The Devil's Flower, page 3
part #1 of The Eternal Beings Series
Rosalie took a step, careful to stay in the shadows. A voice she wasn't expecting—or maybe she was—made her breath catch.
"Why didn't you make that damned call?" The voice sounded as cold as the night air and just as heartless.
The voice—his voice—shot tendrils of fear under her skin, trailed by bursts of excitement. Rosalie realized she wasn't breathing and sucked in a breath of chilled air. Steele leaned against a tree, facing the river. She took another step, pausing at the fringes of the light.
"First thing tomorrow morning, you're going back," he said heavily, then stepped away from the tree and stomped past her.
She glanced at the trees, whose shadows stretched long to the river's edge, then back to Steele.
The glow of the front light cast no shadow after him.
She shoved away the unsettling notions brewing inside her head and followed him inside, accepting his invitation, no matter how dispassionately delivered.
Inside the front door, she found herself standing in a great room. A grand staircase made of logs loomed ahead of her. In the few seconds she took to glance at her surroundings, Steele disappeared from sight. But she heard the clunk of his boot heels moving hastily on the polished, wooden floor and followed the sound. Before she could catch up, the footsteps stopped abruptly. Up ahead, in the hallway, a shaft of light seeped through an open door. She stepped into the light. The door creaked open.
A weary voice spoke from within the room. "Come in, Rose."
She entered the room, then stopped just inside the doorway. Her gaze drifted along two full walls of stuffed bookshelves, before settling on Steele.
He stood beside a mini-bar, fixing a drink. His hair had fallen in front of his face, but Rosalie saw a raised eyebrow through the veil of darkness as he held out a bottle to her.
She shook her head.
"Right. Of course you don't drink," he said dryly.
"I never said I don't drink," she said defensively.
He ignored her comment and walked to a black leather chair. He sat heavily, one booted foot resting on top of a knee. When she didn't make a move to follow, he gestured, with a nod, to come all the way into the room.
Although Rosalie knew she should turn and run, she defied rational thinking, walked over to an armchair opposite him, then sat lightly on its edge. She was good at defiance, a master at doing what she wanted, even if doing so meant going against her own instincts.
She sat at an angle, half-facing a fireplace. The massive, stone structure dominated the wall to her right. Its arched opening looked almost as tall as she was. At the center of the arch, carved from the same stone, a large gargoyle head bared sharp teeth; horns and an evil grin protruded. But the detailed carving of wings that made up either side of the fireplace astonished her most. The rounded tops of the wings were higher than the mantel. The wing tips scraped the hardwood floor, every feather meticulously chiseled to look real. In the center of the fireplace, a gaping, black hole faced her. Rosalie shuddered and shifted to another angle.
"Is this where you live?" she asked absently, as her gaze wandered the rest of the room, taking in all the polished wood.
* * * * *
With a motion of his wrist, Steele swirled the ice around in his drink and nodded. For the first time in his life, he felt oddly . . . agreeable. Mellow. Tolerant. He couldn't remember feeling that way before. Raised by a drug-addicted mother and a career-criminal, alcoholic, and abusive father, he'd developed a tough outer shell. He'd had no other choice. Not if he wanted to survive.
While Rosalie occupied herself by studying her surroundings, Steele took the opportunity to look at her, study her under the soft light of the floor lamp. Scratches and bruises marred the creamy skin of her arms and legs, no doubt gained when the bear chased her through the woods. The glow highlighted one side of her hair, turning it to spun toffee. It hung in swells down the front of her shoulders, ending softly at the creamy flesh above her breasts, where a gold cross dangled from a delicate chain. He watched that flesh rise and fall with her shallow breaths.
He easily saw how nervous she was. The way she sat on the edge of the chair, fidgeting with her torn dress, the way her warm, caramel eyes never looked directly at his . . . . Yet she'd followed him here, or came looking for him. Either way, she was here, in this room with him, because she wanted to be, not because she had been forced. How odd, he thought, and he hated her for it.
"What exactly are you doing here, Rose?" His question obviously caught her off guard.
She stopped chewing on her bottom lip and lifted her gaze from his glass to his face. "You brought me here, remember?"
"So I did," he said dryly.
"Besides, I don't really have anywhere else to go."
"You must have a home."
She let out a sharp breath of air, almost a laugh, and shook her head. "A place to sleep with one eye open, maybe, but not a home."
That, he could relate to. He knew all too well what it felt like to sleep without relaxation. Always on the alert that his drunken father would come home at any time during the night and use him for a punching bag, something to take his frustrations out on. But this couldn't be Rosalie's lot in life, too. Who could look at such innocent beauty and abuse it? He knew he couldn't.
Speechless at the thought, he gulped a mouthful of rum. The rawness of the liquor didn't sting his throat anymore; it slipped down like velvety water.
* * * * *
Unable to resist any longer, Rosalie skimmed her gaze over Steele's body, starting with the heavy chain wound twice around his neck, close to his throat. Three pendants dangled from it: a dagger and two wings. On the front of his vest, where Lithium's patch read President, Steele's said V. President. He was much too young to be president of anything, Rosalie thought. Several stars adorned Steele's vest, as well. They encircled his stand-up collar and created a path down one shoulder seam. Trophies, she assumed, but at what cost? Her gaze drifted farther down to the ripples of tanned muscles on his chest and stomach that peeked out at her from in between his opened vest. She blushed and looked away.
"What are you running from, Rose?"
With her eyes fixed on the night-darkened window behind his head, she replied sourly, "Life, I guess."
"What about your car and your things? Don't you want them back?"
She shrugged. "Here, right now, Rosalie Lockwood doesn't exist."
She knew she had given out too much information. He could kill her, hack her to pieces, bury her in the backyard, and no one would ever know. No one but the bikers had seen them together, and she was certain his secret would be safe with them, but she couldn't help herself. Sure, she'd like her things back, but not at the cost of involving the police and being forced to go back home.
She was tired of living in a world where, despite the designer clothing and weekend parties, she had to look over her shoulder every moment she spent at home. She was tired of living the façade of a happy family. She knew she was being irrational, but for some reason, she felt drawn to the danger here.
Rosalie stole another glance at Steele. Her gaze passed over his eyes. Here, under the glow of the lamp, instead of the dull gray they had looked outside, they were now like two pools of mercury, as molten as Lithium's. She assessed him as being dangerously attractive.
He didn't at all resemble her image of a biker. Yes, he had the dangerous presence, which she knew without a doubt was very real, but neither he nor the other bikers were unclean or greasy, as her mind's stereotype looked. She glanced down at his loose-fitting jeans; they seemed clean, along with his ring-adorned and tattooed hands that rested on the arms of the chair—with the exception of the knuckles on one hand. She couldn't tell if the dried blood on them belonged to him or Ryder.
The chair's leather squeaked against Steele's vest as he shifted forward. She responded by sitting farther back in her chair. His cool eyes were on her. In fact, he'd hardly taken them off her since she'd sat down.
"What would Rosalie Lockwood have to run from in her world? Which, I'm guessing, is pretty cushy."
Although his voice had picked up a tone of sarcasm, she challenged him anyway. "Everyone has something to run from, don't they?"
As she spoke, she ran her gaze over one of the many tribal swirls tattooed in solid black ink on his arms. This one began at his neck and disappeared under the shoulder of his vest, reappearing again on his upper arm, and ending around the middle finger of his left hand. A ring, carved from a single polished, black jewel in the shape of a skull, circled that finger. Rosalie stared at it.
"Apparently, they do," he answered. "So what secrets are you running from, Rose?"
"I don't have any secrets."
"Everyone has secrets, even if they don't realize it."
Rosalie liked a good argument. She lifted her eyes to his. "That doesn't even make sense."
"It makes perfect sense."
He glared at her so intensely, her comeback got lost somewhere in the back of her throat. She snapped her mouth shut.
* * * * *
As she shifted nervously in her chair, the rip in her dress fell open, exposing a smear of blood on the inside of one knee. Steele watched the muscles in her legs work to keep tightly pressed together. He swallowed hard and pulled his eyes back to hers.
"Well, someone must be missing their little girl."
"I'm eighteen. I can do what I want. Besides, my loser stepfather is probably the only one missing me right now, and he can go to hell." She looked at him with such intense hatred, as if she dared him to defy her.
The animosity in her voice cut straight through Steele's skin, sending a chill like he'd never felt before into his bones. So, she is a victim of abuse. In that moment, he felt her hatred of her stepfather. His fingernails nearly penetrated the leather upholstery as unwelcome visions of someone overpowering Rosalie in that way exploded into his head.
He fought to compose himself and turned away from her just as her stomach growled.
"You're hungry," he said.
She shrugged. "I'm fine."
* * * * *
Rosalie wanted to crouch farther into the chair as Steele towered over her, but she had already sunk as far back as she could possibly go.
"Come to the kitchen," he said in a demanding tone, and then walked out of the room, leaving her to follow the sound of his boot heels again.
As she hurried to catch up, visions of a hardcore biker gang eating filled her head. She pictured them as cave men gnawing raw meat off the bone, chugging it down with straight rum and kegs of beer.
A light flicked on ahead of her, and she hurried toward it.
The large kitchen gave off a warm feeling from the surrounding wooden walls, furniture, and cupboards, just as the den had.
Steele was digging into the fridge when she walked in. He pulled out a half-opened pizza box and tossed it on the counter.
"Okay, there's dried-up pizza, eggs, and bread." He turned to face her.
"Do you have any peanut butter?" she asked meekly.
"Of course. Who doesn't have peanut butter?"
He grabbed the almost empty jar of peanut butter and a bottle of strawberry jelly from the cupboard and pushed them toward her. From another cupboard, he grabbed a loaf of bread and tossed it on the counter.
"The knives are in the drawer in front of you."
"Can I make you one?" she asked, while rummaging through the unorganized drawer for a butter knife.
He was about to answer when the sound of the front door slamming shut caught his attention. Staring into the hallway, he said, "Stay here."
Before Rosalie had a chance to protest being left alone in the vast kitchen, he was gone.
Angry voices drifted down the hallway.
"She's here, isn't she?" Lexie said, and she sounded more than angry. "Isn't she? Don't deny it, Steele. Ryder told me he saw her walking toward the lodge."
Ryder? He'd watched her come this way? Rosalie's heart pounded at the thought of what he could have done to her. But he hadn't done anything. Steele's warning must have worked.
The voices grew closer.
"Lexie!" Steele bellowed.
Rosalie’s heart quickened as she turned to see a livid Lexie standing in the wide kitchen doorway.
"You're feeding her?" Lexie looked appalled.
"She's hungry," he said simply, passing by Lexie and stopping a few feet from Rosalie, standing almost protectively.
"I'll pay for it," Rosalie said, forgetting for a moment that someone had stolen her money along with her car.
"Don't be ridiculous," Steele said over his shoulder. "It's bread and peanut butter, for Christ sake."
Lexie shoved her hands onto her hips. "I suppose she's staying here, too?"
"Yes, she's staying, and for as long as she likes."
Rosalie's mouth dropped open. Had she heard him right? Had he just said she could stay, and for as long as she liked? She almost smiled, but figured he'd retract his offer once Lexie left the room.
"Well, that's just great! You know you're too rough to have pets."
"Lexie!" Steele clearly couldn't control his anger any longer. He rushed at his sister, grabbed her arms, and shoved her back against the door casing.
The knife fell from Rosalie's hand and clanked loudly on the tiled floor at her feet. She felt the color drain from her face.
"Shut your damn mouth, or I swear—"
Lexie glared at Steele defiantly. "Or what?"
After an intense stare-down, he released her.
Lexie looked at Rosalie, who was barely breathing.
"Sleep with your eyes open, princess," she said before disappearing.
Steele turned to face Rosalie, but didn't look directly at her. The veins in his neck and arms bulged with his anger. He spoke through clenched teeth. "Eat what you want. Sleep in the den, the room we just came out of."
Then, to Rosalie's horror, he turned and fled, disappearing down the hallway so fast that by the time she'd gotten to the doorway, the sound of his boot heels had faded.
Her stomach was too knotted to eat. She found a glass and gulped down some water. He left her. What if his psycho sister came back? Rosalie didn't do well with confrontations.
She walked quickly to the den, closed the door behind her, and locked herself in. Just as she expelled a breath of relief, the squeak of leather on leather made her heart flip. She spun around and gasped.
Chapter Four
A dazzling woman leaned against the back of a chair, one leg crossed in front of the other. The black leather of her fitted jacket and pants blended perfectly with the leather of her backdrop.
Rosalie grabbed her chest to steady her heart and hauled in some deep breaths.
The woman looked like an advertisement from a men's magazine for biker wear. Topped with a blue headband, her ash-blonde hair hung in straight, layered chunks all the way to her waist. She glared at Rosalie with gleaming silver eyes. She reminded Rosalie of someone, although she was too overwhelmed to think of whom.
The woman extended her tightly leathered arm to Rosalie. "Hello, Rose. I'm Blaze."
Her shimmering, pink lips turned up in a breathtaking smile. Rosalie took a few guarded steps into the room and gave Blaze her hand.
As Blaze's long fingers closed over Rosalie's, a pulse of recognition flashed in Blaze’s lustrous pupils, and at the same time, a look of sheer delight glittered across her face.
"H-how do you know me?"
"I know you're a guest of Steele's."
Blaze's polished smile made Rosalie nervous. It was too perfect, like the rest of her.
"It's so unlike him to be rude and leave his guest to fend for herself."
Rosalie had the feeling she was making him out to be nicer than he really was.
Blaze glanced around the room. Her gaze paused on the gargoyle above the hearth. She flashed Rosalie a sideways glance. "It's hardly safe for you to be wandering alone in this huge place . . . what with the guys just up over the hill."
Rosalie's eyes widened. Blaze's words felt like a threat. "Do they come here?"
She shrugged. "Sometimes."
"Why are you here?"
Blaze's smile increased. "Lithium stays at the lodge when he's in town."
Rosalie looked at her questioningly.
"Oh, right. You really don't know who I am, do you?" Blaze stepped away from the chair and tossed one side of her hair behind her shoulder. Her posture relaxed, and all of the sudden, she didn't seem as menacing. "I'm Lithium's better half."
Rosalie nodded, trying to look calm.
"Were you in the bar when I was there earlier?" she asked, fidgeting with a loose thread that hung from the rip in her dress.
Blaze curled her nose up in disgust. "No. I try to stay away from that stinking hole as much as possible."
Her attitude toward the bar and the sudden sharpness of her tone surprised Rosalie.
"Have you eaten, Rose? I'm starved," she said suddenly.
Rosalie shook her head.
"Let's go to the kitchen, then."
Rosalie followed Blaze back to the kitchen. She was really hungry now, to the point of feeling faint.
Blaze opened up the fridge.
"There's nothing but eggs or peanut butter and jelly," Rosalie said, causing Blaze to arch an eyebrow.
Rosalie didn't deem Blaze the peanut butter and jelly type, but she was wrong. Blaze ate her sandwich heartily. She also brewed them some sort of herbal tea she said would help Rosalie sleep. Rosalie sipped at the earthy-tasting mixture.
"Now that I'm back, I'll make sure there's some grub in this place," Blaze said after swallowing the last of her sandwich. "How long are you staying, Rose?"
"I hadn't really thought about it." She didn't know if she could trust Blaze, but she seemed like the nicest person she'd met so far. "I don't think I'm welcome here."
"Don't be ridiculous. If you weren't welcome, you wouldn't be here. Trust me."
Blaze yawned, making Rosalie follow suit. All of a sudden, she found herself more tired than usual. She attributed her sudden exhaustion to the long day she'd had, and the fact that she'd been driving for most of it. She glanced at the clock. It was after midnight. She yawned again.
