The man jerked his chin in Lara’s direction. “What about her?”
“She’s with me,” Iestyn said firmly, flatly. “Why don’t you move on so this nice lady can take our order.”
*
The man in the red bandanna loomed over their table, exuding menace and testosterone. Lara tensed. Beneath the bacon and onions, something simmered. Not a smell. An absence of scent and warmth, of light and life. It pressed her chest like a lack of air, muffled her senses like a hood.
For a moment she could not breathe.
The family in the next booth collected themselves and left, the ten-year-old dragging his feet, the mother clutching the toddler in her arms.
Iestyn sat perfectly still, doing nothing, everything about him open and relaxed, his face, his voice, his posture. Mr. No Problem. Except she knew him well enough now to see the muscle ticking beside his mouth, to feel the coiled tension in his long, lean body.
Maybe the man in the red bandanna felt it, too. Because after three . . . four . . . five agonizing heartbeats, he turned away.
“Have some water,” Iestyn said.
She blinked at him.
He pushed a sweating glass across the table. “Drink some damn water. You look ready to pass out.”
His blunt command was easier to bear than sympathy would have been.
She drank and felt the muscles of her throat relax.
“You’re taking care of me again.”
A corner of his mouth quirked up. “As much as you’ll let me. What do you want?”
“Whatever you want,” he’d said to her last night.
“What can I do for you this morning?”
Her face burned. She dropped her gaze to the straw lying on the table. Absently, she picked it up, rolling it between her fingers. “I just ask, and you’llgive it to me?”
“If it’s on the menu.”
The waitress swept in to take her tip and their order.
When she had left, Lara said, “No, I meant . . . That’s what you said last night. ‘Whatever feels good to you.’ ”
Iestyn sipped his coffee, watching her over the rim. “So?”
“So.” Her throat felt dry. “I just wondered how far you’re prepared to go to make me feel better. Or do I already know the answer?”
He set down his mug with a clunk. “You think last night was . . . what, a pity fuck? You think I got it up because you were there and I felt sorry for you?”
She shredded the straw’s paper wrapper, unable to meet his eyes. “It occurred to me I didn’t give you much choice.”
“Christ. I was trying to be nice.”
She twisted the shreds of paper into little pellets, dropping them into the butter dish. “Exactly.”
“No. Not exactly. Not at all.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Look, last night you needed somebody. Last night, I wanted you. One doesn’t have anything to do with the other.”
Lara sat stiffly as the waitress returned with their food, pancakes, eggs, and bacon for him, English muffin and orange juice for her.
Her heart beat a little faster. “Last night, I wanted you.”
Was it possible he was sincere?
“I didn’t mean to insult you,” she said when the woman had gone.
“You can’t insult me,” Iestyn said. “Hell, I’ve slept with women for less reason before. But give yourself a little credit.”
“Credit for what? Throwing myself at you?”
“For putting yourself out there. For doing the right thing. For being smart and determined and loyal and brave. And hot,” he added. “You are incredibly hot. And you let me have sex with you, which makes you perfect.”
Her laughter gurgled out before she could stop it.
He grinned. Their eyes locked. A warm jolt of energy shot clear down to her toes and settled around her heart.
“Even when sex isn’t on the menu, you’re damn near perfect,” he said softly.
She reached blindly for her English muffin, yearning and confused because he was still giving her what she wanted, telling her what she wanted to hear, and even though he was smiling, teasing with her, his eyes were deep and earnest, like he almost believed what he was saying, and for a moment— oh, God—he made her want to believe it, too.
He sat across from her, eating pancakes as calmly as if he hadn’t just electrified her emotions and shorted her brain.
She was dimly aware of stools scraping and people moving behind her. The bell over the door jangled.
She watched his hands on his knife and fork, a sailor’s hands, lean and brown and strong, and remembered him touching her breasts with exquisite gentleness, gripping her hips to help her find her rhythm as they moved together.
Her head swam. Her heart pounded in her chest as if she’d run a mile. She was stunned by her reaction, unnerved by her vulnerability.
If she was not careful, he could break her heart.
“You have butter.”
Disconcerted, she stared at the ruins of the butter plate, decorated with paper confetti. “Sorry. Did you want some?”
His smile was warm and slow. “You have butter . . .” He angled his head, studying her face. “Here.”
He reached a hand across the table. His thumb traced the corner of her mouth, lingering on her bottom lip. The pad of his thumb was rough and tasted pleasingly of salt.
She sucked it into her mouth.
He inhaled sharply. His gaze darkened and dropped to the front of her T-shirt, where her nipples peaked against the soft cotton. “And there.”
She glanced down, and yes, okay, there was a tiny crumb glistening with butter on the front of her shirt.
She looked up to meet his eyes, black as midnight, brilliant as suns. The heat in them sucked all the oxygen from the room and left her light-headed.
“Want me to take care of that for you?” he offered, his voice husky.
Yes.
She was dry-mouthed, dizzy with excitement. “No.”
Touch me.
He smiled again crookedly. “You keep looking at me like that, babe, we won’t need to have sex to call in trouble.”
Her hands tightened on her napkin. Skies. He was right.
She tamped down the excitement rising in her blood, the arousal humming like static along her skin. She needed to think.
“I’m going out to the Jeep,” she said. “To get a clean shirt.”
“I’ll go with you.”
She shook her head decisively. She needed perspective.
Distance. She couldn’t think when he was near. “I’ll be fine.
I’ll only be a minute.”
He scanned the diner and then her face. Nodded slowly.
“If that’s what you want. I’ll settle up.”
She slid out of the booth, striding past the now-empty counter, her heart pounding as if she were running away.
Which, of course, she was.
She shoved open the door, disturbing the birds that had now settled onto the parking lot. She rounded the side of the building, passed the truck. A crow flapped from the Jeep’s roll bar to the ground, cocking its head to watch her.
Creepy thing.
But she had more on her mind than a bunch of stupid birds.
The bags were in back, behind the driver’s seat. She sidled between the Jeep and the big eighteen-wheeler, shivering in the truck’s shadow. An odd, stale quiet stole over her. Like walking into a dead zone, like being shut into a closet. Leaning into the open door of the Jeep, she snatched the plastic Walmart bag from the back. Turned.
Three men stepped from behind the truck to block her way.
Flannel shirts. Red bandanna. Tattoos . . . The men from the diner.
Her senses, which had been numb and dumb, crackled back to life. Her heart thumped in panic.
Fight? Or flight?
*
“Everything all right?” the peach-haired waitress asked
as she rang up their order. “Fine,” Iestyn assured her.
It was, wasn’t it? Lara had just stepped outside a minute to fetch a shirt, to catch her breath, to set a little distance between them.
He didn’t blame her. This thing—connection—between them spooked her. Spooked him, too. Not the sex. Sex came easy for him and his kind. But the intimacy.
He’d never been tangled up in a woman so fast. He’d liked her looks from the start, those clear gray eyes and the little frown between them, that fall of mink brown hair and the angle of her chin. But it was the whole messy package that appealed to him, her fascinating bundle of nerves, spine, and determination.
He frowned at the curling dollar bill taped over the register.
He wanted her, sure. But for the first time with a woman, he wanted more. Her safety. Her happiness.
It made him antsy, knowing this time he couldn’t walk away without leaving a piece of himself behind. No wonder she needed a minute to herself.
She sure was taking her own sweet time, though.
He threw another glance at the door. The windows were too high, too narrow to see out.
Too much time. Where the hell was she? His neck crawled. Thrusting money at the waitress, he headed for the door.
“Wait! Your change.”
The crows in the parking lot yammered like gulls.
“Keep it,” he said, and broke into a run.
*
Black birds ringed the parking lot like spectators at a boxing match. Or vultures. Iestyn’s heart jack-hammered. The three men from the diner had Lara trapped between a big rig and the Jeep.
At least this time none of her attackers was possessed by a demon.
That he knew of.
A chill chased over his skin. Briefly, he met Lara’s gaze, blazing in her pale face. “Get inside.”
She opened her mouth to argue before she figured out his order was for the benefit of their audience. Pressing her lips together, she took two jerky steps toward him.
Tattoos took the toothpick from his mouth and pitched it to the ground. “I say she stays.”
“Let her go,” Iestyn said evenly.
The stocky man with the weary eyes met his gaze. “Or what? You’ll call the cops?”
Duck into the diner, leaving her alone? Risk having the cops run a make on their stolen Jeep?
“We don’t want trouble,” Iestyn said again.
Tattoos laughed.
The man in the red bandanna crossed his arms over his chest. “Then call off your spies.”
Spies?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Iestyn said.
“Call ’em off, or your girlfriend’s going back to Heaven ahead of schedule.”
But Lara was easing between the Jeep and the truck, retreating toward the diner, securing herself space and a wall at her back. Smart girl.
Iestyn started circling with Bandanna Man and the stocky guy, hoping to buy time to let her get away, get inside, trying to keep one eye on Lara and the other on his new dance partners, watching their hands, watching their eyes. Hoping nobody had a knife or, Jesus, a gun.
Tattoos realized Lara was slipping away and made a grab for her. The flock of birds burst from the ground, a feathered explosion of black wings and raucous cries.
Lara dropped out of sight behind the Jeep.
Fuck.
Bandanna Man swung. Iestyn grabbed his arm, blocking his punch, spinning him into the back panel of the truck. Metal shook and clanged. Iestyn muscled in, but the second man jumped him from behind, driving a fist into his kidneys. Pain erupted. Pain and rage. Bandanna staggered around, pushing off the truck, and the two men converged on Iestyn in a blur of knuckles, boots, sweat.
The world swam in a red haze of hate and fire. He jammed his knee up into a groin—grunt, good—jabbed his fist into a gut. Bandanna folded, but the other guy kicked Iestyn from behind, hard in the back of his knees.
Instant collapse. They went down in a tangle of arms and legs, stocky guy on top. The blacktop scraped Iestyn’s back as meaty hands dug for his throat.
The heth blazed. Burned.
Stocky Guy froze, his face twisted in surprise.
Iestyn heard fabric rip, heard Lara cry out, and a bubbling gush of fire and fury surged through his veins, washed his brain. Power, fierce and unfamiliar, filled him.
Possessed him. He bucked, throwing off his assailant, rolling with him over the hard ground.
A voice—not his voice—hissed in the back of his mind.
Die, son of air.
Rage flooded him. Hate consumed him. He pinned the son of a bitch to the ground, straddled the struggling body on his knees. Leaning his weight on his forearm, crushing the man’s throat, Iestyn reached with his free hand for his knife.
“Iestyn! No. ” Lara’s voice, ringing in his ears.
He tugged the blade free.
“Stop!” Lara’s touch on his shoulder.
He growled and shook her off.
“Iestyn, please!”
Her voice, clear, calm, insistent, reached through the blaze of pain and rage crackling inside his head.
He eased slightly on his enemy’s windpipe, feeling the flood of hate ebb. The man gurgled, his chest heaving as he dragged in precious air.
Iestyn tightened his grip on his knife.
“It’s all right.” Lara’s small hands alternately tugged and patted his arm. “Let him up. They’re flyers.”
Iestyn’s head was raging, his limbs on fire.
Lara’s voice trickled in his ears like water, abating the fury that infected his blood.
He didn’t understand her words, but he trusted that voice.
Trusted her. Only her.
He turned his head so her hair brushed his cheek. She stooped over him, her dark hair falling around them, her gray eyes wide and anxious. He inhaled her scent, creamy sweet as lilies at night.
Lara.
Unbloodied.
Unhurt.
His gaze shot behind her to her attacker, standing back beside the man in the red bandanna, their hands uncurled and empty at their sides. The younger man’s shirt was ripped at neck and shoulder, exposing his tattoos. Lara’s doing?
The tightness in Iestyn’s chest relaxed a notch.
“Come on.” Her smile encouraged him. “Stand up.”
He didn’t stand. Couldn’t. But he sat back on his heels, clutching the knife, adrenaline and something unnamed, foreign, still burning in his blood.
Lara gestured to the men behind her, performing introductions like a nice child at a party. “These are Fremont and Max, flyers out of . . . Where did you say you were from?”
The man in the bandanna, Fremont, wiped blood from his mouth, casting a wary look at the roofline. Crows perched in a solemn black line against the sky, like priests at an execution. “We didn’t say.”
Awkward pause.
Lara cleared her throat. “And the man you’re sitting on is Soldier.”
The young guy rubbed the tattoo on his neck and then the bruise rising on his jaw. Iestyn observed his battered face with satisfaction. Too bad Lara hadn’t broken his neck.
“Where are you from?” the young man asked.
“Rockhaven,” Laura said.
A grunt from the ground. “I thought I recognized the work.”
Iestyn blinked down at the man he’d been trying to kill a minute ago. His ears rang. His hands trembled. He shook his head slightly, to clear it. “What . . . work?”
The man called Soldier pulled on the neck of his T-shirt, exposing a white scar circling his throat and a square purple burn mark just under his collarbone. “The glass. I wore a heth once. Took me by surprise, seeing one on you.” His smile was sharp as glass. “Or you wouldn’t have thrown me.”
Iestyn’s simmering rage flared, quick and hot. “Don’t bet on it.”
Lara touched his shoulder, in warning. Reassur
ance.
“Soldier saw the birds and thought we were Guardians sent to bring them in. But now that we know we’re in the same boat—”
“How do we know?” Iestyn interrupted. “We don’t know anything about them.”
“You’ve seen Soldier’s neck. And Max wears the runes,”
Lara said. “I saw them when I, um . . .”
“Kicked me in the head and tore my shirt,” Tattoos said dryly. He grinned, which made him look even younger and much more handsome. Cocky son of a bitch.
The young man turned his head, revealing the blue quartered circle inked into his neck. “The tet for luck.” He pushed up his right sleeve. “The taw for protection.” He rolled back his left, where a simple circle adorned his inner wrist. “The ayin for sight.”
“Fat lot of good that did us,” Fremont muttered. “You thought they were demons.”
Max flushed. “I said they could be. There is a taint.”
“It’s this one,” Soldier said. “He’s not one of us.”
“He’s selkie,” Lara said. “One of the children of the sea.”
“Where’s his sealskin, then?” Fremont asked.
Irritation ignited in Iestyn, running along his veins like a match set to paper. They knew him. They knew what he was. But they were talking about him as if he were deaf or stupid. As if he wasn’t there.
“Lost,” he growled.
Soldier met his gaze. Held it. The flyer’s eyes were faded blue, like worn denim. “Convenient.”
“Not for him,” Lara snapped.
Her quick defense delighted him. Her hand still rested on his shoulder, her little finger barely brushing the back of his neck above the collar of his shirt, that small touch of skin to skin soothing and inflaming him.
“We’re trying to find his people,” she continued, “so they can help him.”
“Going to World’s End, are you?” Fremont asked.
Iestyn went very still. His pulse pounded in his head like the sea. World’s End.
Lara’s fingers dug into his shoulder. “Where?”
“The island. That’s where you fish folk hang out, isn’t it?”
“How do you know?” Iestyn forced the words from his raw throat.
Forgotten Sea Page 16
