The Academy (The Academy Saga Book 1)

by CJ Daly

  “Am okay.” I fought a yawn. “Just need sleep.”

  “Here . . .” He repositioned us to a more comfortable position: his back

  resting against the tree, my back resting against his chest, his arms wrapped

  around me. I could have stayed like that forever; my problems seemed to

  vanish right along with my senses. “Better?”

  Vague nodding and a deep breath in were my only replies. We rested like

  this a couple of minutes, listening to the chirping birds and the leaves rustling

  together in the trees. The feel of his heart beating rhythmically into my back,

  and his hands leisurely caressing my arms were soul soothing.

  “You down for the count?” he asked, catching a tickling strand of hair

  blowing across my face and smoothing it back into place.

  “Almost.” I smiled a bit, eyes still closed. “I think I could quite possibly fall asleep right here.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  I huffed out a tired little laugh and sat up. “Uh . . . because we have class

  in half an hour.”

  “So?”

  “So we have to get back.”

  “Why?”

  I twisted around to read his expression. “Cause that’s what we’re supposed

  to do.”

  “Says who?” he challenged.

  “The people in charge.”

  • 192 •

  “Do you always do what the people in charge tell you to do?”

  “Yes,” I automatically answered but realized it wasn’t true anymore. I’d

  been doing the exact opposite of what the people in charge were telling me: hiding paperwork, interfering with the mentoring, going to lunch with the

  mentor I was instructed to stay away from, throwing out the window almost

  every promise I’d made to Mama . . . except for the most important one:

  protecting my brothers.

  “Well, most of the time anyway,” I amended.

  “Why?” He seemed genuinely interested in my answer.

  “Cause I guess that’s what I was taught to do—obey your mother and

  father, respect your elders and all that. Why? Don’t you?”

  “What if you knew your parents were wrong or your elders are not

  exactly . . . respectable, would you then still obey them?” It seemed like a loaded question.

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I dunno.”

  “That’s a cop-out, Kate, and you know it.” His tone was really tense now,

  like his body, and his eyes had hardened, towards whom or what I wasn’t sure.

  A vision of Ranger popped in my head. I remembered the obvious

  animosity between the two cadets. At the time, I chalked it up to male

  competition—both guys trying to be the lion. Now that I thought about it,

  maybe Ranger was his superior? And Pete didn’t much feel like his inferior or

  like getting bossed by him. After all, didn’t Ranger say he couldn’t make the

  “mission” too easy for him?

  A ripple of understanding energized me because I felt like I’d instinctually

  hit on why I didn’t feel as threatened by Pete, even though he was an

  ambassador for the enemy, as I did Ranger and his academy in general. Pete

  was here under duress and direct orders. I was sure of it. And I got the feeling

  now that he didn’t much like the orders he was taking from them, but was

  forced to obey. Like I was forced to obey my father’s crazy rules . . . We were

  both at the mercy of those in charge, and the ones in charge weren’t ones we

  respected. It was a maddening position to be in, which would explain the

  anger I felt emanating from him now.

  “Fine,” I re-answered. “Then in that case, you should not obey orders you

  know in your heart is wrong.”

  “What if doing so negatively affects, not only yourself, but everyone

  around you?”

  “Then do what I always do . . . go with your gut.”

  Pete stared deeply into my eyes, searching, before looking off into the

  distance. I suddenly knew just how he felt about keeping my eyes from him.

  • 193 •

  There were some squabbling birds in the trees above us, debating about whether or not we had any food to offer, and a couple of weary moms had

  brought their kids to the playground. Their animated voices rang out sharp

  and free, harmonious with the breezy afternoon. We were quiet now, separated

  by our individual worries and internal struggles.

  His gaze returned, open with a dash of mirth. “Just go with your gut, huh?”

  I felt like the Cadet Davenport mask was going to slip back into place

  any moment so decided to throw caution to the wind before both our guards

  were back up. Leaning up, I cradled his head in my hands. “Pete,” I said in the

  voice I reserved for my loved-ones, “I’m gonna tell you somethin’ my mother

  used to tell me when I wasn’t sure what to do . . .”

  He slow-blinked his eyes, which were curious and speculating.

  I continued with an intensity that allowed no false pretenses between

  us. “Never let your sense of duty get in the way of doin’ what you know is

  right”—I placed a palm over his heart—“in here.”

  He closed his eyes against me and dropped his head back against the

  tree. A crease formed between his brows that I longed to smooth away. It

  reminded me of how he looked that day at the diner—resigned. When his

  eyes clicked back open, mine were waiting, shining back with sympathy and

  understanding. I stared until flinty eyes softened back into the warm pools I

  was accustomed to seeing reflected back at me. Then, giving in to the urge,

  my fingers fluttered to his face. I traced the blue-fading-to-violet patch over

  his left eye (which was either the exact right or wrong thing to do, depending on which way you wanted to look at it).

  I was aware of his decision before he even moved. As if in tacit

  understanding of my knees giving way, he reached for me. My breath caught.

  Eyes never leaving mine, he slid his hand beneath my head to lay me out

  before him on the blanket. Dozing butterflies in my stomach just woke up.

  Pete stared down on me for an immeasurable moment—still debating.

  Unable to take the intensity another second, I closed my eyes, my lips

  parting expectantly. But, once again, he deprived me. I huffed out some

  frustration and opened my eyes . . . to witness the slow curving of his lips.

  Something about that knowing smile uncurled something within me.

  Whatever it was had the elite cadet breaking rank, because he advanced

  forward. His lips feather-brushed mine before trailing up to my ear, where he

  slowly exhaled out his sweet scent. I shivered and wound my arms around his

  neck to draw him closer. I did this as naturally as if I’d been doing it every

  day of the week instead of for the very first time in my life.

  His journey—mapping my skin with his lips—continued south, bypassing

  • 194 •

  my lips again to slide over the sensitive region of my neck. There he discovered the cross, nestled in the hollow of my throat, and paused to lift his lips in an

  ironic smile . He traced the sacred shape with his fingertips before moving along the line of the chain. My breaths became heavy, my arms pulling him

  down impatiently. He stopped me short to just hover over me.

  “Kate,” he breathed, a husky whisper. “What am I going to do with you?”

  I was kind of wondering the
same thing, but my body seemed to be the

  one with all the answers. It was still trying to close the fraction of distance

  still left between us, impatient for the fusing of our lips and our hips. This

  was something I’d never experienced in real life before, but felt as familiar to

  me as breathing—that need to push myself against him, to feel the contours

  of his muscular body meld into the feminine softness of mine.

  Pete was still propped up on his elbows, keeping his weight off me, but

  I could feel his breath quicken, see his eyes transform into molten lava as

  he regarded me. It was suddenly more than I could take—this need, the

  anticipation, the chemistry cooking between us on a slow burn. Things didn’t

  seem to be heating up as rapidly as my body wanted, so I made an involuntary

  impatient sound in the back of my throat, sure that if he didn’t kiss me in that

  instant I’d start to cry. Telltale moisture gathered in my eyes.

  Finally, finally! he released me from my purgatory. Closing his eyes in

  surrender—at long last—he brought his lips to mine. God in heaven, I’d never

  felt such a powerful force on earth as I did in that moment. His warm lips

  molded to mine in a lingering lip lock before parting them, firm and insistent.

  And it was like I’d never been kissed before. This is heaven. Yet I still wanted more. Grasping him across his back, I yanked him to me, and oh— yes!—he

  finally collapsed his weight on me. I moaned in pure ecstasy.

  His apparent expertise and my relative noviceness were irrelevant, because

  a better match was unimaginable. It was pure bliss for the senses: his taste,

  his smell, his feel. My hands ran along the muscles of his back, pressing him

  farther into me, like I could make one thing out of two. His hands were also

  busy: one pushing into the thickness of my hair, the other sliding along the

  contours of my waist. Our mouths melted together, moving in an enticing

  synchronicity that made me greedy for more, more, more! I moaned again,

  and his answering groan was music to my ears. My hands wound through

  his hair, clutching him to me. That’s about the point he withdrew his lips to

  breathe out my name.

  Why’s he stopping?

  “No,” I whimpered.

  He half-heartedly tried to get up, but I held him down in a vice-like grip,

  • 195 •

  desperate for more of this smooth, sensuous feeling. We began passionately kissing again, his wandering mouth quickly forgotten and forgiven. My hips

  arched up, urging him on. I didn’t even stop to think about stopping. I felt

  like I was beginning to be lifted off the earth. A warm, melty feeling starting

  in places I’d only imagined at. I literally felt like I was on drugs—high on

  Pete Davenport and drifting away on a cloud of pure bliss.

  Finally, Pete was able to snap out of it. He wrenched his lips from mine.

  I immediately protested again, trying to pull him back. But he held my head

  firmly between his palms, leaning off me now. “Kate . . . look at me,” he

  commanded in a low growl.

  “No,” I protested, not wanting to be brought back down to earth with

  a crash. No, no, no, no, no! I wanted to cry like a baby. Aggravation heaved from my throat. Then, resigned, I slowly opened my eyes like a good girl. I

  could see Pete’s glorious face was also flushed, his breathing ragged, and he

  was sweaty . . . in a good way.

  I reached up to wipe a bead of perspiration from his temple, brushing back

  his hair from his forehead. His eyes flamed into two smoldering embers of

  desire. He barked out a short, humorless laugh, and my own mouth quirked

  up. He closed his eyes, getting control over himself I presumed, because when

  he reopened them, the fires were put out.

  “Sweet Jesus!” He rolled off me and sat up, drawing up his knees and in

  a deep breath.

  I frowned at that, hating to think of him taking the Lord’s name in vain.

  But in this instance, I could see how it was fitting. A feeling this rapturous

  had to come straight from God, right? I brushed back another lock of his hair, smiling lazily up at him feeling punch-drunk and starry-eyed.

  “Would you please, Kate, in the name of God, please quit looking at me

  like that?” he said, rather unkindly, too, I thought under the circumstances.

  He slid farther away from me.

  “Like what?” I asked, trying and failing to keep the hurt from my voice.

  “Like you want me to ravage your body.”

  I huffed out a single chuckle. “Well, I hate to say . . . but that might be

  pretty accurate.” I shrugged carelessly.

  He snorted. “I swear you can actually smell the pheromones in the air.”

  I smiled at that—our chemistry was undeniable.

  Pete seemed really preoccupied, and my body was still trying to come

  down from its high, so we sat like that for a bit, faces flushed and chests

  heaving. When I looked at him, I expected camaraderie, but instead, I saw

  his face harden in a way that made me feel brittle.

  • 196 •

  Could he be mad?

  Unthinking, I placed a hand on his back. To my utter horror, he flinched

  back like I’d scorched him with a curling iron. I snatched my hand back.

  “Kate, really. I mean it . . . just don’t,” he said in the clipped tone usually

  reserved for Ashley-Leigh.

  What have I done to make him look like that? I searched his face for answers, found nothing but rigid anger. I fingered my lip to keep it from trembling,

  and he scowled at me. Winding around to face the playground, I tried to get

  control of my emotions, which had also just done a swift one-eighty.

  I heard him swear under his breath. “Not right,” he murmured, but I

  heard him loud and clear. Felt like my tender heart just got trampled on; it

  actually ached in my chest. How could kissing him be “not right” in his book

  when it was a blockbuster New York Times bestseller to me? How could I be

  so far off the mark here when he was talking about pheromones in the air? I

  thought about it a bit more while he was busy not talking to me.

  Was he talking about me and my pheromones? Like I was so obviously hot

  for him he could smell it coming off me? Could this be a one-sided deal, and

  he only kissed me because I practically begged him too? Again. He did try to stop, but I forced him to continue on.

  Oh my God! — I was the aggressor here. Suddenly, I had the urge to crawl under a rock. Was busy feeling like the country floozy Ranger took me for

  when Pete finally spoke: “Kate?” His voice sounded better, but I wasn’t about

  to turn around, sure I was covered head-to-toe in a stinky layer of humiliation.

  He put a hand on my shoulder, which I hastened to shrug off. How dare

  he touch me now!

  “Kate, please. I’m sorry. Look—” He took my arm, as if to turn me

  around. “Let me explain.”

  “Don’t touch me!” Tears, I didn’t want him to see, were pooling in my

  eyes.He chuckled a little, trying his hand at levity. “That’s what you should’ve said two minutes ago.”

  It was the wrong move, making light of this. A hand, that I smacked away

  angrily, tried to turn me again. “Stop! Gah! What’s wrong with you?”

  Pete sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair. In a low, reasonable

  vo
ice he said, “If you’ll turn around, I’ll tell you.”

  Everything was ruined now . . . shoulda known heaven-on-earth wouldn’t

  happen for me. Liquid outrage began burning trails down my face.

  “Kate,” Pete said tenderly, “are you crying?”

  “No.” I furiously swiped them away.

  • 197 •

  He swore a low oath then forcefully picked me up to face him, holding me in place by my arms.

  “What? ” I glared through tears.

  Pete sighed again, his eyes the dark pools of chocolate that always seem

  to melt my heart. “I don’t know what to say . . . I’m sorry.” He wiped a couple

  of drops away with his thumb.

  “Sorry? Sorry for what?”

  “Sorry that I hurt your feelings for one—that’s the last thing I wanted to

  do.” He wiped another hot drop from the other side now.

  I sniffed a little, staring at him with wounded eyes. He did look like he

  felt sorry . . . sorry for me. He took my face and kissed me on the cheek, like a father does a child that’s fallen down and gotten a boo-boo. Somehow, this

  hurt my feelings all over again. Did he just not see me in that way at all? Duh.

  Obviously, Kate— he’s majorly out of my league. Gah! How could I have been so stupid? I was swallow-me-up-mortified and could not have this conversation right now. Or ever.

  I scrambled away from him and got to my feet, not wanting to be where I

  wasn’t wanted. “You know what? It’s fine,” I said, brushing imaginary debris

  from my jeans. “I-I don’t know what got into me. I’m really tired . . . and

  under a lot of stress.” I glared down at him, so he’d exactly know where that stress was coming from. “So let’s just pretend it never happened.”

  A strange assortment of emotions flitted across Pete’s face before finally

  settling on his old standby. He grinned and came up with: “Still friends?”

  Stiff nod from me.

  He stood up, too, putting a hand out. “Well alrighty then, buddy . . .

  shake on it?” I was loathe to shake his hand at the moment but wanted to

  attempt to be mature so shoved my hand into his, barely meeting his eyes. He

  grasped it and pulled me into him, catching me by surprise and off balance,

  so that I fell into his hug. “Hey, I’m a hugger remember?”

  He may as well have been hugging a statue for all the effort I put into it.

  He looked down at me frowning, though wisely remained silent. I stepped