shower like a sprinter at the sound of the gun. She dried and dressed and brushed her hair and teeth and refused to think about what had just happened beyond the evidence staring her in the mirror. The center of her forehead was just a little red. No big deal. She jogged from her room and didn’t stop until she reached the staircase. Calmly, slowly, deliberately, she walked down the steps toward the clatter and clink of silverware on plates and the smell of breakfast.

  The table was loaded with pancakes, syrup, eggs, bacon, and fruit—a glorious bowl of strawberries and blueberries. Her stomach roared at the sight. She barely stopped a dribble of drool leaking from her mouth.

  “There you are.” Row’s lavender hair glowed from the sunshine streaming through the kitchen windows. Her tattoos somehow seemed more vibrant and shocking in the morning light. “Holy hell. What happened?”

  Isleen stopped mid-stride, her mind whirling and searching for what Row could be talking about, but she kept coming up with nothing and more nothing.

  “Your head.” Row motioned to her own forehead.

  “Oh…” She touched her forehead. The swollen hill of flesh, puffy and sore, hadn’t seemed that bad only thirty seconds ago. “I bent down to get my towel off the floor and cracked my head on the sink.” The lie flowed out so glossy and sleek she almost believed it. She didn’t even blush or get flushed from the untruth. In all her years, through everything, she’d never been a liar until now.

  “That’s going to bruise. Let me get you some ice.” Row scooted out of her chair and headed toward the fridge. “Sit wherever you’d like. And dig in.”

  Isleen turned her attention back to the table. Row’s seat was at the head of the table—the power position. On her left sat Matt. He glared at her with a look that said I-know-you-did-that-to-yourself. But how could he know? He couldn’t. It was in her mind. He was just looking at her like he always did—as if she were his enemy.

  Alex sat on Row’s right, silently eating. Isleen got to choose—sit next to Alex or Matt. Since Matt openly disliked her, that left Alex. She moved in next to him, but caught the smirking tilt of Matt’s lips as if he knew exactly why she chose Alex. She bypassed Alex, walked around the table, and sat next to Matt.

  The guy thought he could intimidate her? Yeah, she’d show him.

  She reached for the empty plate and the silverware rolled in a napkin. Real cloth napkins. The kind fancy restaurants had. “Can you pass the pecan butterscotch pancakes? Please.” She made sure—just for Matt—her voice was all sweet syrup.

  Matt stared at her, the unyielding, half-angry expression pinching his lips, a futile attempt to be intimidating. She smiled at him, trying for one that looked genuine, but knew it came off as a bit forced.

  Without looking away from her, Matt handed her the pancakes. The power of their heavenly smell drew her vision to them. Candied pecans were sprinkled over the platter, and the smell wafted into her nose. She closed her eyes and just breathed it in. God. Heaven on a plate. She forked one pancake on her plate, her hand shaking with excitement and the expectation of that first bite.

  “Eat only a few bites. Small frequent meals until your body adjusts.” Matt’s tone was friendlier than his face.

  “I know,” she said and reached for the syrup. And then the eggs and bacon and fruit. She mounded her plate ridiculously full—knew sh
e looked like a food hoarder, but couldn’t resist the delicious look of everything. She sliced off a neat triangle of pancake and brought it to her lips. Flavor—butterscotch and butter and syrup—exploded inside her mouth. She closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair, savoring. She’d missed good food. She swallowed and finally opened her eyes.

  “How’d you like it?” Row asked, handing her a fancy padded ice pack.

  “Wow, Row. Best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

  A delighted smile lit Row’s wrinkled face. “I’m glad you like them. I made some extras for you to take up to Xander’s after breakfast.”

  Isleen nodded her head enthusiastically and shoved another bite of pancake in her mouth and then held the icepack to her forehead while she chewed. She wanted to bury her face in her plate and go at the food rabid-dog style, but the doctor had told her to eat slow, small meals. After she swallowed, she sat back, determined to wait a few minutes before her next bite.

  Alex focused on his meal.

  “Alex?” She used her best soothing-the-scared-child voice. Surprisingly, his head rose and he met her gaze. Triumph pumped through her. Maybe he wasn’t as bad as Row made him seem. “How’s Gran this morning?”

  He looked at her as if he hadn’t seen her before. With how devoted he’d been to Gran yesterday, maybe he hadn’t.

  “I see Shayla in you.” His voice was a more gravelly version of Xander’s.

  “It’s in the shape of her face, isn’t it?” Row bounced in her chair like a happy ADHD kid, obviously unable to contain her excitement that Alex had spoken.

  Alex set down his fork, folded his napkin, and settled it neatly across his plate. “Where is Shayla?” His eyes were like twin icicles that pinned Isleen to her seat in a way Matt’s attempts at intimidation never could.

  “I-I don’t know. Gran never spoke about her or the past or any of this.”

  Alex flinched as if her words had whipped him across his heart. “What happened to Gale? Why is she in the condition she is in? Don’t you know how fragile she’s always been? You should’ve protected her.”