“Tell me.”
He felt the moment she surrendered, her cheek resting on his bare chest, her slim fingers flattening across his middle.
“I was dreaming of my parents and…the accident.”
Samuel raised his knees, cocooning her with his body.
“It was my fault,” she said softly.
He remained silent but kept running the gland-filled skin between his fingers through her hair, deliberately leaving his scent behind and hoping his smell eased her.
“Did you know my mother was pregnant when she died?”
“Yeah, it was in the police report. I’m so sorry.”
“Almost nine months with my baby brother.” She sniffled. “She was beautiful and kind and a great mom and…the finest example of a lady I’ve ever known. And I was mortified when she came to the football games at our school with her belly as big as a house.”
Samuel let his chin rub the top of her head. “You were fifteen. I think that’s a typical reaction to irrefutable proof that your parents were having sex. Any teenager would cringe at the thought.”
“But I practically admitted I was embarrassed and wanted her to stay home. Conlan was so angry with me. It was his senior year, and I would have been happy if Mom missed the remainder of his football season. She knew why I didn’t want her there. Daddy did too.” She turned her forehead into his breastbone. “My father adored my mother. He hated when she was upset and tried to make her feel better. Because of me, Daddy was holding her hand instead of having them both on the wheel when the truck veered into our lane. Maybe if I hadn’t—” Her voice broke. “Mom was still alive when we got to the hospital. I woke up in the emergency room and saw her on a stretcher. The doctors and nurses blocked most of my view, but I could see her legs. Her shoe had fallen off, and there was so much blood.” Samuel felt the wetness of her tears dripping onto his stomach. “They were trying to save the baby. They kept saying, the baby. His name was Maclain. I kept screaming for them to call him Maclain. I don’t know why it was important to me, but it was. He was going to be called Mac for short. Mac MacCarthy.” She expelled a shaky breath. “Daddy said it was a good name for a future quarterback. It was, wasn’t it?”
Samuel gently tipped Abby’s head back. He knew his eyes glowed yellow as he ran them over her tearstained face in the lightless room. “It was a great name.”
Her sobs were hushed, only the jerkiness of her breaths giving her away now. He kissed her closed eyelids, the wet tracks on her cheeks, and let her cry it out. When he couldn’t stand it any longer, he pulled her close to his heart, pressing her nose into his neck.
“Stop, darlin’. You’re killing me.”
She didn’t stop.
Samuel swung Abby around until she straddled him, her knees on either side of his hips. She collapsed on him, clutching the waistband of his cargos. “I couldn’t save them. Any of them,” she said, so low he had to strain to hear. “I didn’t know how.”
“There was no way you could. You have to believe that, Abby.”
She didn’t answer, but her breathing at last slowed into an exhausted slumber.
Samuel held her for a long time before straightening his legs and carefully sliding her off his lap. He finished undressing, grabbed his shirt from the couch and slipped it over Abby’s head. She didn’t stir as he threaded her arms through the short sleeves of his tee, covering her with his scent.
This tiny female stirred emotions in him that went well beyond lust. Beyond protectiveness, or even compassion.
Returning to bed, Samuel gently pulled Abby close, ensnaring her legs with one of his own. He skimmed a hand up the side of her throat and delved into the hair at her nape, lightly pressing his thumb into the steady pulse beneath her graceful jawline.
His wolf had understood what Abby would mean to him from the very beginning. And now that Samuel recognized the truth, he might as well let her know. Placing his lips near the delicate shell of his halfblood’s ear, he whispered, “I’m keeping you.”
Chapter 17
“Nothing wrong with a good cry; it’s why waterproof mascara was invented.”
Bridget MacCarthy
Abby cracked her eyes open. The inside of her lids felt like sandpaper. Sitting up slowly, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, braced her arms on the edge of the mattress, and let her feet dangle. Her throat was sore from crying. Her ribs ached. Sighing loudly, she hung her head and stared at the floor, contemplating how to avoid a face-to-face with Samuel for at least a day—or fifty.
Lord, she bawled all over him, hadn’t she?
“Good, you’re awake.”
Abby’s muscles locked. There was no way the universe could be so cruel. She peered through the curtain of her hair at the indented pillow next to her own. Her shoulders slumped. Yes, it could be.
She reluctantly met Samuel’s gaze across the room. “Yeah,” she said, taking a deep breath to settle her nerves. He deserved her gratitude, no matter how uncomfortable the situation. “I want to thank you for last night and…everything you did for me. You didn’t need to stay.”
He grunted in reply.
Okay, then.
Abby stood, tugging the hem of the oversized tee around her thighs, freezing mid-pull.
“Is this yours?” she asked in a dismayed whisper. “Why am I wearing it?” Or more accurately, why was she wearing it again? Because it had been the commander’s t-shirt she’d woken up in the first day on the island. Of course, it had…
She closed her eyes, wondering what she’d done to piss off the cosmos.
Samuel was in front of her in an instant, hauling her against his torso and wrapping an arm firmly but gently around her waist.
Abby’s eyes flew open, her hands landing on his bare chest. She raised her chin to meet his gaze.
He disregarded her question and asked one of his own. “Whose shirt did you have on last night?”
“What?” She had no idea what he was talking about.
He brought his face close to hers. “Whose shirt is that?” he asked, jerking his head to the side and indicating the discarded splash of red and blue lying on the floor.
“Oh.”
Her grandmother had been showing signs of early Alzheimer’s when her parents died, and the people from the facility took advantage of Gigi’s confusion. They convinced a grief-stricken woman that she couldn’t provide a stable home for her daughter’s children.
Abby and Conlan were living seven-hundred-and-fifty miles away from Gigi with little-to-no communication when she fell victim to an unscrupulous estate planner. The man persuaded her to sell everything their parents owned: the house, Mom’s jewelry, Dad’s classic car. Everything. Nothing tangible remained of Rian and Bridget MacCarthy except a nominally large bank account and a worn, button-down Abby found in her grandmother’s guest room closet after her death.
Samuel’s hand squeezed her hip, demanding her attention. He was waiting for an answer.
“My father’s,” she said, giving no further explanation.
The sculpted muscles beneath her palms relaxed at the admission.
“Shower and get dressed.” His cheek rolled over her forehead, the scruff on his beard pleasantly rough against Abby’s skin. Smacking her once on the bottom, he released her and headed to the kitchen. “The queen is speaking with the press this evening, and I have a lot to do before then.”
Did he just slap her butt?
“Eggs okay again?” he asked, mood oddly cheerful. “I’m pretty much a one-trick pony when it comes to my culinary skills. Well, two…I can grill a mean steak.”
She snapped her hanging mouth shut. It was her turn to ignore a question. “How did you know I was having a bad dream last night?” A shifter’s hearing was exceptional, but Samuel’s suite was on the opposite side of the complex. Unless…
“Did I scream?” How many other residents had heard?
“Nope, I came by to check on you.”
“I didn’t wake up when yo
u knocked?”
“I didn’t knock.”
“You didn’t knock?” Her eyes narrowed. “Samuel, how exactly did you get into my apartment?” She locked the door before going to bed. She was sure of it.
“I’m head of security. I have a key.”
“You have a key?”
“Well…yeah.”
Abby stood stock-still and stared at the big, stupid príoh.
“Get moving,” he said, completely unabashed. “I need to meet with the Guard in forty.”
The import of his words finally registered, jolting her out of her daze. “The queen’s giving a news conference? What time?”
She practically ran to the kitchen, completely forgetting her annoyance at the commander’s unmitigated gall and any awkwardness she’d usually suffer from a shirtless, gorgeous male in her orbit.
“Sundown on the complex’s front steps,” he said, expression puzzled at her sudden frenzy.
Abby darted beneath the muscular arm holding the refrigerator door wide open, accidentally bumping his hip as she reached in and grabbed a Diet Coke.
“What time is it now?” She tapped the top of the can with her index finger, popped it open, and downed a few sips. Living on Dádhe time was messing with her sleep schedule.
“Just after two in the afternoon,” he said, watching her closely.
“About five hours then,” she calculated aloud, going over the millions details that had to be taken care of in that short amount of time. After guzzling her drink, she twirled the tab and removed it, adding it to the ceramic bowl filled with the aluminum pieces for St. Jude’s Ronald McDonald house fund. She maneuvered around Samuel again, ignoring the broad expanse of his naked torso and stealing another Diet Coke from underneath his nose.
“That’s not all you’re planning to have for breakfast?”
“No time,” she said off-handedly, setting the drink on the counter and walking over to pick up her father’s shirt. Abby turned from Samuel. “Why didn’t you wake me earlier?”
The question was partially muffled as she removed his tee and hurriedly replaced it with her dad’s worn plaid. Buttoning it halfway, she felt covered enough to face Samuel again. She ignored the heated gaze he raked over her body.
“You said you had things to do?” She held out his shirt.
“I do. After I feed you.”
“Seriously, I’m good.” She shoved the fabulous-smelling tee to his chest.
He didn’t move to take it.
Exasperated, she tossed the shirt on a kitchen barstool and nabbed the second cola. “I’m going to shower. You’re welcome to help yourself to whatever you can find.”
“Abby…” Samuel’s jaw was set at an obstinate angle. “I need you to eat for me first.”
She was midway across the room, but something in his tone made her hesitate. He looked so determined and vulnerable. As though the most important thing in the world was fixing Abby breakfast.
Shifter were wolves first.
Lady Rose’s words came back to her, and Abby mentally slapped herself. All those times the commander had brought her food…
Ferwyn males were accountable for keeping their women safe—and fed. Samuel probably saw it as an enormous failure if anyone in his pack was allowed to go hungry. And although Abby wasn’t Clan, he must consider her his responsibility. As ludicrous as it might sound to a human, it wouldn’t be right to scoff at him for wanting to take care of her. Not when Samuel’s protective nature was one of the things she loved about him.
Loved? Abby felt the blood drain from her face, the truth of her developing feelings threatening to knock her flat. Hadn’t she just warned herself not to fall in love with Samuel Walker? That a relationship with him could never be anything but temporary?
“I guess I wouldn’t mind a little something.” Abby’s legs shook as she walked backward through the living area.
“Go dress then. Food will be ready when you get out.” He rewarded her assent with a relieved, happy grin.
Her heart expanded inside her chest until it hurt—apparently, it didn’t do temporary.
Well, crap.
Abby was in the monarch’s office four hours and thirty minutes later, fighting a massive case of the butterflies. Lady Rose, however, was as cool as a cucumber.
“Abigail, quit fidgeting.” The queen looked lovely in the slim-cut lavender dress and gray pumps Abby chose for her. “All you have to do is stand nearby and appear appropriately serious,” she said, distracted by the notes on her desk detailing the upcoming newscast.
“I know, but maintaining a low profile was one of the first things the facility taught us. Appearing on TV in any capacity seems—”
“Addlepated?”
“Um…risky,” Abby said, shifting her weight from one high-heeled foot to the other.
“You will be recognized only by those who know what you are already. And the message we want to send to the director, and anyone else who wants a Na’fhuil, is that you belong to the ESC.”
Abby’s life wasn’t her own and hadn’t been since she was fifteen. Although the queen’s words were true, they were also a hurtful reminder.
“Right.” She brushed at an imaginary crease in her blush-colored dress and then smoothed the sides of her French twist. She knew the bruises on her face showed through her makeup, but hoped the reporters wouldn’t notice and ask questions. Samuel promised she wouldn’t have to speak with the press about the incident at Chess, and she was holding them all to his vow.
There was a sharp rap, and Jenkins entered the room. Seeing his arrival as a chance to gather herself, Abby slipped out of the office.
Nodding to the Guard standing sentry, she headed toward the lobby and pulled her phone from her purse to check the time. T-minus seventeen minutes.
“Miss Barnes, may I speak with you?”
Abby stiffened, but then forced her shoulders to relax. Though she’d only talked to Ambassador Faraday on the phone, she recognized the man approaching at a fast clip.
She expected the US government’s liaison to be present at the media event but hoped to avoid contact. The last thing she needed was a confrontation after rejecting his offers to meet in person.
“Of course, sir. How can I help you?” Abby placed her phone on silent so as not to forget later and tucked it away.
“I need a few minutes of your time. In private if you wouldn’t mind?” He cupped slim fingers around her elbow and led her farther down the hallway, motioning for his aides and bodyguards to stay behind. He quickly found an unlocked door and ushered her inside. “This will do.”
The office they entered was unused with only a desk, wastepaper basket, and single chair for furnishings. Faraday released her and flipped the light switch.
“What did you need to talk to me about, Mr. Ambassador?” She stepped farther into the room, putting space between them. “The broadcast is starting soon, and I’ll need to get back.”
“As do I.” The ambassador leaned on the closed door and crossed his arms. He wore a dark gray suit that was unmistakably custom-made, accentuating a trim waist and long legs. “Since time is short, I’ll get right to the point.” The stark contrast of his white hair, pale irises, and a nearly unlined face gave him an almost ethereal appearance most people found appealing, but for some reason, Abby did not. “The director and I want you to return to the facility.”
Abby’s entire body jerked in shock. “What do you know about the facility?”
“Everything, Miss MacCarthy. I’ve been aware of your kind since the beginning. I know about you and every other Na’fhuil that’s been found. Past and present. Those with magic and without.” He dropped his hands to his sides. “A part of my job is to keep halfbloods out of enemy hands.”
“The queen is not an enemy.”
“Not technically, but we can’t afford to give her, or any region’s monarch, a weapon to use against us.”
“I’m not a Jumper,” she said desperately, mind whirling.
Abby stumbled as though dealt a physical blow. She reached back to steady herself on the desk’s edge. Images of the eighteen-year-old Sean Graham, son of the senator, flashed before her eyes, and her stomach roiled.
It had been two years, seven months, and four days since the second biggest failure of her life. But it felt like yesterday.
“We might as well be on a hamster wheel,” Sean complained.
“You’re just upset because the raid gear we spent the last two months obtaining will be practically worthless after tomorrow,” Abby countered with smile.
At twenty-two, she was the youngest member of the senator’s support team. Although she felt eons older than the boy who was five years her junior, it seemed inevitable they would become fast friends while traveling cross-country in the close confines of his father’s campaign bus.
“It’s dumb. As soon as the expansion drops, it’ll all be obsolete.” The teen threw the game controller onto the built-in bunks.
“True. Does that mean we won’t be playing anymore?”
“What?” Sean chuckled. “I’m not quitting, and you’re definitely not quitting. A Tank needs a Healer.” He pointed his finger at her. “And you’re mine.”
“So, I guess we’re leveling up?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely.”
“Language, son,” Senator John Graham admonished from his temporary office at the rear of the coach.
Unconcerned with the reprimand, Sean winked at her, his baby blues sparkling with humor. Blessed with all-American good looks and natural charisma, the handsome young man had life by the tail. He would be attending Harvard the next year on a lacrosse scholarship, and confided he’d be following in his parents’ footsteps—but not as a politician. A tree hugger, Sean wanted to specialize in environmental law.
“Senator,” Graham’s head of security said from the front of the bus as it veered off the interstate. “We’re stopping for lunch.”
Fae Touched (Fae Touched Book 1): Paranormal Romance Page 16