by Tessa Dawn
Ramsey was close on her heels.
In fact, he caught up to her in the hall before she had a chance to step into her office. “Hey,” he called brusquely, his voice no longer reflecting any humor or light-heartedness. “Blondie, stop.”
He put an extra emphasis on the word stop, and she felt as if her feet suddenly faltered. Maybe he had used compulsion, maybe he hadn’t, but after what she’d just learned, it wouldn’t surprise her. Her eyes clouded with tears as she turned around to face him. “Just give me some space,” she said. “I just need a minute—”
“Whoa… whoa… hold on. Now wait a minute.” He stepped right into her personal space, grasped her by both wrists, and held her hands up to his mouth, where he kissed her knuckles with extraordinary gentleness. “I would never cut off one of your fingers, woman.” His troubled eyes deepened in both intensity and color, and his jaw set in a hard, indomitable line. “And I would wipe the floor with any male—with anyone or anything—who ever dared to hurt you. Don’t you know that?” He gestured toward the parlor, his powerful hand growing rigid from the veracity of his emotion. “Who we are, what we do; that’s just males being males. We aren’t human, Tiffany. We don’t think, feel, and act in all the ways you might be accustomed to, but we don’t hurt women. And we sure as hell don’t hurt our destinies.” He released her hands, reached out to cup her chin, and firmly but softly forced her gaze. “Baby… ” he whispered.
She stared at him, transfixed by his emotion, waiting to hear his next words. When nothing was forthcoming, she wet her dry lips and croaked out a barely audible word: “What?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. And he sounded like he meant it.
She shook her head, not truly understanding. “For what? For doing what you’ve always done… with your brothers, with your friends? Or for the fact that I saw it, that I found out?” A single tear escaped from her eye, a show of weakness and vulnerability that made her feel as frustrated as she was ashamed—hell, why was she acting like such a frail, delicate flower?
None of it made any sense.
Ramsey reached out to brush the tear away. “For that,” he said, bringing his thumb to his mouth to taste her tear. “For that.”
Tiffany shuddered, and then she lowered her head in regret. “No,” she whispered, “I’m sorry.” She clutched her face in her hands. “I completely overreacted. I freaked out over something that has nothing to do with me. I guess… I’m just… shit.” She ran her hands through her hair, just like she’d done in the parlor, and sighed heavily. “I’m just overwhelmed,” she said, speaking more freely than she had dared since the moment he’d retrieved her from the forest. “I think I’m just… shit.”
“No, baby,” he said, pulling her into his arms. “You’re not shit. Feces never looked that good.”
She laughed, in spite of herself, and laid her head on his rock-hard shoulder. For a moment, it almost felt…
Right?
“You’re just wound a little too tight, baby girl; and I pushed you too far… too soon.” He planted a chaste kiss on the top of her head and whispered, “What you are is beautiful, Tiffany. Beautiful, and sensitive, and a whole helluva lot of things that I’ve never been, but with the gods as my witness, I swear this to you: you are also safe.” He gently massaged her back while drawing her even closer, and she let him. “In my home, in my arms, with my family.” His voice was pure, uncensored velvet. “With me.”
She tried to nod, but her heart had nearly stopped beating.
“Do you hear me, Blondie?” he pressed. “I said, you are safe.”
She nodded again, this time a little more convincingly.
“Say it,” he prompted.
She smiled, and her lipstick smeared on his shirt, making her feel self-conscious, as well as ridiculous.
“Say it.”
She sighed. “I’m safe.” The words were barely audible.
“Again.”
“I’m safe,” she repeated.
He relaxed his grasp around her shoulders and pulled back just a bit. “That’s right, baby. You are.”
She pulled away more decisively and stared at him, forcing herself to hold his seeking gaze, and for the first time, those deep hazel eyes were more than just stunning, model-like features, or alluring props, or even tools of compulsion. They were windows to his soul. They were utterly brimming with sincerity, and the visage left her breathless.
She tried to dab at her lipstick with her fingers, and only managed to smear it deeper into the fabric of his shirt. “Sorry,” she whispered.
“Don’t be,” he said.
“I mean, for what I did in the parlor.”
“Don’t be,” he repeated.
She sighed, feeling the first true wave of relief. “Do you think I offended your guests?”
Ramsey chuckled heartily then. “Those brutes? Nah. No.” He grasped her by the shoulders and gently spun her around, until her back rested against his chest and she was facing the front room. “Tell me what you see,” he said. “Don’t think it through. Don’t analyze it, just whatever comes to mind.”
Tiffany stared down the hall, peered catty-corner across the front room, and glanced into the parlor. She shook her head, not really understanding what he wanted. “I don’t know. Your brothers. Julien, a tracker. Saber. Vampires?”
Ramsey nodded. “Yep, a bunch of territorial, savage males who aren’t like any humans you’ve ever known, virtual thugs who shoot pool, drive way too fast down country roads, and drop their hacked-off fingers into a mason jar just to keep it interesting. Now ask me what I see.”
Tiffany turned her head to the side, briefly glancing back at him. “What do you see?” She lowered her gaze and waited for his answer.
“I see four males who I trust with my life, brothers, one way or the other, who are just crazy enough to snap off their own fingers over the most insignificant breach of honor or integrity, over a game. And I see five warriors who would take a life, or lay down their lives, for you, without hesitation. So whatever you do have to fear, baby girl—and no one is making light of your feelings, because only you know what it’s like to stand in your shoes—it’s not in this house. Not tonight. Not ever.” A low, barely audible growl rose in the back of his throat, and his muscles tightened against her hyper-aware shoulders. “’Cause frankly, may the gods help any soul—man, woman, or vampire—who ever dares to lay a finger on you, Tiffany Matthews. The way I see it: If we’re that brutal over a game, what do you think would happen with some real stakes?”
Tiffany leaned back against him—she couldn’t help it, and she didn’t want to—as his words swept over her like water in that metaphorical stream, making real, measurable headway against that stubborn, lone rock, slowly wearing her down. Ramsey Olaru might be a lot of things—and he might do a lot of crazy things—but he was certainly a male of conviction.
And more and more, it looked like he was also a male of honor.
One thing was for certain: He meant every word he was saying, at least in this moment, and as he encircled her waist with his arms, almost for emphasis, the strangest thought entered her mind, much like a vision or a flashback. For reasons unknown, Tiffany suddenly saw a vivid image of the woman who had come into her office earlier, the one who had introduced herself as Tawni and asked for a job, the one who had been dressed in men’s pajama bottoms and a white silk shirt; and she shivered.
Ramsey was right.
These males would destroy anyone who tried to hurt her.
They would cut that person down like a weed in a beautiful garden. They would chop a threatening finger off an offending hand before it had a chance to strike… or cheat. And they would do it in good humor.
They would do it for her.
Tiffany swallowed her fear and resolved to be a little more rational, a little less volatile.
A lot more accommodating.
Ramsey could have called her out for her dramatic behavior; he could have gotten angry or forced her to stay
in the parlor. Hell, he could have just swiped the information from her mind and left her standing there like a dolt, completely unaware and disrespected in front of his brothers and friends, but he hadn’t.
He hadn’t.
He’d come after her like a determined sentinel, like a caring soul who wanted to protect nothing more than her sense of well-being…
Than her heart?
Perhaps there was more to Ramsey Olaru than Tiffany once believed.
ten
The next morning
Tiffany stumbled out of bed at about eight o’clock in the morning and rubbed her temples in contemplation. The Dream Weave, the name her nana had used for her rare and unique ability to view the past, the future, and layers of mysteries through collective, unconscious symbolism while she dreamed, had been hyperactive since the night Ramsey brought her home.
She got it.
She did.
Her emotions were all over the map. Her barely suppressed fear was bubbling to the surface in her nighttime slumber, and her Dream Weaver was trying to bring this to her attention, letting her know she would have to deal with it one way or the other, soon.
Still, the continuous references to danger, the escalating warnings, the repeated symbol of a wolf in sheep’s clothing, the theme that appeared in each and every dream was getting a little redundant. What did Spirit expect her to do about it? Yes, Ramsey Olaru was very much like a wolf, an instinctive, almost savage, beautiful creature with very sharp, dangerous teeth. And yes, he was definitely dressed in sheep’s clothing. Hell, if the wool got any prettier, it could be sold for a million dollars a yard. Just the same, knowing it didn’t change it. She got the warning: Beware. Now, all she could do was try to reconcile her hidden fears with her burgeoning reality. She could hardly shoot the wolf.
She rose from the bed, shrugged into her fluffy white robe, stuffed her feet into some soft, warm pink slippers—thank goodness Carlotta had been kind enough to pack her clothes—and began to pad her way to Ramsey’s kitchen.
She needed a cup of coffee.
Now.
Halfway through the living room, on her way to the open-concept kitchen where Ramsey kept a killer, stainless steel single-cup coffeemaker, she yawned and turned her head to the side. And then she abruptly halted.
Ramsey Olaru was sitting in the large vaulted room, as silent as a wolf and just as mysterious, his back stretched out in a huge, marbled-gray chair, his massive arms lumbered heavily atop the armrests, and his feet propped lazily on an ottoman. He was staring right at her, yet he hadn’t made a sound.
Tiffany cleared her throat. “Good morning.”
“Morning,” he replied.
She waited for him to say something else. He didn’t. “Were you up all night?” she asked.
He chuckled then. “I’m nocturnal, Miss Matthews. I usually work at night and sleep during the day.” He eyed her overtly, taking clear note of her loosely tied robe and the cutesy little slippers. “Looks like we’re on different schedules.”
Tiffany stuffed her hands in the robe’s pockets. “Uh, yeah.” Looks like we’re on different species’ lists, actually. She pointed toward the kitchen then, eager to make an escape. “Coffee. Can’t live without my morning caffeine.”
He grunted. “Mm, that’ll change.”
She halted abruptly, turning to gaze at him. Heavens, did he always have to be so blunt? The last thing she needed at eight in the morning was to be reminded of all the ways her life was about to change. She forced a congenial smile. “Well, it hasn’t yet, so… ”
She continued to the kitchen, searched through the cupboards for a mug, and then took a premeasured cup of java out of the nearby coffee rack to place in the brewer. She had to admit, the male had common sense as well as good taste; it was easy to find things in his kitchen—their placement just made sense.
She waited as the dark coffee brewed, luxuriating in the decadent aroma, until her mug was finally full. Fumbling through a few more cupboards to find some cream, sugar, and a spoon, she fixed her coffee just the way she liked it—with enough cream to turn the coffee beige and enough sugar to make her glucose levels shoot through the roof—and took her first, revitalizing sip. “Mmm, that’s good,” she mumbled beneath her breath, praying that she wouldn’t lose her taste for the beverage in the future, or the familiar pick-me-up it gave her as a way to start the day.
She thought about sitting down at the bar, with her back turned to Ramsey, while she enjoyed the rest of her drink, but quickly thought better of it. She would feel those wolfish eyes boring through her back the entire time, and she would never be able to relax. Rather, she padded awkwardly across the living room, determined to pretend she was in control, and stopped just shy of the tinted patio doors. She glanced over her shoulder at the immense, brooding male. “Do you mind if I step outside to drink this?”
He eyed the double doors behind her. “Not at all.” And then he rose from the chair, way too silently, way too fluidly, almost like the Loch Ness monster emerging from the sea. “Do you mind if I join you? I’d kind of like to talk with you about a couple of things.”
Tiffany stiffened.
Now, that sounded ominous.
Had he been waiting to corner her for this talk, all morning?
She took an absurdly large gulp of coffee, almost burning her tongue, and nodded with some hesitation. “Sure.” It was not like he was going to take no for an answer.
Ramsey strolled across the living room in his typical lazy-cat way, unlocked the patio doors, and slowly slid them open before standing off to the side. “Ladies first.”
She hurried past him, finding a convenient spot by the rail. Despite her newfound trepidation, she had to admit, the view was utterly spectacular, and the woodland scents that rose up to meet her were positively divine: She could smell pine, wet grasses, and cool, fresh air in every direction. It was almost like stepping into a little slice of heaven, other than the six-foot-five slayer that was lurking behind her, of course.
Tiffany leaned on the rail, looked out into the distance, studying a beautiful grouping of purple flowers, and tried to relax. “So, what was it you wanted to talk about?”
He strolled to the edge of the deck, copped a nonthreatening lean only a few feet away, on her left, and then sure enough, he reached up to a nearby pine, tugged on a low-hanging branch, and plucked a needle off the limb, stuffing it between his teeth.
Oral much? she thought.
“Extremely,” he answered, curving his mouth in a sly little grin.
Tiffany huffed. “Don’t read my thoughts.”
“I wasn’t trying to—you were projecting.”
She crossed her arms and shook her head. “Ramsey, I’m serious.”
He shrugged. “So am I.” And then he quickly held up a hand to pacify her, to try and stop the banter from escalating. “But I hear you, and I’ll try harder.”
She nodded. Wow. Well, that was kind of easy. She took another sip of her coffee and waited.
“So, here’s the thing, Blondie. I’m not really one to beat around the bush or play a bunch of cat-and-mouse games. Frankly, I prefer to just shoot straight from the hip, and I don’t know if it’s because I’m a sentinel or what, but there are a couple of things that aren’t sitting very well with me.”
Tiffany angled her body toward him to gauge his facial expression and almost drew back in alarm—he looked so damn serious.
This could not be good.
Had she done something wrong already?
Well, other than running off on Phoenix’s horse the first night, getting drunk as a skunk later on, and overreacting to the finger-jar during the pool game. But frankly, who wouldn’t?
She watched as he stretched his back against the resistance of the railing, bracing those powerful arms against the posts, causing every single muscle beneath his fitted black tee to flex, and she hoped she wasn’t gawking. “You’re scaring me a bit,” she said.
He shook his head, and h
is chin-length hair shifted, settling cross-wise over his right eyebrow. “No need to be scared. Although, I will say this: You’re not gonna like it much.”
She took a deep breath for courage and tried not to frown. “Whatever it is, just say it, Ramsey.” Her own mood was growing increasingly morose.
“Conversion,” he muttered. Just one word. As if that said it all.
Tiffany felt her heart begin to race in her chest, but to her credit, she didn’t react prematurely. “What about it?” she asked, turning away. There was no way she could look at him right now, no way, especially with those damnable hazel eyes staring daggers straight through her.
Ramsey chewed a bit on the pine needle and then leaned forward, once more, against the rail. “I just… I have a real uneasy feeling about this Blood Moon of ours, Tiffany.” He measured her with a sidelong glance. “Again, maybe it’s because I’m a sentinel, but something is just really rubbing me the wrong way. I feel like we don’t have the kind of time we think we have. Like, even though you’re already up to speed with the house of Jadon and the whole damn Curse, something that should actually give us more time to work with, we somehow have less.” He shrugged his shoulders, pushed off the rail, and turned around to lean back against it instead. This way, he could eye her directly.
Good heavens, the man was a presence, a force to be reckoned with: so straightforward and direct, so squarely grounded in his own powerful skin, and he was right—his words were more than just a little unsettling.
“Are you… ” She paused, wanting to choose her words carefully. “Are you saying you think something bad is going to happen to you… or to me? And what exactly does this have to do with conversion?” She couldn’t believe she had brought the subject full circle, mentioned the C-word all on her own, but there was just something in his voice. This wasn’t Ramsey playing around. This was a Master Warrior trying to explain a misgiving.
