“She should have helped,” Fitz says, “You were a kid.”
“She left,” I shrug, like the sting of her abandonment still doesn’t hurt me. “She told me she was sick of hearing me whine so she packed up the entire family and moved to a different loch. I don’t know which one. I haven’t heard from her in over a hundred years.”
“So you were just alone and at Conrad’s mercy.” He sounds angry but envelops me in his arms again. “That’s rough,” he whispers into my hair. “No one deserves that. You know that, right?”
I don’t. The ache of loneliness and pain at being used, that’s what I deserve.
“Sorcha, you know this is a messed-up situation.”
“I didn’t know what to do,” I continue, feeling uncomfortable by his unwavering support. I marched myself to the local authorities and confessed to every single one of my crimes. I thought that I would be safe from the control of the bridle if I was locked up. But more importantly, the world would be safe from me.”
“From Conrad,” Fitz corrects. He’s wrong, but it’s useless to argue with him. “You were in jail? In the seventeen hundreds?” I nod. Fitz inhales through his teeth. “That couldn’t have been pleasant.” He tightens his arms around me, trying to protect me from my memories.
“It was hard. But I knew I deserved every hardship thrown my way.”
“That’s not true.”
“The punishment didn’t last long,” I reply with a shrug. “Conrad was furious. He used his influence and connections to secure my release. He convinced the authorities that I was insane and not guilty of anything. I was released from prison, but not from my servitude.
“Conrad used the power of the bridle to punish me.” I don’t specify how Conrad doled out said punishment. Fitz doesn’t need to hear everything tragic that’s ever happened to me. “He married the human girl. They had sons. The bridle was passed on to them. They wielded its power for a bit, but eventually, the pull of the bridle’s control died out.
“I was no longer called to steal or kill. The quiet peace was welcomed, but I didn’t trust it at first. I became complacent, I suppose. I truly convinced myself that my bridle was lost to time. That it held no more sway over me. Obviously, I was wrong.
“Now that it’s being used again, I have to find it. I can’t just go to jail. I don’t know if my controller will get me released like last time. This has to be put to an end. Once and for all.”
“I agree,” Fitz says,
“I don’t want to be a killer,” I whisper through tears. “It’s not who I am. Even if I am responsible.”
“Were you going to turn the other person in? Whoever ordered you to kill?”
“How? Who would believe me? How do you believe me?”
“The Federal Paranormal Unit would. I work for them. If we find your bridle and the person using it, then this can end at long last. If not, this asshole will find another way to kill. If it’s not the bridle, it’ll be something else.”
“Wait…” Confusion makes my head feel heavy and I shake it out. “Aren’t you going to take me in? Arrest me?”
Fitz stands. I hug my knees to my chest against the answer I know must come. He paces the edge of the dock, his eyes set on the horizon.
“No, not yet.”
His words leave me completely stunned. I jump to my feet and put my hand on his arm, trying to get him to face me.
“What do you mean?”
Fitz remains quiet, his eyes glued to the water.
“Fitz?” I ask, squeezing his muscular arm. I want to snuggle into his embrace, know what he’s thinking.
“I’m not taking you in yet. There’s no point. If there is another kill order, you’ll just be in more trouble if you try to bust out of prison. We need to find the bridle.” He turns the full force of his gaze on me. A shiver runs down my spine.
“I need to find this bridle and whoever has it. That person has to face justice.” He looks serious and every bit the agent that he is.
“So I’m just supposed to stay out here, waiting to go homicidal again?”
“Yes. Well, not quite.” Fitz looks straight into my eyes and grabs my hand. “I’m moving in with you.”
I sputter as the world around me stops making sense.
“This is the best solution,” he goes on. “I’m going to be on kelpie watch. Twenty-four-seven. If you try to leave, I’ll follow you to your mark. I’ll save them. Hopefully, whoever ordered the kill will be around to make sure the order goes through. Then I’ll get them.”
“This is a very convoluted plan. I could hurt you if you try to stop me. Do you understand that?”
“Do you have a better idea?”
I bite the inside of my cheek. Is there a better solution? There has to be. I can’t share this small cabin with Agent Fitzroy Yarrow. There are too many risks.
Especially now that I know what it feels like to be in his arms. He is a devastatingly handsome man who is as caring as he is kind. How am I supposed to resist that?
I don’t want to hurt him.
“It’s a bad idea,” I whisper.
“It’s the only one we’ve got,” he replies, his eyes travelling to my lips. He closes the already small distance between us and wraps his arms around me. “I’ve got you, Sorcha.”
It’s the first time anyone has ever said that to me.
10
-Sorcha-
I've been to prison. And not modern-day prison where inmates have rights and eat better than the country's homeless.
No. I'm talking about rank, disease-ridden prison during the eighteenth century. We were twenty to a four-by-four cell. The chamber pot was an overflowing hole in the ground. If the disease didn't kill you, the murderous men who slept next to you would.
That entire ordeal was better than this.
Sharing a small cabin with Agent Fitzroy Yarrow is pure torture and it may kill me.
When he decided to move in last night, I did everything in my power to dissuade him. It couldn't be done. He's as stubborn as he is desirable.
The damnable man wears sweatpants low on his narrow hips and refuses to don a shirt. His muscled chest, swoon-worthy six-pack, and brawny arms are constantly on display. I have to avert my eyes lest my woman parts catch fire.
Truly, I never felt such lust. Not for Conrad who I believed to be the great love of my life. Fitz's presence makes my life infinitely more difficult. How am I supposed to berate myself for the evil things that I have done if I am constantly distracted by him?
"Morning, roomie," he says in a sleepy voice.
I have to remember to keep my mouth closed as I watch him run his hands through his sleep-tousled hair.
"Good morning, Agent Yarrow."
Fitz snickers at me, rubbing a hand on his toned stomach. Oh by the goddess. To be that hand...
"You gotta call me Fitz. Do we have any food? I'm starving."
"I think it's best if we remain professional. And there's cereal in the pantry."
I keep my eyes busy as I make a large pot of coffee. I need it. I wasn't able to get any sleep. I knew that on the other side of the thin cabin wall, Fitz was sleeping. I could hear his soft snores and it was flustering.
A person's sleep sounds are a very intimate thing to hear. Or so it seemed to me last night. A man's loud breathing shouldn't be erotic, yet there I was, imagining how his breathing could be a different kind of labored and loud.
That can't ever be, though. For obvious reasons. My hormones just don't seem to grasp that. Deciding I need a treat, I rummage through the freezer for a tub of extremely chocolatey ice cream. I sit at the kitchen table, spoon dug into the silky brown goodness.
"What are you doing?" Fitz asks, jaw dropped.
"I'm eating breakfast," I answer, taking a mouthful of ice cream.
"You can't eat ice cream for breakfast."
"Sure, I can. It's frozen milk with chocolate bits for protein. It's basically cereal."
"Huh." Fitz grabs the ice cream car
ton from my hand and scoops a spoonful into his mouth.
"Hey!" I protest. "That's mine." I nearly climb onto the table to get to the stolen goods.
"You have to share," he points out, taking another large bite of my breakfast.
"No, I really don't. Soon I'll be in prison and I won't have any ice cream. I have to stock up on the memories now."
Fitz's face darkens when I mention prison. I stuff my mouth with ice cream to keep from saying anything else. He takes my hand and pulls me onto his lap.
I should fight him. I should stick by my beliefs that we need to keep this professional and amicable. But I don’t. I sit on his lap, enveloped by his half-naked heat. It’s pleasure, it’s desire, it’s perfection. And I don’t deserve it.
"You shouldn't joke about shit like that. It's serious,” he whispers into my hair, sending goosebumps across my body.
"Don't you think I know that? I've already been to prison, remember? Besides, if I don't try to be a bit humorous, I'll go completely mental."
Fitz pushes away his bowl of cereal and places his arms around my waist. The man has muscles on top of muscles. I feel the rippling against my skin, and it sends sparks of desire to my core. I shouldn’t want this. I shouldn’t take Fitz’s soft touches. It’ll be too hard to live without them now.
"I don't accept this is your fate," he says, moving my hair onto one of my shoulders, exposing the other. He massages the tension there. I close my eyes to memorize every brush, each caress.
"I'm afraid that isn't your decision. I did a bad thing. I have to make up for it somehow."
Fitz harrumphs and drops his head against my back.
"Fitz?"
“What are we doing, Sorcha?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I lie, my whisper betraying me.
“I want you,” he confides, his breath tickling my ear.
I sigh, hoping no tears fall. My heart wants to feel full. But this can’t happen. We both know it.
“I want you too,” I breathe. It’s a good thing he can’t see the tears swimming in my eyes. "I'm sorry for putting you in this position." He doesn't answer, nor does he move. “You must hate me…”
“Hey, no.” Fitz turns me around on his lap as he pulls me into a tight hug.
I lay my cheek against his bare chest and inhale a scent that is so uniquely him. So much for being professional. Why must he feel the need to comfort me? I’m the evil here. I don’t deserve this kindness, this luxurious affection. He shouldn’t want me.
“I’m not mad. Not at you. I’m just… Having a rough time, here.”
“Sorry,” I whisper against his skin.
“Stop apologizing. I’m not him. He’s the one I hate. Him and whoever has your bridle right now.”
I trail my fingers on his tattooed bicep. Fitz’s skin responds to my touch as he shivers against me.
“Tell me about this tattoo,” I ask, needing to steer the conversation away from everything: the bridle, our insane attraction. “Is it meant to represent what you shift into?”
He laughs, the rumble of it shaking my body in a deliciously intimate way.
“It’s the opposite, actually.” Fitz plays with the ends of my hair as he goes on. “I've always been a bit self-conscious about being a naiad. It isn't common for men to be born naiads. My father has never let me forget that my breed is a disappointment to him. He wanted his son to be a manly merman, just like him. Insert snicker here, am I right?”
“He was disappointed?” That breaks my heart. I know how it feels to be nothing but a burden to parents.
“Oh, yeah. As a bit of a fuck you in my youth I got this triton tattooed on my right arm. He was furious when he saw it. It wasn't the ink itself that upset him, rather that I would brand myself with a symbol that didn't truly represent me.
“As I matured, though, my embarrassment of being a naiad dissipated somewhat. So what if I'm only one of hundreds. It makes me unique and I've decided to lean into it.”
“A rare breed, then,” I whisper. Fitz laughs again. I love the sound of it. It chases away some of the darkness wrapped around my soul. “A naiad is a water nymph, right?”
“Hm. Yeah. Female naiads are crafty and resilient. Males, we tend to be irresponsible. Capricious, even. We make good artists, flighty with short attention spans. Not good FPU agents.”
“Did your father tell you that?”
“He did,” he answers with a sigh. “All the time. Every time we talk, actually.”
“That’s why you were so upset when you thought I had played you. You thought it was confirming what your dad has been saying all along.” He just nods, his Adam’s apple bobbing along with emotion. “I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing for existing, for saying things. You deserve just as much space and opinions as everyone else, okay?”
“I can’t. I don’t want to get used to it. Not when I’m about to spend a long time in jail.”
“Fuck,” he grunts, pushing me away from him.
He stomps to the bathroom and all but slams the door behind him. His reaction to what my future holds surprise me a bit. We both know it has to happen. No matter what we may feel for each other.
Soon, the sound of the running shower fills the cabin. Fitz is naked in the next room. More than that, he hates the idea of arresting me. And he wants me.
The thought is heartwarming and dizzying all at once. With a sigh, I dig into the ice cream and keep my mind away from any positive possibilities.
11
-Fitz-
I thought it would be awkward. I really thought I would have to find a way to quickly jerk off in this tiny cabin with Sorcha only a few feet away from me.
But all of the desire dried up when she mentioned going to jail. I don't want to arrest her. What's more, I really don't want to picture her in jail. Even if it's one where paranormal creatures are sent.
It's not where she belongs.
The entire situation is fucked up and I don't feel completely equipped to deal with it. It was one thing to be attracted to a witness.
It's an entirely different ballgame when you're attracted to the killer.
Only, she isn't a killer.
She only committed that unspeakable act because she was being controlled.
Just thinking about Sorcha as a killer feels wrong. She's a petite, curvy woman. She's sweet and shy. Imagining her as a killer horse, dragging a man to his death just doesn't track.
I should most definitely call this in to Sabrina. I'm sure she would be sensitive to this particular situation. But I don't want to let this go.
All of my protective instincts are being activated by Sorcha.
I want to find the person who controls her. Beat the shit out of the person responsible and then bring them to justice. I want to make sure Sorcha gets her bridle back so she can - eventually - move on with her life. Hopefully, with me by her side.
But I can't solve this case alone. Not now that I’m emotionally involved. I can't track down whoever has the bridle and also keep an eye on Sorcha if she gets an order again. I need another pair of eyes on this. The only person I trust is Larsen.
Keeping the shower running, I grab my phone. Thankfully, Larsen picks up after the first ring.
"What have you done now?"
"Thanks for that," I mutter. "I need help."
"I figured as much."
"This has to be way on the down low. Sabrina can't know I've asked for your help."
"We both know I'm not comfortable with that."
I groan. I really don't have time to deal with Larsen's little crush on our supervisor.
"You need to shut up for a second. There's been a break in the case. I just need a second pair of hands. I won't say more on this line."
"Just in case," Larsen finishes my thought for me. The man might be in love with the wrong woman, but he's the best agent I know. He'll also have my back no matter what. "Text me a location. I'll head out now."
"Thanks, Larsen."
/> "You owe me," he says before clicking off.
I slip on a pair of jeans and a gray tee before joining Sorcha in the living room.
She's still wearing her itty-bitty sleep shorts and tank top. Her hair is wilder, curlier than last night. Now that I know what the strands feel like against my fingers, I ache to touch them again.
“Let's chat for a second,” she says, patting the seat next to her on the sofa. I sit close, feeling the heat of her bare leg against my own clothed one. I can smell her sweet vanilla scent on the air. “That got overheated.”
“That’s an understatement,” I scoff.
“So let’s agree to keep to safe topics for a bit while we both cool down. No talking about the case and no touching.”
I don’t know how I can stay calm and collected when she’s barely dressed, sitting millimeters away from me. And she wants me. I’ll humor her. I’ll do anything for her. I know that’s true, even if we’ve just met. I won’t even question it. My naiad side might make me quick to love, but this is different.
Sorcha is for me. I know it. I feel it, deep in the depths of my heart and soul.
“So you’re a naiad. A rare male one.”
“A rare breed,” I wink at her, echoing her words from earlier. She rolls her eyes, but a beautiful smile tugs at her lips.
“And your father is a merman?”
“He is. My mother is the naiad. Two of my three sisters are as well.”
“Three sisters?” she gasps. “You must have had quite the childhood.”
“It was fun, actually. The girls trained me to love show tunes. We’d put on these little song-and-swim shows for our parents. Drove my dad nuts.”
“The hard-ass dad,” she says, nodding her understanding. “The FPU agent.”
“That’s right. My mother is a marine biologist. She’s a wicked smart lady.”
“What does she say about you being an agent like your father?”
“Well,” I sigh, “she was okay with it, for the most part. She would have preferred if I’d chosen a more cerebral line of work.”
“What did you want to be?” she asks, her green eyes wide and expectant.
The Kelpie's Redemption Page 6
