I walk into the family room first. It’s been cleaned but not patched up. The TV still hasn’t been replaced, and the walls are still cracked and smashed. “Has your house ever looked this bad?” I ask, mentally going over the rooms I recall needing work done. I count them on my fingers.
“It’s usually a couple of rooms, one big room, or a few big holes when my mother throws us out of the house. But honestly, this is the worst: two bedrooms, the entire basement, the great room, the family room, and not to mention the kitchen, match hands.” He lightly pinches my side.
“My name is Tracey,” I correct, swatting his hand away.
“Yeah.” He looks away from me. “This has been the worst. But . . . it’s another day in the life of Nathan Newcomb.” He shakes his head, shoving his hands through his hair.
“Is somebody going to clean the torture room?”
“What room is that?” He squints, eyeing me. The look where he’s searching for something in my head. “Oh, yeah. Olar’s cleaning it now.”
I stretch my arms behind my back and yawn. “He’s a weird guy, that Olar.”
“Yeah. He likes that kind of stuff.” Nathan grabs my hand, and any uneasy feelings he held goes away with my touch. “Come on, let’s go to the kitchen and help get the food started.”
“He made that guy crack his skull open.” I’m never going to unsee that.
“Yep. That’s what he does. He likes the gory torturing type of killing.”
“And you?”
“And I,” he carries on, “don’t want to talk about that.”
“Nathan,” I say.
“Sparks,” he mocks, pushing me to walk ahead of him, yet holding my hand back. “You know, Sparks. You look good from the back too.” He smacks my butt and the sound echoes down the hall.
“Ow,” I screech. I whirl around, and he runs into me, laughing. “Not cool.”
He bites his bottom lips. “Pfft. Stop being sexy, and I won’t smack your butt. Turn ugly.”
“No.”
He shrugs and twists me around to walk against my will. He slaps my butt again. I yelp and then chuckle at myself. The weight of my mobility returns, and I stumble to a stop. Nathan’s at my back, wrapping his arms around my shoulders. He kisses my neck. “I’m sorry,” he says dryly. “I couldn’t help myself.”
I shiver. How does he do this? Soft kisses rain on my neck, and stream across to my shoulder. They’re warm and tingle every centimeter they cover.
“Eww, do you two ever stop?” Little Nathan fakes a gag. Since his advancing, his voice has gained a smooth bass, and he’s taller. Little Nathan’s only some years older than me, but he’s just now hitting Sephlem’s form of puberty.
Nathan straightens, and we finish down the hall. On our passing, Nathan punches his little brother. “Stop interrupting stuff,” Nathan tells him.
“I’m not interrupting anything. That’s the two of you standing in the middle of the hall. You have a room for that kind of stuff, you know?” He returns Nathan’s attack with a blow to the chest. I stumble back, feeling the force of the punch as if it’d been me who he’d hit. “Oh shit, Tracey.” He throws up his hands “I forgot. I’m sorry.”
Nathan grabs me, taking the throbbing away. “Nope. It’s cool,” I say, blowing it off as if it’s nothing as I rub my throbbing chest. Nathan chuckles as he’s lifting his hand to rub my chest. I smack it away. “Stop.” He’s up to no good.
He snorts a laugh.
“What time are your parents supposed to be coming over?” Little Nathan asks, laughing at us.
“About five,” I offer.
Nathan confirms. “Yeah. So everyone’s still left with time to do what they want for the evening. Or in case shit goes sour and we need to cut it short.”
Little Nathan nods and leaves us.
“How can things go sour?” I ask, heading into the kitchen.
“Your dad blows up, or gets turned into nothing.”
I punch him in his back, feeling the force of my attack like a pinch.
Nathan laughs. “I’m not serious, but he’s going to want to talk to you, and you won’t get stolen from me for the entire evening. I have intentions of being very selfish with your time tonight.”
I grab his arm and hug it to me. “Who said I was leaving you?”
“You need some time to talk to your parents alone.”
Cringing, I say, “No, I don’t.”
“Sparks, you do. It’s only right. You’ll get over your anger with your father. He’s your Dad. It could be worse. He could not care about you period, maybe try to kill you every once in a while, or use killing your mate to kill you. You don’t have it as bad as you think. A lot of people would pay to have parents who care as much as yours care about you.”
Yeah, that’s true, and I’m not ungrateful. I’m just frustrated with Dad right now. I want him to be understanding and no matter what I do or say, he’s not.
The kitchen’s crowded with uncooked food thawing out on the island and veggies on the counter. I’d swear we invited the president over instead of my parents with the way they’re treating this event. Apparently, it’s paramount to them that my mother and father accept them. Why? I’m still unsure. But I overheard Natalia telling Nathan it’s some old school tradition to be granted acceptance by a maiden’s father and mother upon mating.
“Do you know how to cut carrots?” Nathan asks.
Smiling, I bounce on my toes. “Yes. In circles.” I’ve never cut a carrot, just stuck it with my fork.
He grins. “Okay, the carrots are on the counter, wash them off first, and then chop them into half-inch circles. There’s a cutting board next to the sink, the food brush is in the drawer in front of the cutting board, and the knives are in the corner by the microwave.”
Um . . . “O-kay.” I got this.
He leaves me to it and goes to the sink to wash his hands, then he separates the meat for cleaning.
I gather the things he says I need, wash my hands, and tend to the carrots with precaution. It is about twenty carrots. I cut myself seven times and throw away nine of them.
Refusing to let Nathan heal my cuts, I wash my hands, preferring to let them heal humanly. But he removes me from carrot cutting duty. “Let’s give you something a little less torturous.” He washes his hands and brings me a ball covered in what looks like huge lettuce leaves. “It’s called a head of lettuce, Sparks.”
“Yeah, I knew that . . . Cooking isn’t one of my talents, and I’m not ashamed of it.”
He moves the meat from the island to the counter by the sink, freeing up some space. Placing a giant bowl in front of me, he brings with him another head of lettuce.
“What am I going to do with this, make salad?” I ask, holding the head of lettuce at a distance. It’s heavy and wet.
He analyzes my quizzical expression. “It’s not rocket science, Sparky. Pull the lettuce, tear it into strips, and throw it in the bowl. Making salad is exactly what you’re doing.”
“Okay,” I chirp. “I can do that.”
Tearing up and tossing lettuce is a lot safer than cutting carrots. I do this with ease while Nathan handles cleaning and seasoning the leg quarters and halves. When Nathan grudgingly told me the specific names of chicken, that’s when I felt the pinch of embarrassment. As often as I’ve watched Mom cook, half of this I should know; cooking’s just never been an interest.
The oven clock reads 4:05 pm; it’s too quickly nearing the time for the gathering, and nervous butterflies flutter in my stomach. “This is really about to happen, isn’t it?” I mutter.
Nathan looks up at me from the lettuce he’s helping me tear and toss. “Unless you don’t want it to.”
I sigh, stretching my neck back. “No. I’m cool with it. It has to happen. I’ve just never experienced this before.”
“If you’re not ready, we don’t have to do it. I’ll call everything off.”
“No.” I meet his gaze. “We’ll do it. I’m just nervous is all. My d
ad’s been different, and I don’t know what to expect from him anymore.”
Nathan nods, taking it in but having no response. He’s noticed it too.
We wash our hands and head upstairs to dress. Combing through the clothes in my half of our wardrobe, I decide on some light blue jeans I hope will fit me right, a nude blouse that flares out around the collar, and some nude and silver-colored flats that match the blouse. I borrow Taylor’s flatirons and straighten my hair, then slap on some makeup, knowing Mom likes it when I go the extra mile for special occasions. This is obviously a special occasion, even though we aren’t leaving the house.
The jeans hug my hips, and the blouse matches perfectly with my shoes; it’s beige brings out the light brown of my eyes. Fiddling with tucking in my shirt and not, I push Nathan’s room door open and find him exiting his closet. Dressed in dark black jeans and a stone-gray button down accented with a white collar, he’s a sight. The shirts fitted, hugging his shoulders, and his matching black dress boots compliment his fit.
Turning to me when I close the door, his gaze sweeps over my face, down past my chest, and stops at my waist. Closing his eyes, he shakes his head. “No. No,” he states. Pointing to the closet while folding down his collar, he says, “Change your clothes, Sparks.”
Insulted, I blurt, “What? Why?”
“Change. And remind me to go up a size in your jeans.”
I look myself over. “These jeans fit me perfectly.”
“Yeah, too perfectly,” he adds, gaze dropping to my hips.
“Nathan, I am not changing. We need to go. Control those Burdened hormones of yours.” I turn to the door.
“Pfft. Let’s keep this meet and greet short.” He’s right behind me, tugging me by my waist to meet his hips. “Because you, me, and these jeans are not going to last long.” He reels me closer, kissing my cheek. “You look nice,” he compliments. Inhaling, he adds, “You smell good too.”
“Thank you.” I face him. “You do too.”
His hands push to the small of my back, and he looks over my shoulder. Those big hands descend, taking hold of both my butt, and before I can react, I’m lifted in the air, the door’s closed with my back smashed against it, and his lips smashed against mine.
His aggressive kiss makes my girly spots twitch. He bites my neck, teeth far from breaking my flesh but intense enough to scrape the surface. I sigh, squeezing him between my thighs.
Nathan draws back, eyes swirling a peaceful ocean color. “Mmm, Sparks. Your hips, with that ass in these jeans. With that face, and this . . . hair.” He twists a strand around his finger. “And those lips on mine, making that noise. We’re not going to make it through this.”
I beam, glad he’s as attracted to me as I am to him. “I think you’ll make it. We’re late.”
His jaw works, and a low rumble sounds from his throat. Squeezing the sides of my butt, he reluctantly lowers me to the floor. “Now that is a restriction,” he drawls, opening the door.
I giggle, backing out of his room.
cool passion
I unlock the front door to my house and Nathan and I step in, greeting my small family. Mom and Dad are ready to go, dressed up for the evening. Dad, dressed in a long-sleeved black button-down shirt tucked into blue jeans and some black loafers, rounds the corner of the kitchen, smiling.
“Hi, Dad,” I greet, wrapping my arms around his middle.
He hugs me tight. “Hey, Ladybug.”
“Hello, Mr. Warren.” Nathan extends a greeting hand.
Dad meets it, saying, “Hello, Nathan.” Dad’s light brown eyes shift away from Nathan to the mirror on the wall. The crisp shirt rests perfectly against his warm brown skin, and the sterling silver cufflinks glisten in the recessed lights as he lays down his collar.
We wait in the foyer for Mom. Not short of Dad calling her, she comes down the stairs, heels clacking on our tile floor. “Hi, you two.” She hugs Nathan and me. Her pretty, knee-length, dark orange dress goes great with her three-inch nude colored heels. Blonde, spiral curls drape her shoulders and bring out the intensity of her stone-gray eyes.
“Hi, Mom. Are you two ready to go?”
“We are,” she says, ironing out the waist of her dress with her hands, although there’re zero wrinkles. “We thought you were going to be here thirty minutes ago?”
I wince. She hates it when I’m not on time. “We’re just running a little late is all. Sorry.”
Dad cuts in, eyeing Nathan and I with skepticism. “That’s alright, Ladybug.”
I really wish I could figure out his overt mood swings.
“Mr. Warren,” Nathan starts. “How was your commute?”
Giving Nathan a side-eye, Dad blandly states, “Thank you for asking. It was long.” It’s clear, more than clear, he didn’t want to answer him and seems annoyed by Nathan’s address.
Nathan notices. He clears his throat and avoids looking in Dad’s direction. I’d like to scream “awkward,” but we’re scheduled for discomfort for the next few hours, and awkward may be an understatement.
“Um. Let’s go.” I gesture over my shoulder. “You all can follow us.”
Mom and Dad trail us to Nathan’s house. Nervous worms squirm around in my stomach. The closer we get, the worse they become. Every time I think about what the next couple of hours may look like, I cringe. I just want Dad to keep cool and be on his best behavior. “If my dad acts up, can you put him to sleep?”
Nathan chuckles. “I can’t put people to sleep, only you. That’s Scott’s ability.”
“Remind me to talk to him.”
This day is a little overwhelming. And for some stupid reason, Roehl keeps appearing in the back of my mind, forcing me to think of him, and replace Nathan seated next to me with his image. It’s an appealing thought to have his hand in mine, readying him for my father’s impact on tonight.
I aggressively shake my head.
What am I saying? Don’t be stupid, Tracey. Get your shit together! My heart pounds hard in my chest, hoping these thoughts are private.
Nathan reaches over and grabs my hand. “Sparks, everything will be fine. Just relax.”
His touch clouds my mind, causing the thoughts to fade. I bite my tongue for the rest of the ride to Nathan’s house.
Dad parks behind us in the driveway. I let down the visor and spy on them; their dumbstruck expressions staring at the house are even more overwhelming. Huffing, I push it closed and lean back on the seat, trying to maintain my nerves.
Nathan gets out of the car and comes to my side. He opens the passenger’s door, asking, “Okay?”
“Just don’t let go of my hand. I think the one thousand and thirty-two butterflies will come flying out if you do.”
He laughs once, extending his hand. I take it, letting him help me out of the car. I glance behind me and motion for Mom and Dad to come on. After thirty more time-wasting seconds, and the trading of a few words, they get out.
“Long trip?” I ask for conversation’s sake.
“It was okay, honey,” Mom answers, keeping my polite conversation short.
I nod.
“Nice house your parents have here, Nathan,” Dad says.
“Thank you, sir,” Nathan replies, reaching for his keys.
Before Nathan can grab the doorknob, Taylor’s pulling open the door. She beams and bubbly greets, “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Warren, did you two have a good ride over?”
“Hello, Taylor,” they respond.
“Please, come in.” She steps aside, and the three of them head in without waiting on us.
I follow them in with Nathan behind me. He sneaks a feel. I throw a glare over my shoulder, shooting him a disapproving eye. He shrugs, looking over my head. His soft smirk makes his attempted blank expression so wolfish. You had better stop, I think to him.
I told you, you needed to change. But noo, he emphasizes in a whine. Now I’m forced to sit next to you with that body of yours and the thoughts of us in my mind. Including what I wan
t to do to it.
Unable to hold back my smile, I tell him, You’ll get over it.
He bites his bottom lip, fixing me with a seductive look. Then he looks away. No, I won’t.
friendly takeover
The silence among my parents, Taylor, Nathan, and I is overbearing. Our steps are all somehow in unison, everyone right foot—left. What could they be thinking? Maybe they feel as awkward as I do. Dad’s shoulders are relaxed, Mom’s arms loosely hang at her sides; hand hugging her gold clutch. Taylor has a perky bounce, and Nathan, lately, has been very focused on staying focused. This is odd for him, and I’ve already orchestrated a plan to find out why at a better time.
To fill the awkward quiet, I say, “Dad, we’re going to their great room. Imagine the size of our entire house in one room.”
“It is not that big, Mr. Warren. But it is the biggest room we have to hold our family.”
“I understand, Nathan,” Dad replies, sounding a little intimidated by the great room.
Mom chuckles. She twists her arm around Dad’s, and without the slightest acknowledgment of her or her action, his hand automatically grasps hers.
I bump Nathan’s arm. Did you see that?
He nods. Out of their years together, they should know each other that well.
I guess we bypassed learning each other that way?
No, we zipped through it. Helped by mating.
I think for a second. I would’ve loved to get to know you that way. Build on years and unconsciously study you.
Should’ve thought about that before you decided you wanted to bond, he fires back.
Ouch, I say, feeling the sting of my actions—of his statement. I look at the floor. You hate this, don’t you?
No. But I wanted us to take our time. We rushed it, and I would’ve preferred counting hours instead of minutes. I take that in, and it strikes me in an unfamiliar spot that makes me uncomfortable. I shove it away as we come upon the glow of the bright lights shining from the great room into the hall.
A show plays on the TV and those in the room chat among themselves. The instant we walk into the entry, everyone falls silent and turns their attention to us. I’m grateful they don’t bum rush us like they did me. Dad might do his own form of ‘spazzing out’ if too many people approach him at once.
Brazen: A Dark Paranormal Romance (The Sephlem Trials Book 2) Page 17
