by Nancy Gideon
“You’d lose.”
“I think I might have a slight advantage at the moment.”
She took another tack. “You didn’t have to come in.”
“Right. I could have left you hanging on the doorknob like a bag of dry cleaning.”
“I’m fine now.” She struggled to sit up and her head immediately began to throb. “See,” she gritted out. “Fine. Go away.”
“All I see is stubborn. And I’m staying until I’m sure you can take care of yourself.” He got up and went into her kitchen, missing the spectacular scowl she sent him.
“I’ve been taking care of myself since I was seven. I don’t need you here. I don’t want you here.”
Silence, then the sudden sound of shattering glass made her jump.
MacCreedy rounded out of the kitchen in a magnificent fury. His eyes glittered, quicksilver with flashes of blue fire. His voice rumbled like thunder. “Then by all freaking means continue. Take care of yourself. Rely on yourself. Live your own miserable life without ever giving a damn about anyone but yourself. You are the most—”
“I love you.”
Her eyes were closed; she couldn’t bear to look at him. She could feel his shock in the deafening silence. Finally, he stammered, “I—I broke one of your glasses,” and returned to the kitchen. She could hear him pull the trash can out from under the sink, and the tinkle of glass as he tossed the shattered pieces into the pail. Like shards of her heart. Could she make a bigger fool of herself?
Nica got off the couch, wobbling. She took several cautious steps toward the hall, her focus on the bedroom door that she could close to escape this dreadful moment. The hallway tipped and warped wildly out of shape. A few more steps, then her legs gave out. Fueled by a humiliation that couldn’t get worse, she crawled on hands and knees.
“Nica!”
She didn’t stop. She couldn’t. She couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t struggle when he dropped down in front of her to gather her into his arms. Could do nothing but slump against him when he sat on the hall rug, back to the wall, cradling her to his chest and rocking her as he pressed rough kisses to her brow, her temple, her cheek. His breathing was as ragged as her emotions.
“Repeat that,” he whispered.
“I love you, Si. But it doesn’t change anything. Not who we are. Not what we have to do.”
“Nica, I—”
She stopped his words with her palm. “No. I don’t have the strength to hear it. Don’t say anything. Please.” Finally he nodded, lowering his head until his cheek rubbed against hers. She could feel the damp heat of tears. She didn’t think she was crying; were they his?
After long minutes passed, Nica eased out of his embrace and settled beside him on the floor. They sat there, not looking at each other until she said, “I’m feeling better. I should probably just lie down for a while, then I’ll be fine.”
“Amber said you were sick. She told me you’d gone out the back, and that I should go after you to make sure you were all right.”
So much for their man-hating sisterhood. “I’m not sick,” she told him testily. “I’ve never been sick a day in my life.”
“Then what is it—” His voice broke, and his eyes became huge. He took a shaky breath, then ventured, “Nica, are you—”
“Pregnant?” She laughed. “Good God, no. I’m not that stupid.”
“Oh.” He turned away quickly, his jaw squaring as if she’d just offended the hell out of him.
Had he hoped—? No, of course not. Now she was being stupid. There had never been any question of forming lasting ties.
She puffed out a breath. “Thanks for bringing me here. If you could help me get to the bedroom, I’m going to nod off and you can go do whatever you need to do. If your hero instincts insist, you can call and check on me later, but I really think we should try to stay clear of each other from now on.”
He just got to his feet and put down his hands to her. She placed hers in them without hesitation and allowed him to haul her up. When she swayed, his arm went about her waist.
“Lean on me, if your ego will permit it.”
She did. She wouldn’t have made it otherwise.
There were no windows in the room, just the illusion of it with draperies hanging down on either side of the wrought iron bed frame. When Silas reached for the light switch, she stayed his hand.
“No light. Just the fan.”
He turned the rheostat down so just a faint glow warmed the room, and the ceiling fan stirred a pleasant breeze. With his arm still supporting her, he pulled back the covers, then eased her down onto the mattress.
“Let me get your shoes.”
She started to protest but he was already untying and slipping off her athletic shoes, then her socks, his hands warm against her skin. She studied the top of his head, intrigued by the slight curl of his hair, by the dark fan of his lashes, the hard line of his shoulders, wanting to touch him so badly, her fingers knotted in the covers. Not a good idea. Let him go. This can’t end well. Her bare toes rubbed over the top of his thighs.
“You never got to try out my bed,” she said quietly. “It’s much more comfortable than the floor.” Her palm patted the space beside her. “Try it. Just for a second.”
He eyed her warily, then sat on the edge of the bed. He looked at her in surprise. “What is this?”
“It’s a feather pillow top.”
He dropped back and sank into heavenly luxury. A heartfelt sigh issued from him as his eyes closed. “This is nothing like those hotel ironing boards I’m used to. I could hibernate in this for months. I’d never go to work again.” He settled in, easing muscles that still protested the cramped night on the couch.
As his tension melted into the downy comfort, his thoughts drifted. It seemed the most natural thing in the world for Nica to lie down beside him, her head on his shoulder, her arm curled across his chest. He placed his hand over hers. And when he opened his eyes, it was four o’clock in the afternoon.
“Oh, shit!” MacCreedy turned his head to meet Nica’s gaze. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”
Her answer was simple. “You needed the sleep. I needed you.”
Well . . . hell.
He should have jumped up and scrambled for the door. He should have done a lot of things. Anything other than lose himself in the vulnerability of that stare.
“This could be the last time we ever see each other,” she said with a quiet calm. “I wanted to fill up on the sight.”
The last time. Everything in him rebelled against that, but he didn’t know what to say to her. He didn’t know how to express the fullness in his heart, the anguish in his soul. Words couldn’t explain.
I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to lose you. I can’t bear to say good-bye. I don’t have a choice. I have no control. There’s nothing I can do. You’re everything I need. All I’ve ever wanted. I can’t let go. Don’t let me go. Please, Nica.
He drew shuddering breath. “Nica.”
“No apologies. No declarations. Just kiss me.”
He touched her cheek, his hand unsteady. Her skin was so smooth. He combed his fingers back through her hair, a wild, dark tangle like the feelings raging inside him. Her eyes remained focused on his, so deep, so intense, endless heavens, bottomless seas.
She cupped the back of his head with her hand, and he sought the soft part of her lips. Like the sinfully inviting mattress, he could sink into them and linger forever. Her scent stirred all his senses. The taste of her intoxicated him: cool, inviting, silky yet complex, like the wine they’d shared here. He drank deeply, desperately, until she broke away, panting with a like urgency.
Take her. Mate with her. Bond to her. Then no one can ever take her from you.
Her mouth slid along his jaw; her breath blew hot against his ear until he was all gooseflesh and shaky. The words she whispered inflamed him.
“I don’t want you to leave. I don’t want to lose you. I can’t bear to say good
-bye. I don’t have a choice. I have no control. There’s nothing I can do. You’re everything I need. All I’ve ever wanted. I can’t let go.”
Beautiful, passionate words.
The exact same words he’d been thinking.
His eyes sprang open and he looked into her soft, dreamy gaze. What the hell? Could she read his thoughts?
“Don’t let me go.” Her voice was rough with emotion. “Please, Silas.”
He caught her wrists as he searched for answers in her unguarded stare. Everything was laid bare for him; the fragility of her love, the heat of her desire, the ache of inevitability. And suddenly, starkly, an agonizing pain.
She cried out, her body stiffening, quaking. Then her eyes rolled back and her breathing stopped.
“Nica!”
Was it some kind of seizure? He pressed his fingers to her throat, where her pulse thundered. He patted her cheeks, lightly at first, then more sharply when she failed to respond.
Her eyes flashed open, filled with the cold, glassy fire he remembered from that night at Savoie’s. With a snarl, she gripped him by the neck—damn, she was strong—and threw him across the room. As he got to his hands and knees she assumed a predatory posture on the bed, sinking low, muscles bunched, her teeth becoming fangs.
He was two heartbeats away from being dead.
“Nica, it’s Silas,” he said forcefully. “You won’t like finding pieces of me all over your floor. It’s Silas. You love me.”
“Silas.” His name rattled up from her chest and hissed between those lupine teeth. She shook her head, her long hair whipping like a dark mane. “Silas, don’t let me hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you.”
He got to his feet and was moving toward her when she sprang. She hit like a wrecking ball, riding him to the floor. Her mouth was on his in a hard, ferocious kiss. Her teeth sliced his lips; her tongue lapped the blood away. “Love you,” she growled.
And just as quickly, she was up and off him.
Cursing, he rolled to his feet and rushed after her into the living room, brought up short by the sight of her on her knees, smashing her head against the brick wall.
“Get out of my mind! Get out of my head!” she shrieked, making all the hairs stand on his arms and nape.
Seeing the blood streaming down her face broke his trance. He grabbed her, throwing her onto her back so he could sit astride her, pinning her arms down with his knees. She spat and snarled and thrashed, it was all he could do to contain her. He gripped her contorted face in his hands, holding her head still.
“Nica, look at me. Nica!”
Her eyes swirled in raging aggression as she tried to bite him.
Now that he had her, what was he going to do with her?
His thoughts calmed, snagging on a memory from long ago, when he’d held a frantic, wailing child in his arms desperate to comfort her. Tina.
He took a deep, settling breath and let the ragged emotions leave him. He leaned closer, gazing deep into those fever-bright eyes, reaching beyond the madness to the anxious soul that had cried, “Love you.”
His voice was low, a soothing cadence of persuasion. “Nica, look at me. Keep looking at me. Look into my eyes. Don’t turn away. I want you to see me, just me. It’s Silas. I’m here. I’ll keep you safe. I promise. Just keep looking at me. Focus on me. It’s all right, sweetheart. Nothing’s going to take you away from me. You’re safe. I won’t let you go. Trust me, Nica. Trust me.”
Her powerful, heaving struggles stopped. Her fierce panting breaths slowed and deepened. The dangerous shimmer in her eyes was softened by welling tears. And finally, she gave a raw swallow and whispered, “You should have run. Why did you stay?”
“I’m through running.”
He rocked back on the balls of his feet to free her arms, which instantly hugged his neck. After holding her for a minute, MacCreedy carried her to the couch, settling her with a promise that he’d be right back. He returned with a wet cloth to gently clean her face and stanch the blood from the lacerations at her hairline. She sat quietly, somberly watching his expression. Her fingers touched his cut mouth.
“I’m sorry.”
He lightly kissed and sucked at her fingertips, murmuring, “It’s all right. Better now?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, then. Here’s where you tell me everything. Everything, Nica. Right now.”
Her gaze shimmered anxiously. “You’ll leave me.”
“I won’t.”
A doubtful laugh. “You don’t know what I’m going to say.”
“It doesn’t matter. It won’t change anything. I need to know.”
Her heart shuddered, and her courage faltered in the face of this monumental risk. “You’ll hate me.”
He shook his head. “I’m made of tougher stuff than that.”
She saw the firmness of his jaw, the steady steeliness of his eyes. Maybe he was. She took a breath. “Could we have some wine?”
“If you need it.”
A cynical smile. “I think you’re going to need it, lover. Bring the bottle.”
Nica had no memories of her family. She had no idea where she was born, where she lived, or what her parents looked like. When she tried to recall them, all she found were flashes of flames, pain, and fear.
“Did you lose them in a fire?” Silas asked after taking a big gulp of pinot gris. The thought of her as a child, alone, hurt, afraid, was unbearably painful.
“Maybe. I don’t know. I’ve never been able to find out anything about them.”
“Who raised you?”
Her smile curled. “Wolves. I grew up in a pack of Shifter children, some younger, most older than me. I was six or seven. We lived on the streets, surviving by whatever means necessary. They were the closest to family I ever had.”
“Just children, alone? No adults?” He was horrified.
“We were resourceful. Sometimes we had to depend on adults to earn money or if one of us got in trouble. Those were lean, hard years, but the freedom was delicious. That’s all I want to share with you about that.” She gave him a belligerent look, daring him to push for more.
“Okay.” For now. Children roaming the streets like savage animals. Someone had to know something. They had to come from somewhere. “Where was this? Do you remember?”
“In the North. I remember snow. Chicago, I think. It seemed familiar when I went there later.”
Chicago, where the Chosen ruled. He kept his features impassive. “How did you end up at St. Bart’s?”
“We traveled a lot, hopping trains. I’d go as a lookout for the older boys, because I seemed harmless and had more nerve than any of them.”
His smile twitched at that. Silas could imagine her as a fierce, feral child and his sympathies clenched tight. But he couldn’t let her see that; she’d hate it.
“We were brought down to New Orleans for a job. It was during Mardi Gras. I remember the parades and the easy pickings. And then everything went to hell.” She sipped her wine, shadows darkening her gaze. “Something blew our deal and two of the boys died.”
“Died? How?”
Nica shrugged. “They were shot. It happened sometimes.” She continued as if the death of kids was an acceptable part of her early existence. “But they were the ones who had all our travel money. We had to scatter and fend for ourselves. That’s when Tommy Caissie found me. He was a beat cop then. I was seven or eight and he dumped me at St. Bart’s.”
Thank God for Charlotte’s father. For four years, she’d had a safe place to be a child.
But that wasn’t how she’d seen it. It was a cage, to a predator used to freedom. She hated the rules, resisted authority, fought for everything she had, and sometimes for things she didn’t need out of frustration and fear.
“I thought about escape every day. I wondered what happened to my friends, and hoped they’d come for me.”
“But no one did.”
She shook her head sadly. “I never spoke to any of them again. But I did
n’t stay at St. Bart’s because they made me.” She said it proudly, wanting him to know that it was her choice. “I wanted to learn. I didn’t know how to read or do numbers. I wanted to know things, things that would keep me alive.”
“Knowledge is power, my father always said.”
Nica nodded. “Exactly. I spent all my time learning and staying strong. By the time I was twelve, I was doing the work of a senior in high school. Tommy Caissie let me come with them sometimes when he’d pick up Lottie. He taught us hand-to-hand and how to respect guns. He said I was a quick study.”
Learning to be a quick and lethal assassin before the age of puberty—when other changes began to take hold.
“I started having dreams. I called them that because I didn’t know what they were. Visions, maybe. Usually when I was asleep, sometimes when I was awake.”
“Is that what happened today?”
A tight smile. “Wait for it, MacCreedy.”
He finished his glass and poured more for both of them. “Describe these dreams.”
Here’s where he’d discover just how different she was.
“I’d be someplace else. I mean really someplace else. I could hear, feel, taste, smell everything around me, but the images were scrambled, wrong somehow. But they were real, Silas. I was really at these places.”
“Okay,” he responded, not rejecting what he was hearing. “Did you tell anyone about these dreams?”
“I told Mary Kate once. It scared her and she made me talk to Father Furness. I told him I made everything up. That’s when he started watching me more carefully.”
“What was it? Telepathy? Astral projection?” At her surprise, he shrugged. “I’d heard of these kinds of things before Father Furness enlightened us. I just never—”
“Believed in them. I didn’t, either. Then one day I realized I could hear what some of my prison mates at St. Bart’s were thinking, like I was right there in their heads. I could tune in the other Shifters without them knowing it.”
“Can you read my mind?”
“Rarely. You’re difficult unless your emotions are stirred up. Then I can catch glimpses. Not much.”
Liar.
Nica could read that clearly enough.
