by Stacia Kane
“I’ve been all over the world,” he said, when it became obvious she was waiting for him to go on—or she just had nothing else to say. Either way, he wanted to finish. “Trying to find answers. Occultists, sorcerers, priests, witches, you name it. Nobody can get rid of it—it won’t let go of me, and trying to kill myself just makes it laugh.”
This time her brows flexed, her lips turned down. Maybe he shouldn’t have said that last part. No, he definitely shouldn’t have said it. Damn it, why was he running his mouth so much? Why the hell did it seem so important to tell her this, to give her so many details she hadn’t asked for?
He didn’t know. He only knew that it did seem important, that he couldn’t seem to stop himself from laying it all out before her. From feeling like she needed to know it.
She probably needed to know about the mirror, too, and about what it could mean for him. How for the first time in a long time, he was facing the real possibility that he could get rid of the beast. He ought to tell her about it, see what she thought. Aside from anything else—any of the ideas in his head that he was refusing to allow to form more than halfway—she knew things he didn’t. Her opinion would be valuable.
But he couldn’t seem to find the words to tell her. He couldn’t seem to think of a way to explain it that wouldn’t sound like…well. He couldn’t think of a way to say it that didn’t sound too personal.
“Is that why you left military school?” she asked, interrupting the swirling mass of his thoughts. “Why you turned down a chance to test for the Secret Service?”
Jesus, she knew about that, too? Maybe she knew every way the beast had destroyed his life, then, every painful loss he’d suffered because of it. “Yes.”
“This is how you knew there were guys waiting outside your house last night. It told you.”
It was barely one o’clock. He had things to do. He shouldn’t be taking another healthy swig from the cup Ardeth had filled to the brim for him.
But he was. “Yes.”
“That’s how your wound healed so fast.”
“Yes.”
“And why you didn’t think we needed to wrap your hands when we got in the car. They’re already fine, aren’t they?”
He inspected them. Only thin, jagged lines of shiny reddish skin showed where the knuckles had torn open. “Pretty much.”
“Must be nice,” she said.
“Yeah…not really worth it.”
“Oh, right.” She kind of laughed. She could laugh about it? How was this not a huge deal to her? It was odd how that actually made him feel better, like his problem was minor. Like it was a trick knee or something that just had to be worked around. “I guess not. Sorry. Again.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. It was what he ought to say—the polite response to someone’s obviously innocent but unthinking comment, no offense meant and no harm done—but he realized he was glad she’d said it. Glad she’d laughed about it. Maybe that was why he felt so much better than he had ten minutes earlier, at least mentally. Physically he still felt pretty shitty.
The quality of silence changed; he heard Ardeth shifting positions in her seat, making herself more comfortable. Or perhaps mentally preparing to run, or squirming because of what she was about to ask or say. Perhaps his feeling better was premature.
She sighed. “So…what made it happen? I mean, today. Is it—does it come out, or take over or whatever, at some kind of regular interval?”
“Not if I can help it,” he said, aware they were almost at her place and that once they reached it he’d find out what she planned to do. “I can usually stop it. Sinning—that feeds it, keeps it happy so it doesn’t try to break through. But—”
“Any kind of sin.”
“Mortal sins are the best,” he said, knowing damn well what she was thinking. “It likes those the best, I mean.”
“Like stealing.” She paused. “Or sex.”
“Any mortal sin.”
A longer pause. “I’m sorry, Speare. I didn’t know.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Shit, he couldn’t handle her sadness, her regret, too. Especially when it wasn’t her fault; what was she supposed to think? “He must be feeding a demon in his head” wasn’t really anybody’s first response when considering why a guy would live like he was trying to outscore Wilt Chamberlain. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Oh.” It was almost a whisper.
They rode in silence for another minute or so. He closed his eyes. One more thing to say, one more question to answer, and maybe an answer to get from her. “Something—Nielsen had something in his study, that room he took me into. I don’t know what it was, but that’s what did it. That’s what brought it out. It was powerful, whatever he had in there, and it called the thing—the beast—forward. It roughed Nielsen up, a little.” That was a lie. “Um, I roughed him up. Sorry. I needed answers fast, I had to get out of—why are you laughing?”
“You sound so guilty. You don’t need to be. He’s been roughed up before. Anybody in our line of work knows it might happen, and sometimes it does. Part of doing business.”
That woke him up a little. “You? Who went after you?”
Another light laugh. “Not usually me. They just threaten me, and there are very few secrets I’m willing to take a beating for. Unlike Nielsen. You must have been really convincing—he’s a tough old bastard.”
He hadn’t seemed like it. He’d given up his information awfully fast, actually, once Speare grabbed him.
He was about to tell her that when she pulled into her driveway and shut off the car. “Come on. Let’s get you inside.”
—
The interior was cool, and dim once she closed all the curtains and shut all the blinds without him asking her to. Dim enough that he could take off the sunglasses; she was a shadow moving through the room, taking shape when she got close to him.
“Do you want to go lie down?” She refilled the cup he still held, looking up at him through opaque eyes. “I could run you a bath.”
He managed a smile at that. “I’m part demon, not part woman.”
Her answering smile, as wry as it was, sent a bright stab of—of something—through him. “It might really help, honest. Stiff muscles, heat…people do it for a reason. I’ll even put Epsom salts in to make it more manly. Just hang on.”
“You don’t have to—” But she was gone. Practically running to escape him.
Or maybe she was just trying to help. He was too beat to care. He stood in place, swaying gently in a breeze that seemed to come from inside him, while the sounds of water running and cabinets being opened barely penetrated his semi-fugue. It was almost pleasant, standing there, not caring where he was or what was happening. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt that way. Had he ever felt that way?
Some time passed. Maybe a few minutes. Maybe half an hour. What difference did it make? None. What mattered at that moment was only Ardeth’s hands around his wrist, tugging him through the blurry white haze of her living room and down the narrow, tilting hall, around a fuzzy corner and into her bathroom.
The scent of salt—she’d really put Epsom salts in there; he’d thought she was kidding—mingled with steam and melting wax from two fat white candles that provided the room’s only, blessedly nonpainful, light. Below those were the fragrance of the soap she used, of that delicate, warm, slightly spicy perfume she wore, and, more faintly still, of the contents of various bottles and jars along the edge of the deep, wide bathtub and the long countertop covered in spring green tiles that matched the floor. Her bathroom, he realized. Not the bathroom attached to the guest room where he’d slept, but her own private bathroom.
He should have wondered why that was. He should have been suspicious—should have tried to analyze her motives and scan the room for weapons or potential weapons, or possible escape routes. All of those things he would ordinarily do the first time he entered any place or room, he should have been doing then. Being exhausted was no ex
cuse.
Speaking of no excuses. He took a deep breath, while she busied herself collecting a white towel from the cabinet beneath the sink. “I really am sorry.”
“What?” She set the towel on a white metal rack next to the tub and came to stand in front of him. Right in front of him. “Why?”
“I—what I said to you. What it said to you, back there—what it did, grabbing you like that—”
“That wasn’t you.”
She was really not making this apology easy for him. Not that she had to, or that she wasn’t already doing way more for him than he deserved. A bath. She’d actually run him a bath, like he was some kind of hero instead of the freak who’d attacked her an hour or two before. “But I was there. I should have been able to stop it before it—I knew what it wanted. It plans, and it makes sure I know—what are you doing?”
Her fingers slipped back out from beneath the hem of his shirt. She looked at him, one eyebrow raised. “Helping you get your shirt off. Isn’t that obvious?”
“Why?”
“Do you want to wear your clothes in the tub?”
“No, but you—”
“Then shut up.” She reached for the hem again.
He grabbed her hands in his.
He’d meant only to stop her, and nothing more, but something changed the second his skin touched hers. Something in the air, in his head and chest. Something in her eyes, wide open and unafraid when they met his.
His heart pounded. Suddenly the aches in his muscles, the fuzziness in his brain, didn’t seem to matter; they faded into the background, disappeared. Suddenly even the beast seemed not to matter, as if it was already gone, as if he was alone in his head. Free.
Slowly, without taking his eyes from hers, he reached up and grabbed his shirt at the back of his neck. Waiting for her to stop him. Waiting for her to leave the room, to say no to him without having to say the actual word. He didn’t want to hear the word.
He didn’t hear it. She just stood there, her chest barely moving. Watching him.
She disappeared for a second while he tugged the shirt over his head, reappeared in exactly the same place, in exactly the same position, when it was off. He dropped it on the floor by his feet.
Her gaze wandered over his chest, examining the scars, lingering on the count and understanding it this time. He could almost feel it slide from one shoulder to the other, then drop, slowly, down his abdomen to pause below his belt, where he knew she could see what her inspection was doing to him—what she was doing to him.
He couldn’t stand it anymore. Whatever was or wasn’t happening, whatever she did or didn’t want, he couldn’t stand not knowing anymore. He couldn’t stand being there with her in that warm, steamy little room without touching her. If he’d misread her, if she pushed him away and left, then at least he’d know. At least he wouldn’t be looking at her there, achingly lovely and so desirable it was hard to breathe, and thinking that all he needed to do was reach for her and she was his. If she rejected him—the way she should; she should reject him and he shouldn’t even be giving her the chance to reject him—so be it.
He let his gaze wander just as freely, just as frankly, over her torso before meeting her eyes again. His voice, when he managed to get it to work, sounded hoarse and thick in his ears. Probably because, mirror or not, he shouldn’t be saying what he was about to say. “Your turn.”
Her face flushed. This was it, this was the moment where he’d find out just how wrong he’d been. She was going to tell him to fuck right off, and he would deserve it for even dreaming she might be willing to touch him.
But she didn’t say that. She lifted her chin a little, challenging. Seeing if he was serious. “Why?”
“No,” he said. “You know why, and I don’t want to play that game right now—I don’t think I’m up for it, frankly. Take it off. Take it off or get out, your choice.”
He expected her to hesitate—well, if he expected her to do anything other than tell him to go to hell, and maybe slap him on her way out the door. He didn’t expect her to remove her striped shirt with the speed and grace of a ballerina, and to stand there with her hair falling down over her shoulders, her head up, letting him examine her just as closely as she’d examined him. Exposing herself to him the same way he had.
He had to remind himself to breathe. Her shirts, snug as they were, couldn’t come close to this. All that smooth, pale skin, the tiny divot of her belly button, the way her rib cage narrowed into her waist and her hips flared back out. A light smattering of freckles dusted her shoulders; he wanted to kiss each one of them. He wanted to—couldn’t wait to—run his fingertips over the intricate black lace of her bra, to unhook it and let it fall from her shoulders to the floor and to feel her bare breasts against his chest.
Something in his head tried again to remind him why this was wrong. A voice, a small, reasonable, responsible voice that he didn’t want to hear, tried to remind him that he wasn’t free yet, that he might not get to be free, and that Ardeth deserved better than him. It was all true. It was true that if he didn’t put a stop to this immediately he’d be doing something worse than he’d done in a long time—both to her and to himself.
It was true, and he knew it.
But he didn’t stop it. He couldn’t. All he could think of was how desperate he felt, how much he wanted her. How if he could have decapitated himself to get rid of the beast at that moment, if he could have traded his arms and legs for getting rid of it, he would have, as long as he could have her once before the men came with the surgical saws. Just once.
And she was there, waiting for him, offering something so much more than just her body, and no matter what his head said to him, he couldn’t turn away from that. He literally, physically, could not.
He grabbed her, spun her around—it was sickeningly like what the beast had done earlier, and he knew that but he didn’t have a choice unless he wanted them to fall into the tub—so her back hit the wall, and kissed her. Hard. Deep. The way he’d wanted to kiss her since, oh, about twenty minutes after they’d met.
It was even better than he’d expected it to be. It was way more intense than he’d expected it to be. This wasn’t some random woman, some sexy stranger he’d taken home because they’d liked the spark in each other’s eyes. This was Ardeth whose slim, light body he yanked closer to his, Ardeth whose arms wound around him and whose fingers dug into his bare skin. Ardeth who kissed him back just as hard, whose lips parted beneath his so he could slip his tongue between them to find hers.
This was trouble. Big trouble, because he couldn’t let go of her. He wanted to—no, he didn’t want to, he knew he needed to. He had to. Had he forgotten all of the extremely sensible and correct reasons why this couldn’t happen? Reasons he’d just considered again not two minutes earlier?
Apparently he had, or at least most of him had, and those were the parts that were in charge. His lips refused to give hers up, except to taste the skin of her throat, to find her pulse there and suck on it, to let his teeth join in just a little…just enough for her soft gasp to reach his ears. His heart raced like a trifecta winner; his right hand slid down her spine, over her perfect, perfect bottom, squeezing it and pulling it even tighter against him, against that other part that throbbed and ached. His left hand twisted in her hair, that soft hair that sparkled around her face and made him think of sunsets and safety, and clutched at the back of her head. His chest pressed against hers, feeling her breasts against it, her heart pounding along with his. If there was some way his feet and legs could have gotten in on the act, they would have. It was only his brain, his goddamned stupid brain, that had any ideas other than getting her pants off right that second, and it was rapidly losing what little fight it was putting up.
Especially since Ardeth had joined the battle against it. Her palms wandered feverishly across his back and down over his ass, leaving trails of soft fire behind them. Where she touched, his skin screamed with pleasure; where her hands left or ha
dn’t been it begged for attention.
And she seemed determined to see that it got it. Everywhere. She stroked his arms, down his sides. She ran her fingertips across his stomach, just above his belt, and then down the length of his cock through his jeans so his entire body shivered at once and the breath he was having such a hard time catching left him entirely. Fuck, he had to stop this, stop it. He was going to have to say goodbye to her afterward, and every second he stood there with her, every second he felt her melting into him, was only going to make it worse when that happened.
But his fingers kept going, dipping between her legs where she burned with heat even through her jeans. She gasped. His other hand, emboldened by that gasp, insinuated itself up her rib cage until it found her breast, her nipple hard beneath her lacy bra. When he let his thumb play over it, when he caught it between his fingers and rolled it ever so slightly, gave it a gentle pinch, she gasped again. So did he. She was so lithe, so alive, in his arms. She was salvation, something he’d wanted all his life but had long since given up hope of finding. And she was there. Ready. Willing. Wanting him. God help him, what was he supposed to do when faced with that? How was he supposed to say no?
He couldn’t. His brain lost the battle.
He gripped her thigh, both of her thighs, encouraging her to wrap them around him. To give him her weight. As tempting as it was to strip off whatever clothing was necessary and take her there, against the wall, it wasn’t what he wanted.
“You can’t,” she whispered, still kissing him, still touching him. “Your muscles—it’ll hurt—”
As if that could stop him. As if he could feel anything like pain at that moment, anyway. “I’m fine.”
He hoisted her up, flipping the still-slightly-ajar door all the way open with his foot, and carried her into the soft darkness of her bedroom while her lips and teeth played with his neck.
No candles in there to alleviate the effect of the drawn blackout curtains, but enough warm flickering light escaped through the open bathroom doorway that he could find the bed. His brain put up one final ghost of a fight as he climbed onto the wide white expanse of it to lay her down beneath him, telling him this was his last chance to do the right thing, his last chance to avoid more pain. For her and for him.
