by Amira Rain
So, I told him that eating in the kitchen would be just fine. "If that's fine with you, too."
He said that it was just fine, slowly turned with the tray, and began heading back down the hallway, leading me to the kitchen. "My name's Mark, by the way. Mark Northrup. Many people around here call me Commander Northrup, but you can just call me Mark, if you want."
His name registered, but barely. Maybe strangely, I'd become preoccupied with how he was holding the tray, which was with perfect steadiness, without even a trace of trembling in his arms to indicate that his muscles were getting tired.
This struck me as pretty remarkable, since not only was the tray laden with enough food for two people and then some, it was also loaded with no fewer than four tall glasses filled with various beverages on ice, which were sitting next to two full coffee mugs, a tiny pitcher of what looked like milk or cream, and a little bowlful of sugar.
In front of these items sat mountains of sandwiches piled high on thick, ceramic plates, two large bowls of steaming soup, and another large bowl filled with apples and bananas. Honestly, everything on the tray, along with the weight of the tray itself, probably added up to something like fifteen pounds, or at least a weight approaching that; I knew from experience that even this seemingly-insignificant weight, when held on a tray with no handles for five minutes, was more than enough to make even a fit person's arms shake.
During college, I'd done a stint as a waitress before returning home to work at my family's bed-and-breakfast-slash-orchard-slash-winery. I knew that a tray as heavy as the one Mark was carrying would have made even our head waiter's arms quake just a minute out of the kitchen, and he was a basketball player who lifted weights.
It struck me as a little funny that I'd even noticed the steadiness with which Mark was carrying our tray, but I supposed I hadn't really been able to help my noticing. Even though I'd fought alongside shifters in countless battles and had witnessed their incredible strength firsthand, being around one that was in his human form, witnessing his increased strength with something as simple as a heavily-loaded tray was kind of something new.
Possibly wanting to prevent sexual assaults that would make me break our contract, Dylan had never allowed his enchanted shifters to be near me for longer than a few seconds while they were in their human forms.
While I contemplated Mark's possibly-funny-that-I-noticed-yet-nonetheless-impressive display of shifter strength, as well as his broad, muscular back, narrow waist, and tight rear, several long moments went by before it dawned on me that he'd just told me his name, and maybe I should do the same. As strange as it was to make introductions while staring at someone's back.
"I'm...."
I hesitated, with something feeling even stranger to me. It was just simply the act of thinking of my own name that felt incredibly strange.
"I'm Paulina Mars."
I hadn't said it out loud in almost three years, and I hadn't heard it said, either.
Leading me into a good-sized, sun-drenched kitchen with simple tan curtains drawn back over the windows, a simple circular kitchen table, and kind of simple everything, Mark glanced back at me, still holding the tray with all steadiness. "Nice name, Paulina. Very pretty."
Though I wasn't sure if he saw it, I allowed myself to smile briefly, inordinately pleased. A combination of my parents' names, Paul and Marlina, I'd always thought my name was kind of frumpy and old-fashioned sounding. No one had ever called it pretty before.
Relieved to finally have something other than "blue-eyed man" and "animals' owner" and the like, to think of him in my mind, I found that I liked Mark's name just as much as he seemingly liked mine. Strong and straightforwardly masculine, his name suited him.
Despite the fact that I and the other Angels had been preparing to fight Mark and his North Haven lions for months, years really, to be technical about it, since North Haven was always the end goal before a pause in our takeover of the state, I truly hadn't had a clue what Mark's name was until seconds earlier.
Dylan had referred to him only as "that North Haven asshole," or "that pathetic North Haven kitty-cat," and had insisted that everyone else do the same or variations of the same. Maybe just a time or two, Dylan had respectfully referred to Mark as "North Haven's leader," probably by accident.
Dylan really wasn't good with names, or at least he wasn't good at addressing people by their names, even when he knew damned well what they were. He called his women by various descriptors and nicknames, such as "red hair," and "titties," and "big mouth." He didn't even call his children by the names their mothers had given them; instead, he called them things like "tubby" and "brown eyes" when he spoke to them or acknowledged them at all.
Most of his lowest-level soldiers he simply called assholes, though he graced his mid-level soldiers by calling them by their last names. Dylan reserved direct address with proper, given first names only for his highest-ranking, inner circle of Angels and shifters. These inner circle members were also the only ones allowed to call him Dylan; most everyone else, including his women, had to address him as Lord Darringer. His male offspring were allowed to call him Father. Female offspring were permitted to refer to him as Lord. The Darringer part was optional. Probably good, since it might have been a mouthful for tiny toddlers.
Curiously, or maybe not, I'd called Dylan Dylan from the start, and he'd never corrected me. It had never crossed my mind that I was in any way a part of his "inner circle," but now I realized that maybe I had been all along, at least in a way. As much of a way that someone who'd been coerced into fighting for him could be.
I was simply addressed as Gifted, by Dylan and everyone else, and I always had been. I truly hadn't even heard my actual name spoken in nearly three years. In fact, I was pretty sure that Dylan didn't even know it. He'd started calling me Gifted fairly immediately, and I'd never corrected him.
When we reached the table, with me behind Mark, boisterous wiggle-worm Rocky still in my arms, and the cats behind my heels, Mark set the tray down, then turned to face me with an almost startling look of sternness and wariness.
"Before we sit down and eat, I just want to make one thing crystal clear to you, Paulina. Please listen closely."
I said nothing, wondering what had made him go from telling me my name was "very pretty" to a stern "please listen closely" within seconds.
CHAPTER SIX
Standing beside the kitchen table with a slant of late-day sun making his thick, dark hair glint, Mark continued speaking with his expression and voice stern. "When you first woke up, my main concern was for your health and well-being...but now that I can see you're feeling fine, I want to tell you something."
I just stared at him, silently praying that he wasn't going to tell me that Dylan was dead. "What is it?"
With his eyes radiating complete sincerity, he held my gaze. "Earlier, during the battle, I'm sure you saw that I'm able to withstand electrical zaps, whether from Gifteds or Angels, better than most other lions.
“I was able to withstand more than a few from you, personally. So, you should know that if you make any attempt to escape my house by zapping me, you won't be successful. I won't harm you in retaliation for a zap, but I'll restrain you, and you will not like it."
I wasn't quite sure about that. If he meant restrain me by tying me to a chair or something, with my hands by my sides so that I couldn't lift my palms to zap, I was sure I wouldn't like it. However, if he meant restrain me by holding me in his strong arms, close to his chest, I knew there was a part of me that would enjoy the experience, even if it angered me at the time.
I didn't want to think this thought about Mark, since my priority was to find out if Dylan was dead or alive, and then hopefully rejoin him, but I couldn't help it. With Mark wearing a fitted navy blue t-shirt that highlighted his chiseled pecs and revealed most of his extremely well-developed biceps, I was pretty sure most women would think similarly about being held in his arms, even if only to be restrained from doing any zappi
ng.
Still looking into my eyes with his expression stern, Mark continued. "So, unless you want me to restrain you, Paulina, I wouldn't even think about trying to zap me."
Trying to conceal the direction my thoughts were heading in, I scoffed. "And what makes you think I was even considering doing anything along those lines?"
"Well, just the obvious fact that until very, very recently, you were fighting for the Angels. It's only common sense to figure that you might try something in an attempt to get back to them."
The truth was that I'd zap anyone I needed to in order to try to escape and get back to Dylan. But first, I needed to find out if he was alive. The fact that Mark had indicated that there were still any Angels left for me to get back to had allowed a tiny bubble of hope to rise in my heart. The way the battle had been going when I'd passed out made me think it was possible they'd all been killed.
Trying not to act overeager for information, I began gently rocking Rocky in my arms, dropping my gaze from Mark's face to his. "Well, anyway...how many Angels are even left? And what about their leader?"
"No, Paulina. We're not going to change the subject quite yet. Look at me. I want your word that you won't try to zap me, and I want you to look into my eyes while you say it."
With a little rush of anger, I lifted my gaze from Rocky's face to Mark's. "What, like I'm some kind of a naughty schoolchild or something? Like I don't even have the authority to change the subject, and like I can't be trusted to give my word without looking into the teacher's eyes while I do so?"
Mark lifted his broad shoulders in a shrug. "If that's the way you want to look at things, that's fine. But I do want you to give me your word that you won't try to zap me, and I do want you to look into my eyes while you say it."
With my breathing accelerating, I held his gaze. "Fine. I give you my word that I won't try to zap you. You happy now?"
Expression unreadable, Mark continued looking into my eyes for a long moment before responding. "I am. Thank you. Now let's eat."
With a rush of heat rising to my face for some reason, I took my seat, and Mark did the same, then began distributing the various cups, mugs, and dishes on the tray.
"I poured you lemonade, iced tea, and ice water, because I wasn't sure what you'd like to drink."
Still angry at him for some reason, I spoke tersely without even looking at him. "Thanks."
Maybe I was still angry at him because I felt like he'd "made" me lie to him, which I felt incredibly uncomfortable about for some reason. The truth was that if Dylan was alive, I was still going to do whatever I had to do, including zapping anyone and everyone, to try to get back to him and eventually get my family back. No way in hell I was just going to abandon my goal now when I'd come so far.
So far and so close to holding my loved ones in my arms again. I knew Dylan might make me fight one last battle for him in order to fulfill my three year contract and make up for not fighting until the end of the battle that had just taken place, but that was fine. That would be a small price to pay in order to have the family reunion of my dreams.
Knowing it would be difficult for me to eat with with arms full of golden retriever, I set Rocky on the beige-and-cream linoleum floor, thinking he might take a nap by my feet. While I'd been holding and rocking him, he'd grown sleepy, resting his head on my chest with his eyelids drooping. However, seeming to spot the cats the moment I set him down, he popped up, barking, and proceeded to engage them in play, streaking across the kitchen between the two of them, then reversing direction to run a figure eight around them both.
I might have thought they'd hiss at him, not wanting to be circled by a boisterous puppy, but instead, they pawed at him, meowing, and then the big, fluffy gray cat started circling him, as if enjoying the game. Soon the butterscotch cat followed the gray cat's lead, much to Rocky's delight. After momentarily freezing, then making a move to head left, as if to fake the cats out, he darted right, zipping away from the two cats. The kitchen quickly became a playground while three animals played what looked like a game of hide-and-seek mixed with tag.
Lifting a thick sandwich stuffed with bacon, turkey, cheese, lettuce, and tomato slices, Mark glanced over at the scene with his full lips curving in a little smile. "Rocky, Butterscotch, and Lily-Rose have all become pretty good friends, a bit to my surprise. I thought there might be some turf wars when Rocky moved in, but right away, the two boys, Rocky and Butterscotch, became friends, then slowly pulled Lily-Rose into the group."
Pulling my gaze from the animals to Mark, I found I wasn't mad at him anymore, unable to muster hostility toward a man who'd adopted three animals and seemed to have a lot of affection for them.
"How did you name them? I mean...well, Butterscotch's name choice is pretty obvious because of his fur, but how did you come up with Rocky and Lily-Rose?"
Mark finished chewing and swallowing a bite of his sandwich before responding. "Well, when I found Lily-Rose, she was already named. When I first established this village, my men and I used to find a lot of strays in the woods, from here all the way to Bad Axe...probably animal survivors from when that city was destroyed. That's how I came upon Butterscotch and Lily-Rose, and Lily-Rose still had her tags on. I've always liked cats, so I decided to take them home with me."
Swallowing a bite, I set my sandwich down. "And how about Rocky?"
Rocky was currently hiding his face beneath a dish towel, as if trying to hide from the cats while they literally walked all over him, meowing. Using his teeth, Rocky pulled the dish towel down from a cabinet door under the sink, then tossed it on the floor and burrowed his little face beneath it. He seemed to still be enjoying the play, though, because if he'd really wanted to escape the cats, he probably could have darted away and out of the kitchen.
After glancing over at Rocky's antics with a small smile again, Mark answered my question. "I found Rocky about two months ago, while picking up some supplies in a small town called Temple, which is about twenty-five miles south of here. It's a town of a few thousand, where all of us villagers get our food, clothing, and other necessities, though on the day I found Rocky, 'new dog' wasn't exactly on my list.
“Yet, when I saw this tiny, skinny, scared pup nosing around my truck when I came out from the hardware store, I just couldn't take off like I hadn't seen him. So, I caught him, saw that he had no tags, and brought him back into the hardware store to see if anyone might have an idea of where he'd come from. And once the owner told me what his guess was, I decided right then and there that I was going to bring the poor little guy home."
"What did the owner tell you?"
With a sigh and a faint frown, Mark picked up his glass of iced tea, took a drink, and set the glass back down before continuing. "The owner said that a family in town who were regular customers had adopted a six-week-old golden about a month earlier...a golden who was the runt of the litter, which was why the family had purchased him, specifically...apparently, they were given a half-off deal because he was so small and sickly.
“But, the father of the family had been back into the hardware store a week earlier, and had told the owner that his kids didn't like the dog, because it wouldn't eat, and was therefore too weak to really play or do anything. Apparently complete brats, the kids kept saying they wanted a 'better' dog.
“So, unable to sell the dog back to the breeder or resell it to anyone else, the father told the hardware store owner that he thought he might just 'let it go' in the woodland surrounding the town, then get a new dog. Being that the hardware store backed up into the woodland, I told the owner I'd heard enough to guess that the trembling little runt I was holding was the abandoned dog.
“I took him to the vet, who said there wasn't anything specifically wrong with him other than malnutrition and general failure to thrive. So, naming my new little buddy Rocky, because I thought he was a remarkable fighter to have survived ill-care from the family and then abandonment, I took him home and fed him puppy formula from a special puppy b
ottle for a few days...and that was all he needed. By day four, he was fattening up, eating kibble from my hand, and teasing the cats by barking at them and then hiding behind the couch."
Now I really couldn't muster even the slightest feeling of anger toward Mark. In fact, now I was finding his personality just as attractive as his face and physique, if not even more so. Clearly, he had a heart of gold, and also a bit of a sensitive side, which I found magnetic, though troubling at the same time. I didn't want to become any more attracted to Mark than I already was. If Dylan was still alive, I wanted to be able to breeze right on out of New Haven without any tugs on my heart.
Wanting to change the subject, I picked up my sandwich, telling Mark that it was very kind of him to have adopted Rocky. Shrugging, he picked up his own sandwich, saying thanks, but then adding that he was sure anyone with a heart would have done the same.
