Lover Unveiled, page 17
“It’s over there,” Nate said as he pointed through the trees to the meadow and the distant lights of the house. As if there were another destination option?
The female nodded and came closer to him—and he was so stunned to see her move and scent her up close that he stood where he was like his boots had been nailed to the ground. Meanwhile, she passed him by—and then stopped and looked back.
“Sorry.” He rubbed his hair. “I mean, here I come.”
Together, they walked out of the trees and into the field. And that was when she stopped again. As she scanned the open area, she seemed so solitary. So sad.
If she had somewhere else to go, someone who she could trust, she wouldn’t be here, he thought. Anybody would connect with a family member or a friend if they had one—
As she went to walk forward again, her foot caught on a tangle of dead weeds, and he reached out for her arm to make sure she didn’t fall.
“Careful,” he said as he caught her balance and promptly let her go.
With hands that shook, she pulled her hood up higher on her blond hair. “Forgive me.”
“Oh, there’s nothing to apologize for. Everyone trips. I—ah, what did you say your name was?”
She hadn’t, actually. But he didn’t want to come across as demanding.
And when the sounds of their feet schmucking through pockets of mud were the only thing that came back in reply, he felt like maybe he had been.
They were halfway to Luchas House when her voice, quiet and heavily accented, drifted across to him. “Elyn. Please call me Elyn.”
“That’s beautiful—” He cleared his throat. “I mean, wow.”
He took a test glance at her in case she was staring at him like he was a creeper, but she wasn’t. She was clearly deep in thought, her brows down over her eyes, even as she didn’t appear to be focused on anything specific in front of her. And as they fell silent again, Nate’s brain hot-fired to find conversation . . . except all he got were no-go’s—and the fact that he couldn’t come up with anything even remotely normal to say made him realize what a frickin’ mutant he was.
But like he’d been socialized in that lab? By anything other than the white coats who’d been experimenting on him and that television they’d let him watch?
Lost in bad things, he came out of his trance as they arrived at the split-rail fence. He had a thought about lifting the top one off for her, but she slipped through the beams quick as a whistle and waited on the other side for him.
“This is a nice farmhouse, huh,” he mumbled. Because he had to say something or he was going to explode. “I’m working on it—well, worked on it. We’re basically done with the renovations.”
As he led her around to the front walkway, he thought of her accent. It was really fancy, like his dad’s. Like Rhage’s. She probably wasn’t going to be impressed with a blue-collar job like the one he’d been doing. And as all that he did not have to offer females in general, and her specifically, crashed against the shores of his self-esteem, he got as quiet as she was.
Yup, this was not how his fantasies had played things out. Which was proof positive you shouldn’t let wishful thinking get in the way of reality. In his daydreams? He’d found her out by that pit and invited her for a meal at that 24-hour diner he and Shuli hit after work sometimes. Over hamburgers and slices of apple pie, they talked about everything and nothing at all until right before it became too dangerous to stay out—and just before the sun rose, he took her back to her parents’ house, where she gave him her number and told him to call during the day.
It was all the start of a beautiful romance . . . that culminated in, one week to the hour of their first date, him kissing her. Softly. While they stood on her back doorstep.
And because it was all just a fantasy, that kiss happened to be, in spite of him having absolutely no idea what he was doing, totally perfect for the both of them—
“Hi, you guys!”
As Mrs. Mary greeted them from the front door of the farmhouse, she waved and stepped out into the pool of warm illumination thrown by an exterior coach light. The good news was that Rhage’s female was exactly what anyone would want to see if they were looking for a safe haven: Her face was open and her smile sincere—which made her seem like somebody who’d be good at giving hugs.
No false advertising there.
Abruptly, people started talking. Mary. Rhage. And one of the social workers, Rhym, who also joined the group. Elyn stayed mostly silent, but she didn’t seem frightened.
Nate took a step back. Through the open doorway, he saw that furniture had been arranged in the living room, and, off in the distance, the kitchen as well. Everything looked cozy. Safe.
The social worker went inside. Rhage went inside. Mary said something and indicated the way in.
Elyn nodded and started for the threshold.
As Nate watched her go, he knew he wasn’t going to see her again. After he finished painting the inside of the garage? He’d be moved on to a different project by his supervisor, and any possible connection between them would disappear.
He wasn’t going to have a chance to say goodbye. At least not in the way he wanted.
Not in the way where he got her phone number. Or she got his.
With a ringing pain in his chest, he thought it was weird to mourn the loss of someone he didn’t even know—
Elyn hesitated and then looked over her shoulder at him. “Will you not come in?”
“Oh, you’re in good hands now.”
“Please. I’m scared.”
Staring into her wide silver eyes, Nate felt a flush go through his entire body. After which he took a deep breath and puffed up his chest.
“I won’t leave until you tell me to go,” he said as he joined her.
So are you going to examine my wounds? Or you can just stare at me like that. Both are fine.”
As Sahvage eased back in the old wooden chair, there was a creaking under him, the spindly legs accommodating his weight with a lack of confidence. But if he ended up on the floor? Well, that was good with him. This female would offer him a hand up—because it was in her nature to help.
And maybe he could pull her on top of him.
“I am not staring at you like anything,” she snapped. “I’m worried about your health.”
“And I’m glad you are. My point is, worry about me anywhere you like with your hands.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered as she bent over his chest.
Sahvage focused on her face, with its frowning brows and laser-sharp eyes. He had a thought that if he just sat forward a little—not much at all—he could kiss her.
And finding out how her mouth tasted seemed like a very good use of his time.
“You know . . . these don’t look right.”
Or at least that’s what he thought she said. His attention was elsewhere—and as shades of her at his throat came back to him, his hips rolled inside his combat pants and the urgency in between his thighs got thicker. Especially as he imagined her hair free and spilling over his naked chest—
Her fingertips traced a stripe of raised skin that ran from his collarbone all the way down to his abs.
When he hissed, she looked worried. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to hurt you.”
Yeah, pain was not the reason I made that sound, Sahvage thought.
Although he was beginning to hurt from wanting her. Which was what happened when you noticed a female, then took your shirt off in front of her . . . and she touched your skin. Anywhere.
Backing off, she stared down at him. “Why in the world did you get that tattoo all over yourself.” Before he could respond, she put her hand out. “I’m sorry—that’s none of my business—”
“I want my enemies to know what’s coming for them when they see me.”
As he braced himself for another sanctimonious lecture on not killing things, he had to stop himself from grinning at her. And meanwhile, she was so focused on his chest, he was wondering if she would ever look away from him.
Fine with him if she didn’t—and it was a letdown when she shook herself back to attention.
“So this is all about advertising?” she said dryly. “Couldn’t you just pin a ‘Hello, My Name Is Badass’ on your shirt?”
“I never wear a shirt when I fight. And I would argue that name tags are antithetical to badassery.”
“If you ask me, I’d think the stealth approach is better.”
“Whatever you like.”
“I don’t like.”
“My tattoo? Really? Then why do you keep staring at it?”
“I’m not looking at the ink—”
As she went to turn away, Sahvage caught her hand. “So what are you looking at?”
When their eyes met, there was a sizzling moment of stillness, and he was surprised that the pair of them didn’t spontaneously combust. But she wasn’t having it—and he let her pull out of his hold.
“Oh, wait, my injuries, right?” he drawled. “You were just staring at my owies. And you don’t like that I got injured.”
“Owies.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “What are you, five years old? And you need a doctor.”
“I want a nurse.”
The female put her hands on her hips. “Stop it.”
“Okay.”
Cursing under her breath, she glanced around like she was searching for something, anything to do—and ended up reaching across to a paring knife that had been left out with that strange collection of salad dressing supplies and teacups.
At the rate she was going, she was going to clear the table sometime next week. Which was kind of adorable.
“You’re normally not that agreeable,” she muttered. “Are you feeling faint?”
“When you’re looking at my body, yeah, I get light-headed. But do you really want me to talk about where the blood goes—”
“Ow!”
The knife fell from her hand, clattering to the floor as she made a fist and clutched her arm to her chest.
Sahvage bolted upright. “Let me see—”
“I’m fine—”
This time, he didn’t let her go. And she didn’t fight him as he opened her closed-tight hand.
She’d sliced her finger—and bright red blood was welling along the surgical-worthy cut.
Licking his lips—because how could he not?—Sahvage looked up into her eyes. She wasn’t staring at the cut. Not at all.
Her attention was on his mouth.
“Let me take care of it,” he whispered. “Return the favor. You know, just what you did for me last night—and no further.”
She seemed caught, straddling the yes and the no, torn between what she wanted and what she knew was good for her. And all the while, the blood was forming a slow river that eased down her forefinger, circling ’round.
Sahvage ground his molars. “I’m going to wait until you tell me yes. I take lives against the will, but never females.”
Time stretched out, lengthening like a cord with give in it, becoming longer and longer. And in the electric quiet between them, he became acutely aware of her breathing. It was getting deeper. And that pulse at her throat? It was getting faster.
“I won’t hurt you,” he vowed.
“Yes, you will.”
She took her hand from him and turned away. Over at the sink, she ran water and put her finger under the rush with a gasp. Meanwhile, he stayed right where he was, a frown yanking his brows together.
When she cut the faucet and snapped a paper towel out of a roll, he said, “What the hell kind of male do you think I am?”
Pivoting back to him, she wrapped the wound up. “You’re a killer. Right? You seem to have to prove that not only to me but to everybody you meet. And killers hurt people.”
“You think you’re in danger around me. Seriously.”
“If life has taught me anything, it’s that I am not due any special exceptions. So yes, I think you are dangerous to me.”
He pointed to the front of the house. “I saved your fucking life out there.”
“Well, then we’re even, aren’t we. And you can leave with a free conscience.”
Sahvage looked at the shirt he’d taken off. Snatching the thing back, he pulled it over his head and got to his feet. As he loomed across the kitchen at the female, she met him right in the eye, not giving an inch.
“You’re going to die,” he said baldly. “Maybe with me around, but definitely without me. What’s out there? You don’t know where it went, and it’s stupid to assume that any kind of grave was involved. But I can’t make you save yourself or that old female downstairs.”
“Thank you.”
“Excuse me?”
“For the prognostication. Are you done, or do you want to try your hand at lottery numbers? Maybe who’s going to win the Super Bowl next year?”
“Have fun picking out a matched set of coffins. God knows you always make the right decisions, don’t you.”
On that note, he picked up his jacket and his weapons, and walked to the front door. Moving the massive piece of oak furniture aside, he let himself out.
Pity there wasn’t someone in the cottage strong enough to put the barricade back. But as that female had so often pointed out to him . . . not his problem.
• • •
Mae watched Sahvage disappear through the front door. He didn’t slam the thing shut. He didn’t have to.
When she was sure that he was gone, she rushed across to the parlor and threw the copper lock into place. Then she put her back against the stout panels of the hutch and tried to shove it into the door. When all she got was a lot of slipping shoes and hard breathing, she clamped her mouth closed on the curses in her throat—
A groan from the floorboards overhead had her whipping her attention to the ceiling.
Heart pounding in her ears, she swallowed hard and wondered where she had left her mace. Then she remembered she’d emptied the canister trying to gas that . . . whatever it was.
Staring at the ceiling, she heard nothing further. No doubt the old cottage was just reacting to the night’s drop in temperature—
Mae jumped and looked to the left. Was that something moving in between the legs of a side table?
Rubbing her eyes, she thought of Rhoger and melting ice.
And Tallah downstairs, all but passed out from exhaustion.
“We’re fine. This is all fine.”
Unable to stay still, she went into the kitchen—and stalled out. Not for long, though. Seized by an urgency utterly unrelated to the reality that she had all but kicked out her best shot at fighting anything that might show up at the cottage, she grabbed a bucket from under the sink and filled it full of hot soapy water. There was only a single sponge in the house, and it was going to have to take one for the team.
Getting down on her knees, she scrubbed the grimy square where the fridge had been. And scrubbed. And scrubbed.
Her arm went numb, her shoulder joint burned, her palms and fingers got raw.
But goddamn it, when she was finished? That floor sparkled.
Of course, the bright, sunshiny square made the rest of the old linoleum look like it had been laid back before the Punic Wars. And she was out of gas. Out of sponge, too.
Inspecting the thing’s frayed corners and the nearly black bed, she decided it looked like she felt: all used up, worn down, shredded.
Glancing at the clock on the wall, she did some math. Then she measured the refrigerator that blocked the back door and all the shutters that were in place—
“Shoot. Extension cord.”
It took some rifling around for her to find a three-pronged, mud-brown, ancient version of one, and as she plugged it in, she hoped it wasn’t going to burn the cottage down.
Okay, fine, the kitchen. Whatever.
She was looking around at the counters and the stove, and the misplaced fridge, and the table and chairs—and imagining it all covered in bright orange and yellow flames . . . when something registered in the back of her mind.
Mae frowned and went over to the sink. The silver dish that she and Tallah had used for the summoning spell was all clean and dry, and she picked it up to look at the scalloped ridges that rode down into the belly of the basin.
“What is it?” she asked no one in particular.
Yet something was definitely catching somewhere deep in her consciousness, the tug persistent, but nonspecific. And the harder she tried to divine what it was, the more elusive the preoccupation became.
“Whatever,” she muttered as she put the dish back down.
Given all the other things that were clamoring for mental attention and energy, she canceled the useless game of hide-and-seek.
“I have to go.”
Okay, who exactly was she talking to, she wondered as she glanced to the basement door. After a moment of indecision, she got a notepad out of a drawer and used the stub of a pencil to write a quick message for Tallah. She left the pad in the center of the table, grabbed her bag—and doubled back to add her cell phone number just in case the elderly female forgot what it was.
As Mae went to leave through the front door, she made sure she had her car key ready, and she said a quick prayer before she—
Ripped open the heavy weight. Spun around and closed it. Relocked things and ran for her Honda.
At the driver’s side, her car key refused to find home inside its lock, the metal slip-skipping around the hole. And the longer it took, the more she looked around frantically, all kinds of shadows pulling up from the ground, from the twisted vines, from the trunks of trees, everything coming to attack her—
The key finally went into the slot, and she nearly snapped it off as she cranked things free, fumbled with the handle, and threw herself into the driver’s seat. Slamming things shut and locking everything back up, her heart was pounding in her ears as she played the same ring-around-the-rosie with the ignition.
Before anything landed on the hood, punched a hole in the sunroof, and dragged her out by her hair, she managed to start the engine and put the car in drive. Except then she had to throw things into reverse—because for once she hadn’t followed her father’s very wise advice about being prepared to leave in a hurry. Stomping on the gas, the tires spun up mud and got her nowhere.
