Dusty [Wounded Hearts 4] (Siren Publishing Classic ManLove)

by Fel Fern

  “Fine, then. Sir, could you step away from the cliff’s edge?” the ranger asked, enunciating his words carefully, then snarling when Trace did the exact opposite.

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” he whispered. He read the ranger’s name tag. “Dusty.”

  “Talk to me. Why are you doing this?” Dusty asked carefully.

  “Stop talking down to me like a child.”

  Dusty growled. “I’m not doing that.”

  “You are. You’re talking so slowly, as if scared I’ll just jump off.”

  Dusty narrowed his eyes. “I’m not doing it on purpose. I’m fucking deaf, okay?”

  Trace would have called Dusty on his bluff, except those words were laced with genuine hurt. When he looked again, he saw a tiny sign under Dusty’s name tag, which read Deaf Services Coordinator. He felt like a dick as his foot suddenly slipped on a rock. Trace fell off balance, about to fall over the cliff and plunge into the raging waters below, except Dusty blurred.

  The rescue happened in mere seconds. One moment he felt nothing but air on his back, terror freezing every muscle in his body, and the next, he was in Dusty’s arms, far from the cliff. He became all too aware of powerful, muscled arms around his waist and his knees—that were still wobbling. He leaned in a little closer until Trace could regain his balance.

  This shifter burned incredibly hot. He read somewhere that shifters had warmer body temperatures, but gripping Dusty’s biceps, it felt like he was touching heated steel. Thoughts of suicide fled, replaced by something else. A snarl, an actual snarl emerged from Dusty’s lips, freezing him in place and reminding Trace his rescuer wasn’t human.

  “You can let go of me now,” he said, voice shaky. After Morgan, he couldn’t bear strangers touching him, but Dusty’s touch didn’t feel repulsive or intrusive.

  Dusty studied him closely and he realized the ranger must be reading his lips. Dusty wasn’t born deaf, he realized.

  “Not until I’m certain you’re no longer tempted to jump off,” the shifter said drily.

  God, but their bodies touching this close made it hard to think. Trace wore layers of clothes, but how was it possible that he could still feel how warm Dusty was?

  His dick pulsed in his jeans, a bad sign. Trace’s last relationship had been years ago, and Morgan hadn’t just stabbed him in the heart, but skewered him from the inside out. A year after his first piece sold for a five-figure sum, Morgan had reached out to him again, but Trace knew better.

  Relationships were scary. If he opened his heart a little, people didn’t hesitate to take advantage. God. Why was he thinking about this anyway when a moment ago, he was debating what there was to live for and if anyone would miss his absence?

  “I’m not going to jump,” he replied tersely.

  This shifter was too distracting, and made things worse by sniffing the side of his neck and suddenly licking at his racing pulse. Fear and excitement intermingled until he couldn’t understand what the hell was happening or why he was reacting this way to a stranger he’d just met.

  “Lie,” the shifter said plainly.

  At least Dusty stopped looking at his neck like it was a piece of steak. Any human with some sense would run away. Shifters were dangerous, especially the dominant males of their species, and there was no denying Dusty was that. Still, he was drawn to something about Dusty.

  Like called to like and he’d already glimpsed Dusty’s wounded soul, a mirror to his own, perhaps.

  “No. I mean it, at least I’m not going to kill myself today.”

  Dusty gave him a look of distrust.

  “Can you stop touching me? It’s distracting.”

  “Distracting in a good or bad way?” Dusty took a step back but eyed the bulge in Trace’s jeans.

  “Can you not look at my groin area either?”

  The snarl and hiss made him jump.

  “Don’t do this and that. I don’t answer well to demands, human,” Dusty said with a dangerous flash of sharp teeth.

  “I can see that,” Trace said with a shaky laugh.

  Dusty held out a hand. “Let’s take a walk. It might clear your head.”

  Normally, Trace would refuse, tell the ranger to mind his own business, but he found himself nodding. Dusty lead him down the slope, strides sure and easy while Trace kept looking at his feet the entire time, making sure he wouldn’t trip over a rock or unseen roots. Was Dusty flirting with him?

  No, that couldn’t be. Maybe it was protocol for all rangers to make sure park guests wouldn’t think about suicide again. For now, meeting kept the despair at bay, but he didn’t know how long that would last.

  “What’s your name?” Dusty asked.

  They finally stood in front of the river and he noticed the warning signs, telling hikers that beyond the river was territory reserved for the paranormal denizens of the town. Trace hadn’t even noticed the signs at first and felt a little foolish. No wonder he felt a pair of eyes watching him when he’d stood on that cliff.

  “Trace Michaels,” he said. Sometimes Trace lied because people recognized the name of the town’s local celebrity, but Dusty’s eyes held no recognition.

  “And what got you to thinking about ending your own life?”

  “None of your business. I’m not about to pour the contents of my life to a stranger.”

  Dusty didn’t push, merely shrugged. “I get it.”

  “What do you get? Are you actually going to say you relate to me?”

  “We have different reasons for wanting the easy way out.”

  Trace narrowed his eyes. “What do you know?”

  He gasped when Dusty spun him by the shoulder and growled into his face, pupils a dangerous shade of gold. Trace read somewhere that a shifter’s eyes changed color when intense emotions rode them.

  “Better than you think, human.” Dusty fisted a handful of his shirt and he glimpsed the raw pain there. Trace felt like a dick. “I lost plenty of friends, people I care about in the war. Finally, when we were supposed to go home, it happened. A plane carrying bombs flew over our campsite, eradicating everything.”

  Dusty looked far off, distracted, as if he were no longer there. Trace’s own personal problems felt so insignificant compared to what this man had gone through. Guilt rammed into him and he reached out, giving Dusty’s broad shoulder a squeeze.

  “Hey,” he whispered.

  Trace wanted to comfort the shifter, and yet he worried if what he was doing was okay. Shifters thrived on touch, he remembered. Most of the time, Trace was awkward in social situations. His dating life was practically non-existent since the attack.

  Dusty said nothing but the shifter’s breathing turned ragged. He trailed fingers over the rough, dark gold stubble covering Dusty’s cheeks and jaws. Morgan and Dusty couldn’t be any more different.

  Dusty was built like a linebacker, a lethal soldier with the hard eyes and body to match. A protector. Standing beside Dusty now, Trace realized he hadn’t been ready to jump off that cliff anyway. He’d contemplated suicide when his canvas wasn’t in front of him, but when he thought the world was a shitty, indifferent place, one that only cared about his art, a man like Dusty appeared, someone who’d save a complete stranger without hesitation.

  On the other hand, Morgan was lean and sinewy, a snake underneath his pretty face.

  What would it be like, to kiss Dusty?

  He imagined those lips crushing his, all roughness, bite, and heat. His dick thickened in his jeans. Did Trace have the guts to do that, to kiss a stranger he’d just met? His cheeks burned. No. Dusty needed comfort, the shifter was in obvious pain, and here he was, thinking about kissing the shifter.

  “I’m here.” Trace didn’t know whether his words had any effect but was glad Dusty’s eyes focused on him, on his lips, then his face.

  Realizing he was touching a stranger, he pulled away, letting out a squeak when Dusty clamped a hand around his wrist. Trace normally didn’t like being held down or feeling helpless, but Dust
y’s touch was comforting, warm.

  “I zoned out,” Dusty said, studying him. When the shifter leaned close, he drew back, flinching by impulse. Dusty released him, eyes narrowed. “You don’t like being touched. Someone hurt you before.”

  He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “How can you tell?”

  “Body language, the way you’re fighting your attraction to me so much. Don’t worry, little human. Hurting you is the last thing on my mind. Let me walk you to the station. That’s all.” Dusty turned away from the river and began walking toward a path which led to the park entrance and ranger station, he assumed.

  “Wait,” he panted, trying to match the shifter’s quick strides. Dusty seemed to sense he was walking too fast and slowed down.

  “I know you’d never hurt me,” he blurted. “You saved me.”

  Dusty raised his eyebrows. “Don’t make statements like that to strangers you’ve just met. I’m just doing my job.”

  That answer felt like a punch to his gut. “So, what, you rescue sad, little wannabe suicide cases out of the goodness of your heart?” He knew Dusty couldn’t hear the venom in his voice, but Dusty could read the expression on his face and Trace had never been good at hiding his feelings.

  Dusty swore. “That’s not what I meant. Fuck. I lost control just now, and I’m sorry.”

  Trace had a feeling losing control meant something important to Dusty. “Apology accepted. I shouldn’t have touched you, but you felt so warm and nice. I’ve never felt that way around anyone.”

  Oh God. Trace should stop blabbering now or he’d further embarrass himself.

  “Look, Trace,” Dusty drawled, humor in his now human green eyes, but Trace couldn’t look away either. They were also a mesmerizing pure-emerald color. “If you want to ask me out, go ahead. I won’t bite.”

  “The nerve,” he muttered. “Didn’t you say I was just a job?”

  “I only said that to test you, see if you felt the same spark I did.”

  His heart thudded against his chest. Trace had never done anything like this, never asked a stranger out. That was why he agreed to dating Morgan in the first place. Morgan had come to him, but look how that turned out.

  Maybe fate placed him in the path of this gorgeous shifter for a reason. For the longest time, even after Morgan’s arrest, he’d felt utterly helpless, never in control of his life. Maybe it was time he took life by the reins and see where it would lead him.

  Chapter Three

  “Here?” Dusty asked, slowing the truck down.

  The ranger insisted on using his lunch break to ensure Trace got home safely. He didn’t disagree, eager to get to know Dusty a little better. They chatted about normal things during the drive, about the town, what Trace did for a living. Dusty looked surprised he painted and asked if he could see one of Trace’s works sometime.

  “Sure. I have a show at the art center next month,” he said.

  Dusty whistled. “You must be really good.” The shifter flashed him an apologetic smile. “I’m not really in the art scene.”

  “It’s okay. It’s kind of refreshing,” he admitted.

  Dusty found an empty slot and parked the car. He fidgeted. They arranged to meet tomorrow, but he wished he’d had the balls to kiss Dusty earlier.

  “Something wrong? You’re not…” Dusty hesitated, as if unsure how to place the words in a delicate matter.

  “I’m not thinking about suicide,” he confirmed, not offended.

  Dusty had every right to assume that, given he’d literally debated ending his life hours ago. The hike back to the ranger station had taken two hours. He had a feeling Dusty, with his shifter speed and familiarity with the park, could have cut the time to half, but had slowed for his sake. Trace had never been into the outdoors or into hiking, but he enjoyed their walk, even though some parts left him out of breath.

  “Okay, good. If you need someone to talk to, you have my number.” Dusty paused. “It helps. After I returned to civilian life, I withdrew from my brothers, craved isolation, but in the end, it only caged my inner leopard and made things worse.”

  “Okay. I’ll hold you to that offer,” he said, surprised he meant every word.

  “See you tomorrow night,” Dusty said.

  Boldness took hold of Trace. Heart racing, he leaned forward, but halted midway. What the hell was he doing? They hadn’t even gone on their first date yet. Dusty saved him from having some kind of breakdown when the shifter gripped his chin and thumbed his skin with huge, callused fingers. He let out a breath.

  “I’ve wanted to see what it’s like, kissing you,” he said lamely.

  Unlike him, Dusty didn’t hesitate. The shifter unbuckled his seatbelt for better access and went for it, kissing him tentatively at first, as if gauging his reaction. He responded, pressing a hand over Dusty’s uniform.

  The need to touch bare skin overwhelmed him. Damn clothes got in the way, but some part of Trace knew that wasn’t how dates went. He might have limited experience, but all the books told him he should wait.

  Dusty prodded his tongue between his lips and he opened up, letting the shifter deepen the kiss. Heat slid down his throat and went straight to his dick. He moaned when Dusty pulled away, a sly smile on the shifter’s lips.

  “Me, too.” Dusty wore a wicked smile.

  Still feeling dazed, Trace took off his own seatbelt and got out of Dusty’s truck. He had a feeling that if he lingered, things would escalate from a mere kiss to something else, fervent touches to both of them losing all their clothes. Dusty gave him a nod and Trace lingered on the sidewalk until Dusty’s truck disappeared down the road.

  Trace didn’t want the ride home to end, but it wasn’t like he and Dusty weren’t going to meet again. He headed back to his apartment building, glancing at his surroundings. Trace had grown paranoid since Morgan’s attack. Morgan was still behind bars for assault and wouldn’t be out for months, and besides, he had a restraining order against Morgan. Trace had a feeling that wouldn’t stop Morgan though.

  “Stop thinking about the past you can’t change,” he whispered furiously to himself as he walked inside his building.

  A young mother and her five-year-old kid gave him odd looks but he shrugged it off. Most of the residents in the building knew who he was, thought him eccentric, but it didn’t matter as long as no one bothered him. He took the elevator to his floor. As always, Trace hated elevators. He felt boxed, like the walls were about to close in. Suffocated.

  The doors opened and he stepped out, unable to recall the number of times he’d dragged his feet to his apartment building. Before he sold his first painting, he used to work at home, but it got depressing so he rented a studio apartment near the main shops in town.

  Sometimes when the paintbrush took over and he got lost in the painting, he slept at the studio. Then hours, days, sometimes weeks later, he’d look back at his finished work and a sinking feeling would come over him that it was time to be back in the real world.

  He fished out his keys, swallowing at the darkened interior of the apartment. Memories of Morgan’s attack lingered in the back of his mind. He quickly turned on the switch and yanked all the curtains open so light flooded in. It wasn’t much, just a single bedroom built for a single guy, but the place felt tainted since the incident.

  Trace knew he should find a new place, but this was his first home, except the space ceased to feel like home after Morgan’s attack. He had good memories to replace those horrible ones though. Trace took a quick shower and realized his fingers itched to sketch, to hold a paintbrush. He dressed quickly, headed outside, and took a cab to his studio.

  A strange feeling gripped him. He drummed his fingers on the bus’s window sill, relieved when he finally reached his stop. He got out, headed straight to his studio, which was a rented room above a bakery. The stairs were located on the side of the building, so he didn’t need to worry about disturbing the bakery.

  “Trace, is that you?” a famili
ar voice called. Mrs. Irwin, his widowed landlady, caught him about to head up the stairs leading to his studio.

  “Yeah.”

  “Wait there a second, I’ve baked some fresh cheese and ham buns.”

  She disappeared back inside and returned with a brown bag. The smell of fresh bread made his stomach growl. He kept insisting he should pay for the buns, but she kept insisting they were extras.

  “Thanks,” he mumbled, accepting them with gratefulness.

  “Trace,” she said, shifting the horn-rimmed glasses further up her nose to peer at him. “You look different today, more upbeat almost, and you’ve been nothing but gloomy over the past three months.”

  He had a feeling the old woman knew about the attack, everyone did. It was even mentioned on the local news, and even if the paper referred to him as the town’s “eccentric local artist,” most folks could deduce it was him. Mrs. Irwin, at least, was never pushy.

  He headed to his studio, munching on a bun. She gave him several, which would tide him over until dinnertime, because he had a feeling he’d be in here for hours.

  He took off his jacket and grabbed a spare canvas and his tools. Trace paused, noticing the other paintings he’d done over the past three months since the attack. All of them were done in dark hues of black and red. Looking at them made his stomach queasy.

  Like always, Trace used his art as an outlet. He’d locked himself away over the past weeks, not wanting any human company, content to remain lost in his pain, his other worlds. Sleep had eluded him. Most of the time, he’d dreamt of that awful night and Morgan’s crazed, bloodshot eyes—felt Morgan’s hands around his throat. He’d woken up this morning wondering what was the point of him continuing to live.

  Trace had wondered if anyone would miss him if he disappeared from the face of the earth. When Morgan entered his life, he’d thought it would be enough. Morgan admired him, worshipped his art, and he thought if one person cared about him, loved him, then he could get by.

  Trace cast his depressing paintings another look before studying the canvas in front of him. He picked up a pencil and did a rough sketch. In his mind’s eye, he knew this particular painting needn’t contain a single dark spot of ink. For the first time in weeks, he wanted to paint in color.