Race the Darkness

by Abbie Roads

“Xander, I already trust you. I know that you’d never intentionally hurt me. I know who you are. I know because I’ve spent time with you. I have history with you from my dreams.”

  His heart went all warm and fuzzy, but his mind doubted and questioned. “Trust doesn’t just poof magically appear.”

  She reached for his hand and placed it over her heart. Under his palm, the swell of her breast had his dick doing some swelling of its own. She settled her other palm against his scarred cheek. Energy surged through him.

  Her gaze locked with his—locked so hard the entire world vanished and all that existed were her and him and his hand feeling the steady beat of her heart. Whatever the fuck she was about to say, he was gonna believe her. She could tell him he was a two-headed, purple squirrel, and he’d go out, find a nut, and climb a tree.

  “Xander. I vow to protect you from pain. I vow never to leave you unless you want me to leave. I vow never to hurt you the way Gran hurt your father. Because hurting you would be hurting myself. Your pain is my pain. And my pain is yours. But together we are strong and invincible. Don’t you feel it when we touch? It’s all I can feel. All I want to feel. You and me. Us. Together.”

  Her words did more than enter his ears; they melded into him as bone-deep truth. He’d never do anything to hurt her and—damn—he trusted that she wouldn’t hurt him. As sick as it sounded, maybe his faith in her was born from the suffering she’d endured. She understood pain. Understood the depth and damage pain caused in a way few others ever would. That kind of knowledge made her incapable of wounding anyone else.

  “Say something. You’re looking at me funny.” Her voice trembled just a bit. He could practically hear her doubting whether she should’ve spoken the words of her heart.

  “What you said… Those words…” Christ. He didn’t have experience talking about his feelings. “Everything.”

  She cocked her head to the side, questions wrinkling her forehead.

  He was screwing this up. “Your words mean everything to me.” He could show her easier than he could tell her. He slid his hands up her neck, framing her face, staring at her, absorbing every detail. “You’re my…” Fearless. He caught himself before he said the word. To base how he felt on a story wasn’t real. She was real. And the emotions warming him were real. “Everything.”

  He lowered his mouth to hers. She tasted sweet, of cinnamon and sugar, and for some reason, his heart ached with a fullness of feeling it had never experienced before.

  He scooped her up in his arms, cradling her to his chest, his mind flashing back to the day he found her—and to holding her this same way. God, she had weighed so little, had seemed so fragile, but she was strong. Stronger than he’d ever be. Knowing what she’d gone through, what she’d survived—yeah. Strong was too weak a word to describe her.

  He carried her up the stairs to his bedroom, his mouth never leaving hers. With a gentleness born of reverence, he settled her on the bed. He broke the kiss to stare at her once more. Her eyes were closed, her face relaxed, her lips deliciously puffy and pink from a good kissing. He fucking loved pink.

  Slowly, her eyes fluttered open, finding him. A lazy smile stretched across her mouth, full of sweet, ornery secrets he longed to discover. He was gonna spend the rest of his life learning all those hidden thoughts tumbling around inside her head.

  “You keep looking at me funny.” She reached up and settled her palm against his scarred cheek. Something hot and primal zinged through his scars and then settled heavily in his groin. Jesus Christ.

  “That’s just my I’m-in-awe-of-you face.”

  “In awe of me?”

  “Yeah, you.” He nipped the end of her nose, pecked a kiss on her mouth, and then moved lower to her shoulder. Her skin was cool and soft against his lips and tasted of his favorite flavor. Her. “I want you bare,” he whispered against the fabric covering her chest.

  She sat up and lifted her arms over her head. He pulled the somber black dress over her head and let it drop on the floor. Later, he’d toss that wad of material in the trash. That was the last time she was ever going to wear the color of mourning. He’d make sure her wardrobe was full of sunshine, sky, and flower colors. Nothing but happy shades for her.

  She leaned back against the pillow, her pert breasts snagging all his attention, and he changed his mind. She didn’t need clothes. He preferred her like this. Naked, except for a delicate pair of lace panties. And those would be coming off in about thirty seconds. He shucked his clothes while she watched—her gaze hungry, devouring every inch he revealed. She licked her lips as if he were her favorite meal. She could eat him up whenever she wanted.

  He crawled back onto the bed and skimmed his hands down her ribs. The ripples and ridges of bone were still too prominent against her skin, but time and Row’s cooking would take care of that. He bent down, kissed her belly button, and tugged her panties down. She shifted her weight, allowing him to sweep them off and toss them over his shoulder.

  Bare to him, the light blond curls between her thighs were caught by a ray of sunshine slanting across the bed, glinting shades of gold. She was perfect. Not in the way of supermodels or porn stars, but in a way that she was everything—that word again—he’d never known he needed. She filled in his hollow places, rounded his sharp edges, and made him feel something other than anger for the first time in twenty-five years. “Baby.” He almost forgot how to speak beyond the endearment. “You’re so lovely. Let me see all of you. Open for me.”

  Without hesitation, she spread her legs for him. She had no fear in bed. She’d said she’d dreamed of them together. Maybe that was why. The reason didn’t matter. He loved her lack of inhibitions.

  He moved between her legs, slid his hands underneath her ass, and lifted her to his face. She was pink and glistening with her desire for him. His already-hard dick went to steel, wanting her so badly he ached. But it was an agony he’d gratefully endure. He bent, inhaling the primitive scent of her desire just before he licked her. She tasted warm like sunshine on a salty sea. She tasted of promise. She tasted of good things to come. Together, they were going to make something spectacular.

  “Xander…” She breathed his name, the sound as powerful as a physical caress to his dick. He moaned against her opening and then suckled her clit, laving the bud until she writhed against his face with uninhibited exuberance, wanting and needing what only he could give her. He couldn’t wait a moment more.

  In one fluid movement he rose over her, positioned himself at her core, and slid home. Home. She was his home. So hot. So tight. So…right. Being with her wasn’t about fulfilling his body’s craving for release. Being with her was about fulfilling himself, becoming the man he was meant to be. The man she made him.

  “Xan—oh God.”

  Her orgasm pulsed against his dick, urging him to fuck her. Really fuck her. But this was sweet. Too sweet for hard fucking.

  “Over. Roll over.” She gasped the words, but he didn’t understand language anymore. Only sensation existed. Her heat wrapped around him. Her body sliding against his.

  Somehow his body submitted to her will and he found himself on his back, her riding his dick with gusto and strength.

  She fucked him. Fucked him with her head flung back, body pumping against his, taking all of him—body, heart, and soul. It was a goddamn beautiful thing.

  Tension built in his balls. He gritted his teeth, trying to contain the mounting explosion. He wanted to give her more. Give her everything. She slid herself down his shaft, and he touched heaven. All his fancy-assed ideas about control vanished. He grabbed her hips, thrusting up while she slammed down. Their rhythm messy and frantic and perfect.

  “Xander. Xander. Xander.”

  His fucking name on her lips while she came triggered his own orgasm. Cum burst from his balls, and he ground against her while pleasure ripped through him.

  He collapse
d boneless, as the aftershocks of what they’d done gently hummed through him. She slumped forward on his chest with him still inside her. Not that he minded. He could live an entire lifetime right here and die a happy man.

  A sweet giggle of dazed satisfaction came from her. He chuckled too. Being with her, he felt something he’d never had before.

  Happiness.

  Chapter 17

  A thump.

  A moan.

  Xander bolted upright in bed, his hearing on hyper-alert for Isleen. Had he been sleeping? Must’ve been. He heard the rapid rhythm of her breathing coming from downstairs. That thump, that moan had come from her. He knew it.

  “Isleen?” He called loud enough to be heard throughout the cabin and got out of bed.

  Evening sunshine shimmered through the bedroom window, splashing russet rays around the room and giving the atmosphere a lazy, timeless quality.

  Bzzz. His cell phone vibrated against the nightstand.

  Kent calling lit up the display.

  Fuck the phone.

  From the top of the stairs, the entire living room was visible. Isleen huddled on the floor, clutching her head and rocking. Xander flew down the stairs, feet barely touching the steps. Another dream. Only this time he hadn’t been there to wake her up.

  “Baby, you’ll feel better in a minute. Just hold on.” He slid in next to her, laying his hands on top of hers.

  A great sigh of relief slipped from her lips. Coolness swelled over him. A tingle and zing started in his palms and moved up his arms to his shoulders and then spread out from there. Holy wow. It felt so good and right and oddly satisfying to do this for her, like it was his soul’s destiny to ease her suffering. To heal her.

  His phone, still upstairs, started vibrating again. The guy was going to have to wait.

  Isleen slipped her hands out from beneath his, but he continued to hold her head, weaving his fingers into her hair. She scooted in closer and closer until she crawled up on his lap, straddling his hips and latching on to him like a baby monkey. And still he didn’t let go of her.

  “What’s it feel like to take my pain away?” Her voice sounded wobbly, and he felt dampness on his bare chest. She was crying, and it cut a chunk out of his heart that she had to endure any pain. If he could, he’d take all the hurt away from her, gladly shoulder her burden, and make it his to bear.

  “It’s cool and feels good in a way. Almost the same way it feels good to scratch an itch.”

  She lapsed into quiet, more of her tears wetting his skin. More of his heart wept for her having to go through this.

  “How’s your head now? Are you feeling tired, dizzy, disoriented?”

  “My head is good. I think I’m all right.” She spoke as if a sob clogged her throat.

  He let go of her head and wrapped his arms around her, pressing her so hard against him that air whooshed out of her. “Tell me about the dream. You’ll feel better.” He nuzzled his cheek against her hair.

  She pulled back from him. Her eyelashes were spiky from wetness, her eyes bloodshot and glistening. And yet courage and determination sharpened her beauty. “It was the worst one.”

  Nnkk. Nnkk. A knock sounded at front door.

  “Fucking goddamn it.” Probably Kent at the door. The guy had said he’d stop by this evening with his cream-puff canine. Xander stood, still holding her body to his. He ought to walk to the door and open it just like they were—to show the asshole on the other side that he’d been interrupting—but that might embarrass Isleen. He settled her on her feet and held on to her for a few extra seconds to make certain she was steady.

  Nnkk. Nnkk. Nnkk. Nnkk. The asshole on the other side of the door started knocking again.

  She clung to him like she was afraid of letting go.

  “Xander?” She’d only spoken his name, but he heard so much more. He heard her fear, her hesitation, and her caring. Such a strange combination.

  “Baby, what?” He rubbed his hands up and down her back, wishing his touch could infuse her with everything she needed to feel good.

  Nnkk. Nnkk. Nnkk. Nnkk. Nnkk. Nnkk. Nnkk. Nnkk. More pounding on the door.

  She released him, stepping away from him and smiling, but it wasn’t a real smile. It was one of those fake ones that only touched her mouth, not her eyes or her soul. The smile looked sad and scared and stubborn all at the same time.

  Something was wrong. Only he didn’t understand. Was it the dream?

  Nnkk. Nnkk. Nn—“I’ll be there in a second,” he bellowed loud enough that Isleen flinched and Row probably heard him down at the main house. That persistent fucker on the other side of the door was about to meet Xander’s fist.

  “Let me get rid of this asshole.” He stalked to the door, nearly ripping it off the hinges.

  Kent held his mini-mutt, and—of fucking course—Camille stood right next to him. Kent just couldn’t leave the Camille issue alone.

  Hopkins stood behind them, looking on the verge of pissin’ in his pants. The guy was a BCI agent, for shit’s sake, and petrified of a little interpersonal conflict? Where did they find these assholes? Probably the same place they’d found Xander. Rejects-R-Us.

  “Seriously? You’re pulling this again?” His volume wasn’t quite in the shout range, but close.

  “What?” Kent’s voice carried false innocence, his expression phony concern.

  Xander wasn’t going to flip the switch and listen to Kent’s thoughts. No way. Not today. He didn’t need the aggravation on top of everything else.

  Isleen moved in next to Xander, wrapping her arm around his waist and leaning in to his bare chest. Her actions were a clear sign of ownership. He was hers. And he didn’t mind at all. A smile spread across his lips, stretching the skin of his scarred cheek.

  “You fucked him?” Camille’s face morphed into a mask of ugly jealousy.

  “I told you that the last time we talked.” Isleen wasn’t intimidated by Camille. Not even a little bit. “You chose to not believe me.”

  Kent’s mouth fell open, and damn if Xander didn’t feel his own jaw hanging slack. Isleen had told Camille they’d been together? Whoa. Isleen had a giant pair of girlnads.

  “You know”—Camille’s tone was abnormally calm—“he’s only with you because he feels sorry for you.”

  “Cam—” Kent’s voice was full of rebuke.

  Xander slid his arm around Isleen, telling her with his actions that Camille was wrong. “Don’t talk to Isleen like that.” He spoke slowly to give the words time to penetrate Camille’s concrete skull.

  “Camille, I can see that you are having trouble adjusting to this situation.” Isleen’s tone carried no anger, no malice. “I understand. I know the kind of man Xander is, so I know what you’re losing. I feel bad that you are hurting.”

  “You feel bad that I’m hurting?” Camille’s voice rose to a she-demon screech. She lunged for Isleen. Xander stepped between them, blocking her path.

  “Cam. What the hell?” Kent shoved the dog at Hopkins, then grabbed his sister from behind, hauling her down the porch steps. She struggled and screamed terrible things at Isleen. “Stop it. Right now. If you don’t get yourself under control you’re going to get arrested.”

  Those seemed to be Camille’s magic words. She went limp, all anger and hostility gone.

  “Take her home.” Xander pointed to Kent’s truck. “And don’t bring her back.”

  Isleen moved in next to him again. “Xander, I need to talk to Kent about my case. He needs to know about the priest. Maybe you should take Camille home. She shouldn’t be here right now. It’s not good for anyone.”

  “You need to talk to Kent?” He parroted her, couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “Just about my case.” Isleen seemed sincere, so why did he have a suspicion in his heart that everything good in his life was about to get f
lushed down the shitter? She reached up to his neck and tugged his face down to hers. She kissed him, her lips sweet and cool, and if emotion could pass through the barrier of skin, he swore he felt her complete devotion. But still something didn’t jive.

  Or was that all in his head? He had zero relationship experience. All he knew was what little he’d had with Isleen. Was he smothering her? Was this her way of getting a bit of space? There shouldn’t be anything wrong with leaving her to drive Camille home. Not that he wanted to leave Isleen, but it would give him a chance to apologize to Camille. And nothing bad could happen while he was gone. Kent and Hopkins would see to that.

  He shrugged into a shirt and nabbed his keys from the dish by the door.

  “Don’t you let her out of your sight,” he said to Kent. The guy nodded, and for all the shit between them, Xander trusted him with this. “I’ll be gone thirty minutes. Not one second longer.”

  “I’ll be here,” Isleen said.

  So why did he feel like he was about to lose her?

  * * *

  Camille’s perfectly composed face slipped and fell. She didn’t cry, bawl, or scream, but pain sank into her features. It hurt to watch. Xander didn’t say anything, just opened his truck’s door, waited while she climbed in, and then jogged to the driver’s side.

  Isleen stood in the yard, cradling Kent’s mini-mutt to her chest and smiling so sweetly that Xander stopped and couldn’t move. Behind her, the sun had already slipped into the horizon, shooting shades of molten fire across the sky. The image of Isleen and the sky together was epic, the kind of vision that inspired people to write songs of love and beauty and the fear of loss.

  He wished he had a camera to capture the grace of the moment. He settled for staring at her while she scratched the dog’s ears, memorizing the way the light made her hair glow golden, her skin luminescent, and her lips deeply rose, begging to be kissed. She looked up, catching him watching her. The smile she gave him carried enough wattage to keep his happy sensors running on full power for the rest of his life. Damn.