by Dee Garcia
“I’m not thick, Cal.” His growl echoes through the foyer. “If I felt I were in any danger when in their presence, I wouldn’t entertain their advances.”
His short-fused temper amuses me.
Chuckling, I squeeze his shoulder and shake my head. “Never said you were, brother. Just be mindful is all I ask.”
Sam nods in understanding, and with a curt nod of my own, I leave him at the entryway to go in search of Tigerlily. But as my boot hits the first step of the grand spiral staircase, another morsel of advice begs to be delivered.
“Oh, and Sam?” I peer over my shoulder. “The next time you decide to invite them or anyone else over, be sure you’ve run it by me first. I’m not too keen on their kind having access to my home.”
I’m gone after that, not bothering to hear his reply. The boy should know better than to open my doors without my knowledge. He’s lucky I’m so fond of him.
Taking the steps two at a time leads me into a deadly silence, a silence that flashes Tinksley back to the forefront of my mind.
Tinksley bared.
Tinksley bared for Peter.
Moaning and mewling beneath him as he impales her.
I’m livid all over again, nostrils flaring, fangs aching from Tigerlily’s sweet scent wafting through the air. She’s definitely close—still in the library, just as Sam had advised.
Already tasting her on my tongue, I rush up to the grand doors and throw them open with thoughtless force. The girl is unshakeable as always, doesn’t even flinch from her place at the bay window, tilted almond-shaped eyes the only thing that acknowledges my presence as they cut toward me in a glare.
“Can I help you?” she asks, returning her attention to the book in her hands.
The snip in her tone only adds fuel to the fire. With thundering, hulking steps, I close in on her. “You can, actually. Did you not hear me calling for you?”
“No, I didn’t. In case you’ve forgotten, I don’t possess supernatural hearing.”
“How could you not have heard it? I yelled it at the top of my lungs!”
“Seems you didn’t hear me. Just a simple human here. Doesn’t matter that you yelled it—this place is massive. Then again,” she turns back toward me, defiance etched on her pretty face, “I don’t answer to you, so perhaps it’s more a case of simply not giving a shit.”
My reaction is instantaneous.
The roar that rips free from my chest is positively volatile. In a flash, I’m yanking her onto her feet by her silken ebony locks, pressing her back to my front. She cries out, the book fumbling from her grip as I give another brutal yank, revealing the bronze column of her neck.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
There it is—the hitch in her indomitable facade. She can pretend to be the Chief’s fearless daughter all she wants.
A wild pulse never lies.
Tigerlily simpers in my grip, choking on countless pleas and objections. She knows what’s coming; she also knows this could be vastly different if only she listened.
Given the shrill of her scream as I latch onto her neck, I suspect she’ll beg for the full extent of my proposition soon.
Quite soon.
♫ Lost Boy - Ruth B. ♫
It’s quiet.
So utterly quiet and serene.
The clear night sky twinkles with stars, incandescent rays from the moon pouring in through my bedroom window.
Peter lays on my chest, passed out like a light.
And me? I lay still, contentedly so, raking my fingers through his light caramel locks as I watch his back rise and fall with each breath. I can never manage to sleep in these moments. I love them too much.
Long for them too much when we aren’t together.
Not to mention, I wouldn’t fare well if I happened to doze off and my mother came in for whatever reason. She doesn’t care much for Peter, let alone approve of our friendship.
If she knew it exceeded platonic lines, that I’ve given him my heart—and my body—she’ll likely enlist my father to aid her in plotting a horrific death at the hands of the Faes.
So these moments right here, I take great care in hiding them. I know it’s wrong, know I should respect her wishes and keep him out of our home. But I’ve been the respectful, good-mannered daughter my entire existence and, quite frankly, I’m tired of it. Whether she likes it or not, I will be with Peter. Will continue to honor and love him.
Don’t misunderstand me—her advice is appreciated, something I know she offers because she loves me and wants the best for me, but I’m not a child.
I’m a woman. The choice is mine to make. Not hers nor my father’s.
Mine.
I just have to figure out how to get out of this house first...
“Peter,” I whisper reluctantly, squeezing his bicep. “Peter, wake up.”
Groaning softly, he stirs in my grasp and cracks his chocolate brown eyes open. “Huh?”
I have to bite my lip to contain the mewl trying to break free as he rests his chin between the valley of my breasts and gazes up at me. He looks more boyishly perfect than usual.
Sleepy eyes.
Mussed up hair from my restless fingers.
“It’s almost morning. You have to go.” I don’t want him to leave, but it’s getting awfully late—or rather, quite early. The sun will rise soon and mother is always up with the first golden rays peeking over the horizon.
“Did I sleep through again?” he rasps, pushing up onto his elbows.
I nod and smile softly, spreading my legs wider to accommodate him. Peter smirks knowingly. His eyes shine deviously as he crawls over me and fuses our lips together, the tip of his hard length probing me immediately.
He could slide right in if he wanted to. I’m still wet for him, so wet, more so now that his mouth is on mine again...
“I hate leaving you,” he mumbles, rotating his hips just enough to tease me.
It’s maddening.
He loves doing this, loves to make me beg.
Wriggling beneath him, I roll my hips as much as his weight will allow, seeking far more friction than he’s willing to give me at this hour. “So don’t,” I breathe. “Take me with you.”
“You know I can’t, T. Your mama would have my head.”
“I don’t care. If we hid away together, we could have this all the time without fear of being overheard. We could sleep together, wake up together, have meals together, even laugh together. It’ll be just like this, only so much better.”
But as always when I suggest such things, Peter shakes his head solemnly and breaks free from my hold. He’s on his feet faster than I can blink, shoving his legs into his hunter green trousers. “You know that’s not even a possibility right now. They’d find us one way or another.”
On the one hand, I know he’s right. My parents would tear Rosewood apart if I simply disappeared without notice. They’d align forces with other willing factions, send search parties out until I was found. And yet, on the other hand, I can’t help but think that, if he truly wanted me by his side, he knows Rosewood isn’t our only option. Sure it seems that way with how far overseas other territories lie, but it’s not impossible.
In any case, I don’t ever press him on the topic further than the initial suggestion. Mostly because I’d rather have him like this than not have him at all. I have no desire to quarrel with him about the future when it could very well be that he’s not ready for such a commitment yet. I would never want to force or rush him into something of this nature. I want him to want it in the same equal measure as I.
One day, I keep telling myself. One day he won’t want to crawl into an empty bed, and I’ll be there.
I’ll always be there.
“I’ll see you later, okay?” Fully dressed now, he looms over me, flashing me that boyish grin.
My lips spread coyly in return. “As soon as I’m up, I’ll be at our spot.”
Peter nods and reaches out for me
. “Give me one last kiss, T. Come here…”
He doesn’t have to ask me twice. I’m on him in a flurry, winding my limbs around him like a vine.
A bare vine at that.
His warm hands grip my backside as he walks us toward the window, our lips locked, tongues dancing ever so sensually.
“I love you, Peter,” I vow, all but whimpering as he sets me down on my toes and slips out the window into the cool dawn.
“And I you, Tinks,” he whispers. “Dream of me.”
“Always,” I answer, but he doesn’t hear it, not only because it’s a murmur carrying in the wind, but because he’s already gone, dashing his way through the forest to the safety of Lost Lake.
“Good morning,” my mother says rather ambiguously as I amble into the kitchen just hours after Peter left.
That tone.
I know that tone. It’s one she’s given my father on more than one occasion—when she’s not pleased. Combined with the sideways glance she cuts my way, my heart rate spikes, but I remain as indifferent and unaffected as possible, only faltering a step or two along the way. Sometimes I think she knows I sneak Peter in, but I’m quick to push that thought aside.
There’s no way.
Not when we’re so careful.
From the tender way he makes love to me to how he swallows my cries when my climax consumes me. There’s just no way…
“Good morning, mama,” I answer cheerfully, popping a kiss on her cheek as I shuffle behind her.
“There’s tea.” She points her blade at the kettle just a short ways from where she stands.
Again, that tone; curt and clipped, almost cool.
My body locks up and, again, my heart thunders. My mind starts racing, retracing both mine and Peter’s steps from last night. Nothing shoots up red flags, though. We were as quiet as always and I’m positive she was fast asleep when he slipped in through the window to begin with.
I need to relax.
Need to breathe.
Yes, I’m guilty, but if I act like it, it’ll only confirm what suspicions she may have.
With a subtle, deep breath, I grab a juicy red apple from the fruit basket and tuck it into my bag, whirl around on the tips of my toes, and pop another kiss on her cheek. “I’ll have some later, okay? I’m running late.”
She doesn’t comment until I’m at the front door, lacing up my knee-high leather boots.
“Running late? It’s quite early still, Tinksley. What exactly are you late for?”
“Oh, um…I-I told Persia I’d pass by the sanctuary today to discuss sitting arrangements for N’Isabelle during her voyage.” It’s a flat-out lie—well, kind of—because I’m not meeting with Persia until next week, but I don’t exactly care to hear another lecture about how I shouldn’t be spending time with Peter.
I get enough of those when I actually do tell her the truth.
“A voyage, huh? And where is she off to?”
The sounds of her chopping grow louder against the block with every slice through the melon. Each cleave briskly warps my anxiety into frustration.
“To Lapiz. Evidently, there’s a coven over there who need help from the Sacred Six.”
“Help with what?” she presses.
“I don’t know, mama!” I snap, throwing my arms out. “It’s not my business. All I know is that they need her help and she needs someone to stay with N’Isabelle during that time.”
“There’s other witches in her circle. Why not ask one of them to keep watch of—”
“Did you not hear me?” My voice reaches the octave of all octaves as I bore into her. “It’s not my business—she asked and I agreed! That’s all I know!”
Those aquamarine eyes of hers, ones identical to my own, regard me sternly from her place behind the wooden counter. It’s clear she doesn’t care for my tone, but what does she expect when she’s asking a million and one questions after telling her I’m late?
Sighing, she shakes her head and sets down the blade. Her stare remains steady as she goes about wiping her hands clean. “Very well then. Go, meet with Persia, but please don’t be home too late. We’re having dinner with your—”
Slam!
I’m out the door, skipping down the aged-oak steps before she can finish. I don’t need to hear what remains of her request to know what she was going to say.
Dinner with my father.
Not happening. I have zero desire to venture into Onyx Hollow, let alone dine with the monster whose seed created me. It’s bad enough I bear his markings whenever my wings are concealed. He may have sacrificed a great deal, let my mother and I go to ensure we wouldn’t have to live in and be subjected such dreadful conditions, but that changes nothing for me.
I still detest him and I always will.
The forest is quiet today.
I can hear every one of my footsteps as I pad through its sparkling range. Broad rays of sunlight stream through the tops of the trees, birds chirping calls and songs of all kinds. Thoughts of my inquisitive mother melt away as I twirl and spin my way to Lost Lake, a breezy smile flitting across my face.
It spreads wider still in anticipation of seeing Peter again. In anticipation of his touch, his kisses, even his laugh.
God, I love him. Always have, really. Since I first met him, I think. I may have only been a child then but—
“Off to see, Pan?” a husky voice I know all too well asks, jerking me to a dead-stop with an audible gasp.
Hook.
I spin toward the source and find him a ways behind me, leaned up casually against a thick trunk. That signature cock-sure smirk of his hikes up one corner of his mouth.
My insides flip at the sight of it. “What are you doing here?”
Callan regards me like I’ve lost my mind, chuckling softly. “What do you mean what am I doing here? It’s my forest—I roam wherever I please.”
“This isn’t your forest.” I lift my chin brazenly, surprising us both in the process. “Your territory is on the other side of the island.”
There’s a hitch in time following my words, one that’s silent—save for my wild heartbeat and a low, suppressed growl that resounds from his chest. I don’t manage even a full blink and he’s suddenly in my breathing space, towering high above me. I have to crane my head back to get another look at his handsome face. Ice blue eyes framed by thick, ebony brows sear me down to the darkest depths of my soul, shooting my erratic heart up to my throat.
I’m choking on his very presence, and he seems to like it, grinning ever so devilishly. Very slowly he tilts his head aside and reaches out, fingering a pale tendril of my hair. “You know that’s not true, love. The entire island is my territory.”
Every hair on my body stands at attention at the velvety smoothness of his croon. Goosepimples dot my flesh, my stomach whirls again. I should be afraid of him, deathly so considering his proximity and what he is, but I’m not.
I never am, never have been.
Despite how he gets on—or rather, doesn’t get on—with others, especially Peter, Callan has always been cordial and amiable with me. He’s never given me a personal reason to feel fear.
Why that is, I haven’t a clue.
In fact, it’s a question I’ve been asking myself ever since I can remember.
♫ Ride - Twenty One Pilots ♫
She’s so damned close, I can smell her; sweet jasmine and ripe honeysuckle.
I can feel her body warmth.
Hear her heart gallop.
See the way her pulse flutters wildly.
There’s a flush in her cheeks, a hitch in her breath as I step all the more closer, invading all essence of her personal space. She’s puzzled, a bundle of nerves, and yet, she doesn’t recoil.
Now that I think about it, I can’t recall a time she ever has. Then again, these lone moments between us are a rare occurrence. A very rare occurrence.
And this one right here—it’s different from the rest.
It’s the absolute closest
I’ve ever been to her.
I usually have more self-control, but the way she looks today…I can’t. I have to be near her, even if but for a second.
Perfectly still the little pixie stands before me, aquamarine pools locked firmly on my blues. She doesn’t so much as breathe, not even when I duck my head to her level.
“Breathe, Tinksley,” I whisper, gently brushing back her mane. My lips ghost along her cheek. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“I-I know,” she stammers, completely disarming me.
An appeased grin touches my lips. “Do you now? So sure of yourself, of me. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you trust me.”
Tinksley shudders slightly, just enough for me to catch it, and while I can’t see her expression, I know those big, innocent eyes of hers are clamped tightly. “I do.”
I shake my head, nearly chuckling as those two little words echo through me, rippling from my head down to my toes.
If she only knew what they do to me.
Arousal. Elation. Confusion.
Of all people, she trusts me?
“Why?” I have to know. “No one else does. I’m what nightmares are made of, remember?”
A small shove, but it jerks me back nonetheless. She wants space. Needs to breathe.
Okay. I’ll give her that.
She doesn’t speak, just watches me, observes the space now between us. When it’s clear I’m not going to rush her again, she gathers herself rather quickly, and crosses her arms.
“Not everyone has the same idea of nightmares.”
“Oh, come on. You know what they say about me. I’m the big, bad man. The villain of Rosewood tales.”
“Are you, really though?” She seems dubious, oddly chastising, too. “Or is that how you want people to see you?”
To say I’m impressed with her rebuttal is only putting it lightly, but I don’t tell her so. I want to press a little more, taunt the flame, watch it lick and billow under pressure. “The question is, how do you see me, Tinksley Bell?”
Her head rears back a fraction. “Does it matter?”
I nod.
“And why is that? I’m just a little pixie in your grand world of immortal majesty.” Sarcasm drips off every note of that retort, quirking the corners of my mouth.
