Gabriel looked back at Scarlet who was lowering herself to the couch. “Call Laura and act normal. Tell her you’re having a sleepover or something so you don’t have to go home either.” He flexed his hands. “In the meantime, we need to figure out just what Laura’s connection is to the Head Ghosts and the Ashman.”
Nate nodded to Scarlet, who was now curled into a ball on the sofa. “And we need to figure out why Scarlet is in so much pain.”
Gabriel looked at Scarlet in concern. “How bad is the pain, Scarlet?”
She looked confused. “I don’t know. It comes and it goes and I can’t control it.”
Gabriel’s head was spinning.
Laura was up to something. Heather had been drugged and brain-robbed. And Scarlet was biting back tears on the couch.
Everything was going to hell.
***************
Hours after the sun had set, Scarlet and Heather followed Gabriel into the basement to the spare bedroom next to Tristan’s. Scarlet tried not to let her eyes linger on Tristan’s bedroom door as she passed by.
The spare bedroom had blue walls and white furniture. White bed, white dresser, white desk, white mirror.
White, white, white.
And blue.
Scarlet collapsed on the big, white bed, grateful to be laying down again. She felt feverish and sweaty.
Heather looked at Scarlet in concern. “I think it’s jammie time. I’ll go grab our stuff.” She darted back up the stairs.
Gabriel came over to the bed and exhaled as he looked Scarlet over. “I’m so sorry, Scarlet. I wish there was something I could do to help you feel better.”
Then let me go to Tristan.
Scarlet smiled weakly. “I’ll be fine.”
No, I won’t.
Gabriel cupped the side of her face, his thumb stroking her cheek as Heather reentered the room.
“Okay, ex-lovebirds. Kissy time is over.”
Gabriel let his hand trail down Scarlet’s face before rising from the bed. “I’ll be upstairs if you guys need anything, okay?” Scarlet nodded and pulled herself up, careful not to wince.
She didn’t want Gabriel to worry about her more than necessary. Gabriel left the white room and closed the door behind him.
“Okay.” Heather pulled a handful of clothes from one of the bags. “I have fleece PJ pants with a sweater, or yoga pants with a long-sleeved shirt. Which do you want to wear?” Heather grabbed a handful of satin as well. “I also brought this little lingerie shirt with matching shorts because it was adorable, and I was shocked to find something so sexy in your closet.” Heather twisted her lips. “But since it’s freezing down here in Tristan’s creepy basement of pianos and bookshelves—hello, tortured soul—I suggest you go with the yoga pants.”
“I want the lingerie,” Scarlet said.
“Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
Heather made a face. “You won’t wear the sexy blue shirt to school, but you want to sleep in satin shorts that are pretty much just glorified panties in Tristan’s ice dungeon?”
“Yes.” Scarlet was getting impatient. “I’m in pain, Heather. I’m hot and uncomfortable and I don’t feel like having thick, cotton hanging all over my skin.”
“Okay, okay.” Heather tossed the satin outfit to her. “But if you get frostbite, I will laugh at you.”
Scarlet sighed in relief as she changed out of her suffocating school clothes and slid the thing, cool satin over her burning skin.
When they were tucked in with the lights outs, Scarlet laid awake as her body ached. The only light in the room was a nightlight Heather had brought from Scarlet’s house. Scarlet hadn’t even known she had a nightlight.
Heather’s breathing became heavy and regular and Scarlet stared into the darkness, thinking about the possibility that Laura had used a Head Ghost on Heather. Was Laura bad?
Laura didn’t feel bad. She felt…suspicious. But not evil.
Right?
As the hours passed, Scarlet’s aching gradually turned into torment. Barely able to breathe through the pain, Scarlet eventually rolled out of bed and crumpled to the floor.
She balled her fists as more pain wracked her body. Endless minutes passed without relief, wearing Scarlet down until she cried out in agony.
Heather sat up and shoved the satin sleep mask she wore up to her forehead, looking around in alarm. “What’s wrong?” She jumped out of the bed and met Scarlet on the floor, her pale face concerned.
Scarlet tried to swallow, but her throat wouldn’t work. “It hurts…so…much,” she whimpered.
She got on all fours and tried to keep her balance, but her muscles shook in revolt, bringing her back to the floor. Feeling completely defeated by pain, Scarlet curled herself into a ball and began to cry.
“O-M-G.” Heather began to panic. “Don’t worry. I’ll go wake up Gabriel and Nate. They’ll know what to do.”
Heather’s hands were shaking as she tried to rub Scarlet’s shoulder encouragingly.
“No,” Scarlet said between her teeth. “Don’t wake them. They’ll never…let me…leave.” Scarlet whimpered again, another sharp pain shooting through her.
Tristan was in more pain than he could handle.
Tristan…was…dying.
No!
“Leave?” Heather asked.
“I have…to go.” Scarlet tried to roll herself up into a sitting position, but the room began to spin.
“You’re not going anywhere.” Heather wrapped an arm around Scarlet’s shoulder to steady her. “Let me go get Gabriel and we’ll figure out what to do, okay?”
“No,” Scarlet protested, but it was too late. Heather was already out of the room.
Scarlet kept her eyes closed and tried to find Tristan. He wasn’t far away. He was close enough to run to. If she could just…get…up….
Why was he dying?
Scarlet’s heart raced in fear.
Was it because of her? Was he too far away from her? Was she killing him?
Scarlet cried out in agony as another wave of torment went through her.
She would not let him die.
Pulling her strength together, Scarlet sat up. The dark room was spinning, but she could see the door. Crawling on her hands and knees, she inched her way out of the bedroom, wincing with every movement. Once she reached the hallway, she forced herself to stand.
Wobbly and tortured, Scarlet’s body felt like it was ice cold and on fire at the same time. She saw the stairs, commanded her feet to move, and climbed her way up.
She reached the main floor and gathered more strength.
Scarlet kept moving until she reached the cabin’s back door and made herself stand up. With a shaking hand, she turned the doorknob and stepped outside, a cry of pain escaping her mouth.
But something about the frigid forest air, the black sky above, and the feel of Tristan’s not-so-distant heart breathed new life into her lungs and she began to walk.
She walked and walked…off the cabin’s back porch…past the shooting range where Tristan had watched her with pride…and into the tall trees.
She was getting closer to him.
Following the pull of Tristan’s heart, Scarlet walked faster into the darkness.
Her pain was easing with every step and, before she knew it, she was running.
Through the woods, through the pain, and straight to Tristan.
He wasn’t dead yet.
50
Tristan braced himself against the kitchen counter in the shack, trying not to fall over. He was in too much pain to get back to Scarlet. Even if he wanted to return to her, his body physically would not allow him fluid movement.
He hadn’t eaten in days and his muscles were just as weak as his resolve to live. He felt like his insides were being eat
en alive, disintegrating one cell at a time. His joints were on fire, his bones were sore, and his head was bursting with pressure.
But the most concerning thing about his condition was his heart. It was pumping angrily, as if any moment it would explode in his chest.
Or maybe it already had.
His legs were useless bolts of fire as he stepped forward, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain. He put his hands out, feeling the wall beside him, as he clambered his way over to the couch. Once there, he collapsed on the soft cushions.
Torment continued to riddle him, causing him to convulse and suck in short breaths. His shaking body could not be held in one place and, eventually, dropped from the couch to the floor beside the lit fireplace.
The wood crackled and popped as flames devoured it, and gave heat to the side of his face.
Wracked with suffering, Tristan considered crawling into the fireplace and letting the fire engulf his body and singe away his suffering.
Surely, burning to death was less painful than this.
But he couldn’t even muster the strength to roll himself into the flames.
Sickness and madness invaded his mind until every sound, sight, taste and smell became nothing more than a memory.
Somehow, he knew he was dying. As impossible as it seemed, Tristan knew this is where he would die. On the dirty floor of an old shack, surrounded by the teasing flames of release and the haunting memories of a dark-haired girl with a sharp tongue.
He swam through the pain in his head until he found a picture of Scarlet laughing in his arms. He held on to the memory for dear life and waited for death to claim him.
***************
Scarlet was barefoot, but she ran with determination. The February night barely chilled her skin as adrenaline spiked her veins. Trees, rocks, and shrubs all passed her by in the silent night. Where was she going?
Was Tristan lying in the middle of the forest?
Scarlet felt the pain—and the fever—leave her little by little as she neared Tristan’s location.
Keep going, keep going.
Finally, she came upon a small hut. Tucked away and nearly hidden, it was nestled deep in the trees with a single light on inside. Scarlet ran to it.
She didn’t knock, she didn’t scream, she didn’t call out for Tristan.
She didn’t have to.
She felt him inside the hut. Dying. Because of her.
Scarlet burst through the front door and scanned the small interior. Her eyes fell to Tristan’s body lying at the foot of the fireplace and she sucked in a breath.
Without thinking, Scarlet slammed the door shut behind her, hurried over to Tristan, and threw her hands on top of his shirtless chest.
Instantly, every ache and pain dissipated from Scarlet’s body. It felt incredible. Amazing.
Heavenly.
Her pain was completely gone and her body was rapidly filling with pleasure.
Scarlet looked down at Tristan’s chest, feeling more and more pleasure pulse up through her hands, into her arms, and down her body.
Was this what it felt like for Tristan to touch her? Pure bliss?
And yet he never touched her. Always choosing torment over pleasure.
Scarlet shook her head as she spread her fingers out, trying to touch as much of his bare skin as possible. Looking down, she noticed how small her hands were compared to his chest. One hand laid flat over his beating heart and barely covered the expanse of the muscle beneath.
He was big and strong and immortal. Nothing could hurt him.
Except her.
She pressed her palms down harder, waiting for his pain to subside and revive him.
But he didn’t respond.
Panting and frantic, Scarlet tried to find his heart inside her.
Thump, thump. Thump, thump.
It was there. Tristan was alive, but still in pain.
Scarlet looked at his face and everything inside her became desperate. His eyes were closed, his hair was a mess, and dark stubble shadowed his cheeks. His face looked hollow and his skin was pale.
Beneath her fingers, his bare chest felt warm as her eyes traced the tattoo that stained his hip and disappeared into his faded jeans. His heartbeat was erratic as it pulsed against her palm and echoed in her heart.
He was broken. He was beautiful.
She would bring him back to life, back to happiness, back to everything that was imperfect between the two of them. Even if it killed her.
Without any other options, Scarlet carefully laid her entire body on top of his, wrapping herself around him, touching as much of him as possible. The thin satin top she wore instantly heated against his body, sending warm tingles across her skin.
Against his chest, she was small. But she was also powerful.
Her touch was powerful.
Listening to the fire beside them crack and spark, Scarlet laid the side of her face against Tristan’s shoulder and tucked her hands around the sides of his ribcage.
She knew touching him was suicide, but she didn’t care.
Tristan was dying. To hell with the rules.
She took a few deep breaths, waiting for his pain to ease. But before she knew what was happening, her world started to spin and she felt herself being sucked into a memory. Violent and blinding, the memory pulled her away from reality and drew her into another time. And, somehow, it seemed like Tristan’s soul was being drawn into the memory with her….
New York
1983
Scarlet didn’t bother knocking. She knew she didn’t have to, but more than that, she wanted to walk into Tristan’s house like she belonged there. Because she did.
She let herself inside and shut the front door behind her. Tristan appeared in his bedroom doorway, looking as sexy as ever. Bare chest, jeans hung low on his waist, loose hair. Stretching around his hip and ribcage was the dark tattoo that reminded Scarlet of a love shared long ago. When it was easier. Safer.
And Tristan had the reminder permanently stitched into his body.
Scarlet’s heart kicked.
His green eyes met hers and, for a long moment, neither of them said anything. The silence was thick; filled with unsaid things that could heal and destroy at the same time. Heavy things.
Forbidden things.
Tristan’s voice was quiet. “What are you doing here?”
Scarlet had feared he’d run her out of the house the moment he saw her. For her safety, of course.
Everything was always for her safety.
He didn’t move to dismiss her, however, and Scarlet took heart in this. She took a few steps forward, her eyes never leaving his.
Hundreds of years she’d lived apart from him. Within reach, but so far away. Connected to his heart, but distant from his body, while death continued to steal her away, never letting her have him. And Tristan—good, self-controlled, Tristan—had never asked anything of her.
Scarlet continued moving forward until she was only inches away from his tall, strong body. Her eyes trailed down his face, past his jaw and his thick neck, and landed on his bare chest, just above his heart. She could see his tight skin ripple against each of his heartbeats.
She expected him to back away. To be the disciplined party in the room.
But he did not move.
She watched the patter of his heart for a few moments before she felt her own heart begin to pound in sync with his. She looked down at her chest, exposed above the strapless shirt she wore. She witnessed the tiny movement of her skin as her heart hammered away inside her, beating in time with Tristan’s.
They were nothing if not designed for one another.
She slowly let her eyes return to Tristan’s and found him staring at her heartbeat as well. Watching it. Feeling it.
Heavy and dark, his eyes lifted
to hers, wanting her and warning her at the same time.
“Scar.” His voice was low. “What are you doing?”
She poured her eyes into everything she had ever loved, ever wanted. She wanted him to see her—really see her. She wanted him to look at her with recognition and love, not resistance and fear. She wanted him to remember her. And she wanted him to touch her.
“You are so careful,” Scarlet began, tilting her head. “You have always been so careful.” She spoke slowly and softly. Afraid of scaring him away. “But…what if I don’t want you to be careful?” She closed the distance between them, slowly pressing her palm against his beating chest.
She watched Tristan close his eyes as her touch released him from his chronic torment and sent pleasure through his body.
His brows drew together. “Scar,” he said again, opening his eyes. “You need to leave.” He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and pulled her hand away from his heart, releasing it in the air.
Scarlet looked into his eyes and slowly shook her head. “No.”
Tristan let out an agitated breath and moved past her, putting distance between them. “Don’t be difficult.”
Turning around, she watched him walk to the far end of the room, darkness shadowing his features.
“Why do you keep pushing me away?” she asked.
His back was to her as he walked to the door. “I’m not having this conversation with you again.”
“Do you think pushing me away will make me stop caring about you?”
“You need to leave.” He opened the door and looked at her, waiting for her to exit.
Scarlet ignored the open door and spat out, “Maybe you’ve stopped loving me, but my feelings for you haven’t changed.”
His eyes blazed into her and he slammed the door closed. “First of all,” he said angrily, “I couldn’t stop loving you even if I tried. And I’ve tried.” He shook his head and laughed without humor, his hands balling into fists. “God, how I’ve tried. But I am completely lost to you. I am lost and empty and broken—“
“My heart is broken too—“
“My heart is not broken, Scar. My heart is dead!” His eyes were hopeless and wild. “It is a hollow black object that sits in my chest without purpose, haunting me with memories.”
Awry (The Archers of Avalon, Book Two) Page 24
