He smirks. "Because you're helpless without me."
"Hey now. I think I've proven myself anything but useless." I smile at him, into his eyes. The teasing lines of his face fall, sadness creeping into his gaze.
"Ryden, I wanted to tell you, at the library—I'm so sorry for what I did to you. I betrayed you." It sounds so dramatic, saying it aloud, but I know it's true. "I betrayed your trust, and it hurts me—I don't think you realize the torture it is to me, knowing that I hurt you."
"Torture?" He laughs, short and sharp.
"Yes." I'm in earnest, and I want him to know it.
He rises from the bed and walks away. "What do you want, Cilla? You want me to forgive you? I can't, not yet. Do you know how many times people have messed with me? How I gave and gave and then got screwed in return? I thought you'd understand, but you're just like the rest."
"I'm not, I swear." I scramble off the bed, edging nearer as he stands by the window, twisting the curtain cord. "Or maybe I am, but I don't want to be, not anymore." My voice trembles, and I hate myself for the weakness. But the tremor turns him toward me, his face seamed with such pain that my heart breaks all over again.
What is this? Why does his pain hurt me so much? How am I so connected to him, after only a few days? It doesn't make any rational sense.
I step closer, drawn by those sorrowful hazel eyes. I want to soothe his pain, to seal his heart-wounds with my kisses. His mouth, the fullness and soft curves of it, needs to be pressed and parted until he accepts me again, my promises and my—my love. Yes. My love.
He still hates you, I remind myself. He doesn't forgive you. If you do this, he'll only push you away again. You'll regret it... My inner voice fades as the roaring in my soul peaks, and I leap for Ryden, capturing his mouth, cupping his face in my hands, tracing those magnificent cheekbones with my thumbs. His arms close around me, strong and sure, and he exhales, a sound of deep release.
"Damn it," he says, pulling away for a moment. "I think I forgave you already."
I laugh with relief, kissing him over and over, slowly turning us both until his back is toward the empty bed. With a gentle surge of my power, I push him until he hits the mattress and falls back onto it. I shove his shirt up, traveling the slopes of his chest and stomach with my hands, reveling in the feel of him. Slowly I work loose the button of his jeans and then draw down the zipper. Getting pants off is never as easy or sexy as they make it look in movies, so it takes a minute—but then they're off, along with the boxers, and all of him is bared to me.
He starts to sit up, but I push him back with a light pulse to the chest. "Relax," I say. "I'm in charge this time."
And with my mouth, and my body, and my whispers, I erase the memory of what I've done from his skin.
-14-
Head Over Feet
But we can't stay in Morrilton, Arizona.
Someone will find us. After all, we followed I-40 all the way here—it's not like we took precautions to vary our route.
I need to figure out how to use the Madstone. It's the only thing that might keep us safe when the Patronage or the cowboy finally locate us.
Before we leave the next day, I send Nali a single email. An apology, and an affirmation of our friendship. She'll spew about a hundred f-words when she reads it, but maybe, just maybe, she'll relent and realize that I'm doing what I believe is right.
Am I though?
I could tell myself that I ran with the stone to save Ryden and his siblings from whatever the Patronage might have done with them. And that's partly true. But I can't deny the inner craving I have, the one that's growing steadily stronger. The hunger for more power of my own.
There's one person I know who might be able to help me learn how to use the Madstone—the man who helped my father stay free from my mother's power. The one who gave him charms to block emotion-class magic and wards to keep wielders out of his office building. My poor father, paranoid as he is, wears several different amulets and ward rings every day, even in bed or in the shower. And every one of them he got from Eisuke Sori.
Eisuke lives in Stanton, Nebraska. He doesn't like cities, and you can't get much further away from those than north-eastern Nebraska. My dad works in St. Louis, but he flies out to Omaha at least twice a year and then drives the rest of the way to Stanton, to see Eisuke and get his charms "reactivated." I suspect that there's really no need for reactivation, that it's merely a way for my father to feel safe.
Right after emailing Nali, I email my father and ask for Eisuke's address. Then Ryden and I fill the car with gas and our backpacks with snacks and begin the eleven-hour drive to Stanton.
The atmosphere in the car is dramatically different now. Ry knows that his family is safe. He has emailed his boss and gotten an extra few days off work. And best of all, he has forgiven me.
But forgiveness doesn't mean he trusts me. I see the alertness in his eyes when I mention the Patronage, the caution when I talk about the Madstone. He doesn't ask to see the emails I send, but I show him anyway, and I tell him everything I know about Eisuke, which isn't much.
But I don't tell him why I really wanted the Madstone. My motives and my desires are so twisted and tangled right now, I can hardly understand them myself. Why burden him with that conflict until I've sorted it out on my own?
He grins at me as we pull out of the gas station and onto the open road. "Music?"
"Hell yes." I press power and twirl the dial, hunting for a good station. "Okay, we've got Imagine Dragons—some indie rock thing—country music—whoa, the Clash! That's a throwback."
"Go back to Imagine Dragons," he says. "We can do that one for a while and then the oldie station."
I settle in, kicking off my flip-flops and propping my toes on the dashboard. "So tell me things about you that I don't know."
"That's just about everything. Can you narrow it down?"
"Okay, tell me about being a shifter. Like, when you're a little kid, and you shift, is it a baby panther?"
He laughs. "Yeah, it is. Mom took photos of us in both forms growing up, so we each have secret photo albums of our panther forms, from cubs to full-grown adults."
"So why does your panther have different coloring from Dae's and Oak's?"
"It's like hair color, for humans. Sometimes you get one with different pigment. My cat is just a melanistic color variant."
Everything he tells me sparks half a dozen new questions, and we talk for hours, taking turns at the wheel and feeding each other snacks. It's thrilling and new, yet so natural that it terrifies me. I tell him things I've only told Nali, and a few that I've never told anyone. Like the time a boy kissed me at school, and I just stared at him, because I didn't know how it was supposed to make me feel. I couldn't feel anything. The poor kid shrank back and slunk away, and he spread the rumor that I was gay. I didn't even care.
I tell him about the silent, friendless birthdays and the long New England winters spent staring at the TV or at the salt-stained gray snow along the street outside our house. I tell him about my mother, and how she would disappear for days at a time. I still have no idea how she made money—maybe she stole or swindled it, manipulating emotions until she got what she wanted. When she was home she would wave me away to my room while she took over the TV and binged on takeout and ice cream.
I'm sounding very pathetic, and Ryden's eyes are glittering with something that's either tears or rage, so I change the subject. "Tell me more about your childhood."
He shakes his head. "Not much to tell. We were privileged, I guess. Private school, house on the mountain, tutors, expensive toys and gadgets."
His face is flushed, and I stroke his cheek with my fingertips. "Don't feel guilty about it. It's lovely that you had a good childhood."
"It wasn't perfect," he says. "My parents argued a lot, loudly. My dad was old, even for a shifter, and he liked to be left alone most of the time. When he wasn't at work, he was in his suite or in his study. But he did run with us, sometimes. Th
at was fun."
He tells me the good memories, running the woods with his parents, playing old board games like Clue and Monopoly with his mother on Sunday nights, pranking the maids and the caretaker with Dae and Oak.
It's a long drive, and it's too short. Not enough time to cover two quarter-century lifetimes. I'm hungry for his stories, craving his thoughts and emotions, and he listens to mine with a quiet intensity that fills up my soul like he fills my body—intimately and completely.
I have never experienced anything like this. Falling in love with him a fast, furious slide down an ice-slicked mountain, and the ride is so exhilarating I barely care that I'll be smashed to a pulp when I hit the bottom.
***
Ryden jogs my head with his elbow. "Wake up, babe. We're in Nebraska."
It's dark outside the car windows.
"Damn it." I drag my fingers through my tangled hair, touching the corner of my mouth to make sure I wasn't drooling. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to fall asleep. How long was I out?"
"An hour or so."
I smack his shoulder. "Why didn't you wake me up?"
"You were tired."
"But so are you." I point to an exit sign. "There! Let's get a room and get some rest. We can drive the rest of the way to Eisuke Sori's place tomorrow."
After all we shared last night, and today, I should be perfectly comfortable around Ryden—but when we're alone in the motel room, I morph into someone painfully awkward, someone who stumbles over the chair and spills half the contents of her backpack onto the floor. Ryden steps into the bathroom, leaving me to collect my things and my dignity; but when he comes back out, I panic and retreat to the bathroom myself, with a mumbled excuse. And I flush scarlet when I discover that the lock on the bathroom door doesn't work.
Pull it together, Cilla! I tell myself harshly, glaring at my reflection in the mirror. I splash a little water on my face, dab the shine from my nose and forehead, and press my cheeks and lips to pink them up a bit. Fluffing my hair only makes it look weird and wild. Oh well. Maybe that will be a turn-on for a panther. I shift my shirt to the side so that it hangs off one of my shoulders, and I tug my jeans lower on my hips.
Taking a deep breath, I open the bathroom door and step out, ready to face the horny shifter who is doubtless pacing the room, waiting to devour me.
Except that he's not.
He's sprawled across one of the beds, sound asleep. His shoes lie discarded on the floor, but otherwise he's still fully clothed. He must have been exhausted.
Damn, he's pretty. I stand beside the bed for several long minutes, watching him sleep. The flawless cast of his face, the slope of those cheekbones and eyes, the firm line of his jaw—he's too perfect. It makes my soul ache.
This can't last, me and him. It won't. Anything this amazing must come to a tragic end.
Maybe I should end it now. I could take the Madstone and the car and disappear. I'd leave him some cash to get home. He would be angry, but he'd get over it—over me. I can't possibly be good for him—me, a twisted, emotionally stunted woman with a miserable past and an uncertain future. He deserves better.
I take a half step toward the door.
But he would want me to stay. And if I leave, he may never trust anyone again. I'll have broken him for sure, this time.
I have to stay.
I strip to my underwear and slither into the cold sheets of the other bed. My skin craves his touch, but I don't want to be needy or clingy, so I grit my teeth and stay put until I finally warm up and relax enough to sleep.
When my eyes open, bright light is glowing around the edges of the thick curtains. The motel radio clock reads 9:36.
I roll over with a contented moan, stretching against the sheets.
"If you make another noise like that," Ryden says, "I'm going to have to come over there."
A thrill runs from my toes to my stomach. I sit up, slowly, turning toward him. His eyes, a warm, liquid golden-brown in the shaft of sunlight, meet mine before drifting down to take in the sight of me.
"Shit," he says softly. "Come here."
"Bathroom first." I give my hips a little extra wiggle on the way to the bathroom, and he growls from the bed behind me. I grin, feeling brave and wild—the exact opposite of the way I felt last night. Does everyone experience this many contradictory emotions when they're in love?
When I return, I cross the scant space between the beds, and he draws me down onto the blanket with him, cupping my rear with one hand and sliding the other behind my neck as he brings me in for a kiss. He moves his hips toward mine, the rigid length of him pressing against me. He's not gifted with porn-star proportions, but he's bigger than average, and I'm suddenly hot all over, thinking of him slipping inside me again.
He pulls me on top of him, and I prop myself on my hands, looking into his face. As I lean in for a kiss, the Madstone slips from its place in my bra and falls against his chest. He reaches for it, but I close my fingers around it defensively.
A stupid move, because of course he wasn't going to take it. He was going to move it out of the way, or something. But my cautionary reflexes kicked in before I could stop myself.
A flicker of surprise and disappointment runs through his eyes. "I wasn't going to—"
"No, I know. I'm sorry."
And it's awkward again.
I sit back, astride his hips. "Ry, what are we doing?"
"I'm helping you find out more about the Madstone, so you—and it—can stay safe. Mostly you, of course."
I shake my head. "It's your family heirloom, Ry. I know you want it back."
"But it's yours now, right? You found it." He grins, but there's an edge to his tone. "Oddly enough, playground rules do apply."
"I could give it to you," I say. "But then you'd be the one in danger. It's better for me to be the target."
"Aw," he says, a challenge flashing into his eyes. "You're trying to protect the powerful predator. Cute."
"I'll show you cute," I murmur, shifting against him.
His eyes widen. "Don't tease me, Cilla," he growls.
"I would never." I smirk, grinding on him again. And for the next half hour, I practice eliciting those primal sounds from him, those deep rumbles and guttural gasps that prime me for him, that send trickles of pleasure through every nerve ending I possess.
When I'm sprawled on the bed beside him afterward, I'm deeply, deliciously relaxed. I never knew sex could be so fulfilling, not just for my body, but for some dark, hungry part of my soul. It's the difference between Ryden and my college boyfriend, Nate. Nate would kiss me hard a few times and rub me half-heartedly with his hand before taking what he wanted, quick and rough. It was fine. It was enough, barely.
Ryden doesn't rub. His fingers swirl and stroke, circle and slide. Sometimes he kisses me softly, like I'm a treasure to cherish, and sometimes he merges his lips with mine as if he's trying to forge our very souls together. In every touch of his mouth, his fingers, his body, there's a heady mix of danger and safety—the beast, roaring under the surface, barely in control, and the man, tracing my shape like I'm a goddess to be worshiped.
And then there's me, writhing, panting, and moaning like I'm an animal myself, kissing him as if he might disappear. Wrapping my legs around his waist, lifting my hips and gripping his shoulders to get him closer, closer. Every time we're together, I give up a little more of my embarrassment, unleash a little more of myself. If only he'd do the same.
"Sometime, I want you to let go," I tell him.
He raises himself on an elbow. "What?"
"I can tell you're not letting go, not all the way."
"Oh, I went all the way, babe."
"I heard. And the people next-door probably did, too." I smile. "But that's not what I mean. You're holding something back, and I want you to know that it's okay to let go, with me." I reach out, smoothing my hand over the rippling muscles of his stomach.
His face darkens. "I'm strong, Cilla—shifter strong. I don't want t
o hurt you."
"You won't. I can take it." Hell, I'm getting warm again, thinking about it.
"I don't want to ruin this."
"How would a little rough sex ruin this?"
"It's too much for some women," he mumbles, rising from the bed, and I wonder which one of his three exes made him ashamed of who he is, told him to hold back part of himself.
"I said I can take it." I rise on my knees on the bed, looking up at him confidently. "I want everything that you are."
He gazes down at me, heat flaring in his eyes. "If you don't stop being so damn beautiful, we'll never get out of this room. And I'd like to do you somewhere that's not a cheap motel, eventually. We'd better get going and figure this mess out, so we can stop running."
After showers and breakfast, we're back in the car, driving a few more hours to Stanton. When I checked my email at the motel business center, my father had emailed me back sometime yesterday with the address, and a warning: "The Patronage goons came here looking for you. I'm fine. Be careful."
"I hope he's really okay," I tell Ryden, my hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel. "Usually they just take a dip into your memory to see if you have the information they want. No torture or anything. Although the memory check can feel like a violation if you don't submit to it willingly."
He shivers. "Dang."
"Yeah, it's freaky. They've done it to me a few times."
"But you stayed with them."
"It's part of the job. And until now, I never had anything to hide, except for the childhood trauma. And they didn't care about that part of my life." I glance over at him. "You got the directions to Eisuke's place?"
He holds up the printout. "Feels weird using paper instead of an app."
"Well, we can't risk using my phone again, not yet. Not till I figure out how the Madstone works, how I can use it to protect us."
-15-
Seeing Blind
Nebraska is mostly cornfields, pastures, and long rows of irrigation rigs, with a few farmhouses sprinkled over the landscape. A couple of the houses are new, gorgeous edifices with shining windows and sprawling lawns, but most are old and weathered, worn by time and lucky enough to have escaped the tornadoes that ravage the region every year. My father experienced one once, when he was visiting Eisuke. They had to hide in a storm shelter.
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