Blaze laces his fingers through mine. “It’s okay to miss the people we love.” His lapis eyes grow distant. “But I’d like to believe we never really lose them. They live on in the things they taught us, the memories we made. We just have to hold on to that.”
I recognize loss when I see it. Blaze, obviously, suffered his own. “You hate it here, don’t you?”
He puts the kittens down and shifts to the edge of the bed. “I don’t hate it,” he says, uncannily serious. “I just miss my family.”
There are no words to ease that kind of pain. So, I stay quiet.
His eyes lighten up a bit. “Maybe I can take you to London one day. I have a feeling my sisters would adore you.” His chest swells. “Of course, I’d be your personal tour guide and make it a worthwhile experience.”
London sounds like a dream come true. All I’ve seen from the world so far is West Virginia and California. That’s two states out of fifty. One continent out of seven. Pretty lousy track record. But boarding a plane just isn’t in my cards. Risking my own life is one thing, endangering more than two hundred passengers is something entirely else. “I don’t know.” I try to sound as casual as possible. “England is pretty far away.”
He laughs. “Well, there’s the Atlantic Ocean between, but it’s really just an eight-hour flight, princess.” I avert my gaze and something clicks. “Wait, do you suffer from aviophobia?”
Gee, there’s a fine line between being observant and being a major pain. Blaze just crossed it. “I wouldn’t know,” I grumble.
He furrows his brows. “You never flew?”
“Nope.”
“Wow.” Wow as in: Did you miss the globalization memo?
I search the room, looking for something to change the topic. I find a framed picture on the fireplace. It’s of a proud and cocky Blaze in satin boxers, holding a golden belt up in the air. I already knew he’s a champion, but what I didn’t know was he won the title without his tattoos. His skin is flawless in the pic. Well, as flawless as it can be after a bloody fight that left a nasty cut above his right eyebrow and bruises all over his face. “Great day?” I ask, pointing at the photo.
He strolls to the frame and picks it up. “Yeah, I’d just won my first title.” He drifts off, growing more and more distant. “It was a long time ago,” he mutters.
“Can I see it?”
“You may,” he replies with a twinkle in his eyes.
I can no longer ignore the grammar police. “Someone ever tell you what a smart-ass you are?”
“Smart-arse,” he corrects me.
I grab the pic and ignore him. Up close, I catch a glimpse of a bird-like scar on his left chest. It sort of looks like a branding. “From a fight?”
He shakes his head. “It’s a birthmark.”
My eyes widen. “Seriously?” I’ve never seen a birthmark that size. Let alone one that looks like a third-degree burn scar.
He lifts his shirt, exposing his, wait for it…eight-pack, just like in my hallucination. His abs aren’t the only reason I have a hard time breathing. The burning woman inked on his chest plays a part in it too. Her marvelous face covers his upper torso. Her eyes are greener than green, and there’s a sense of danger radiating from her. I should avert my gaze. It would be the polite thing to do. Instead, I keep on staring. My mouth dries. My heart races faster than ever.
“Like what you see, princess?” He sounds playful. His eyes, however, are those of a hunter, seconds before he goes for the kill.
Get a grip, I mentally yell at myself.
It works. “I like the tattoo,” I admit. Actually, I’m not sure if I do. Something about this woman gives me the creeps.
Blaze looks down at his chest. “I used to draw her all the time. I thought she deserves a special place.”
“You draw?” That came out wrong.
He cocks a brow. “Why, a fighter can’t engage in the arts?”
I roll my eyes. “I didn’t—”
“Relax.” He laughs. “I’m just messing with you.”
I’m really not into the English humor thing. “Ha…ha…ha.”
Blaze joins me on the bed. “Here.” He takes my hand, tracing my fingers over his birthmark, hidden underneath the woman’s flaming black hair. “Feel that?”
It doesn’t just look like a branding. Feels like it, too. “You were born with that?”
“Yup.”
I examine the scarred skin. “Does it hurt?”
“Nope.”
Weird.
I look from tattoo-free Blaze in the photo to the one next to me. He’s always been stunning, but there’s something about the tats underlining his handsomeness even more. “I don’t mean to sound creepy, but you kinda look more like you with the tats, if that makes any sense.”
He pulls his shirt back down and grins. “Yeah, my sisters think so too.” Whenever he mentions them, his face lights up like a Fourth of July firework.
“You really love these girls, don’t you?”
He cocks a brow. “Most of the time.”
“Let me guess,” I say, pressing my index finger against my temple. “You love them as long as they don’t make you watch Twilight?”
Blaze blows out some steam. “They didn’t make me watch it,” he confesses.
“They didn’t?” I can’t hide the surprise in my voice.
He shakes his head. “I watched that shit for purely scientific reasons.”
“Yeah, right.” Like that time when I watched all Hallmark Christmas movies in May, claiming I had to write a paper on racial discrimination of TV channels—you know, since all Hallmark couples are white.
He casts me a sidelong glance. “I’m being serious, Nisha.” Judging by his edgy tone, he really is.
“Okay, I’ll bite.” I rub my palms on my jeans. “What were you researching?”
His shoulders stiffen. “I guess I needed to understand how a fictional work was able to mess with the most rational person I’d ever met.”
“One of your sisters?” Gee, when did I become so nosy?
He gazes ahead, lost in thoughts. “My oldest sister. She changed completely after she saw that goddamn movie. Spent most of her time in “Date a Vampire” chatrooms and forgot everything around her.” I’d say he’s joking, but there’s no evidence to back up this theory.
“Was that even a thing?” Izzy and I lived the Twilight hype, but I’ve never heard of such chatrooms, and I certainly had no clue girls went looking for a real-life Edward Cullen.
“You’d be surprised.” He stares at the golden belt on the photo. “Anyway, I watched the movie a dozen times just to make sure there was no secret backmasking incorporated.”
Backmasking? “You mean like in that famous Judas Priest song where folks claimed the band tried to get people to off themselves?”
His brows fly up.
“What?” I say as he’s eyeballing me like I’m a newly discovered world miracle.
“You”—he fixes a strand of hair behind my ear—“never cease to amaze me, princess.”
Our eyes lock. In that lapis ocean, I catch a glimpse of something scaring the living crap out of me. It’s not just desire or lust. It’s so much more than that. And it’s burning through his eyes like a wildfire. Uncontrollable. Unstoppable.
He traces my jawline.
My jugular vein pounds like crazy.
His fingers run down my neck.
I stop drawing oxygen all together.
How did we get here? One minute, we’re talking Twilight and Judas Priest. The next, he’s exploring my skin? That’s just crazy. Insane. Ludicrous.
Blaze is so close, I inhale his exhale. He lifts my chin. “I really don’t hate it here,” he whispers, gaze glued to my dry lips. “Quite the contrary, princess.”
He’s ready to claim that kiss. His phone buzzes. I pull back. “Y-You should probably get this,” I stammer like an idiot.
His face hardens as he pulls it out of his pocket. “Shaggy.” To say he sound
s frustrated would be the understatement of the year.
“What does he want?” I ask, because I could use some distraction.
Blaze shoves the screen under my nose. Saturday night fight?
I smile. “He’s really excited about training with you.”
Some of that darkness creeps back into his gaze. “I know.”
“Nisha?” Izzy peeks through the ajar door. “That you?”
“Yeah.” I kick my Chucks off and shrug out of my jacket. “It’s me.”
“I thought I heard something.” She strolls toward me, dressed up like she’s about to hit a fancy NYC club—high heels, tight jeans, and a super-cute royal-blue top with a bit of glitter around the collar, which matches her eyes and hair. “Shouldn’t you be at the store?”
“It’s closed,” I grumble, flinging myself onto my purple bed sheets.
“You don’t seem particularly happy about that.”
That’s nicely put. Ugly truth is, I’m pissed. Who wouldn’t be? I showed up at work after a long school day, only to find a locked door and a sign in the shop window that read: CLOSED FOR THE REST OF THE WEEK.
Izzy pulls the desk chair up in front of me. “Want to talk about it?”
I’m not one for burdening others with my drama. In this case, however, I’m inclined to make an exception. I just don’t know where to start. Since Amara gave me the Horus necklace, she’s been acting beyond weird. Every shift, she asked stuff like: Have you been followed? I didn’t think so. Did your night terrors get worse? They kinda stopped the night I came home from Blaze’s. Has the desert rose resurfaced? It’s locked away in Dad’s office. I figured she’s just worried about the stuff Aunt V had shared with her—wet bed and all. But after overhearing a dozen hushed phone calls and weird talks about daggers and the British Museum, I’m beginning to wonder if she secretly works for the CIA. Which is bullshit, because why on earth would a CIA agent care about night terrors and desert roses?
“Nisha?”
I blow a wild strand out of my face, leaning against the headboard. “Amara never mentioned the store would be closed for the rest of the week.” A heavy sigh escapes me. “It just isn’t like her.”
My cousin studies me. “Maybe she forgot?”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Maybe.” Maybe aliens walk the earth, too.
Izzy’s gaze drifts to her phone. It’s a no-brainer she’s about to head out. “Date with Oz?” I ask, forcing a smile I don’t feel.
Her eyes sparkle. “He booked us a table at the Blue Moon Café. Then we’ll catch a movie and—”
I lift my hand. “Too much information, Izz.” I love the two of them together, but I have a very vivid imagination. There are things I never want to see—Bart Simpson boxers and Snoopy bras included.
She beams at me. “Sorry.”
I shrug it off. “You’re forgiven.”
Izzy narrows her eyes at me. “What about you? Any plans for tonight?”
My gaze wanders over the “to be read” section of my bookshelf. “Nothing special.”
“Why don’t you call Blaze?” she suggests, sounding all innocent. “I recall him asking you out at lunch and you brushing him off with work. Now that you’re free”—she shrugs— “you could hang with him.”
“I don’t think that’s such a great idea.”
She arches a brow. “Why not?” She looks around. “Beats hanging around all by yourself anytime.”
I’m never going to admit to this, but being with Blaze beats just about anything—even reading. We’ve spent a lot of time together since the day he took me home to meet Kathy and the kittens. He came over to watch movies. I paid the kittens several visits. Heck, he even met Aunt V, who promised him Bad Boys II would never happen again. A little time apart won’t hurt us. I have high hopes it might keep my heart from beating harder for him. “I’d much rather change into my PJs and watch some cheesy chick-flick or start a new book.”
“Sure?” She still doesn’t trust me to be here on my own. “I could stay home if you need some company.”
“Don’t be silly.” Never in a million years would I keep the two love birds apart. “I’m going to enjoy having the house to myself.”
“You know I wouldn’t mind, right?”
“But I would. Now”—I yank her up—“move your sexy butt down the stairs.”
“Wait.” She stops, ogling me over her shoulder. “Have you thought about the Halloween Ball yet? It’s next week. We need to get you a costume if you’re going.”
I roll my eyes. “There’s nothing to think about. I won’t need a stupid costume.” I backed out of organizing it. No way I’m going to attend it. Especially since it’s going down on Devil’s Night.
Izzy crosses her arms. “What do you mean there’s nothing to think about?” She raises a brow. “Word on the high school hallway is Blaze asked you to go.” Oz and the boys must have spilled the beans. They were there when Blaze popped the question.
“He did.” Two days ago, he showed up to class with two tickets, trying to get me to go. It took a lot of courage to look into his stunning lapis eyes and say no. I managed.
Izzy’s face slips into a major frown. “So, what’s your problem?”
Is she for real? “I remember you being mad at Thornton for asking me to organize it, and now you want me to go?”
She rests both hands on each side of my shoulders and looks me in the eye. “There’s a difference between researching shit that could break you and going out to have a little fun.” Her lips curve up. “C’mon, little cousin, live a little.”
A horn honks outside. Oz’s timing is meticulous. “You better get going,” I say, shoving her out of my room. “The Blue Moon Café won’t keep your table forever.” It’s one of the best places in town. Oz and Izzy are lucky they even got in.
“Promise me you’ll think about it.”
I won’t. “I will.”
“I love you,” she yells halfway down the hallway.
“Too,” I shout back as the front door slams shut.
I stalk back to my comfy bed and lie down. Lightning flashes through the window. A moment later, it’s pouring outside. I love the sound of rain. There’s something incredibly relaxing about it.
Gaze glued to the ceiling, I shove all Halloween-related thoughts to the back of my mind and focus on the here and now. Okay, so what’s the plan? Shower. Dinner. Diving into Throne of Glass—I’ve heard great things about Sarah J. Maas—in that order. Well, then. Let Nisha Home Alone begin.
Loaded with a towel, my favorite PJs, and the lavender body lotion my mom got me on her last journey from a small place in Oxford, England, I head to the bathroom. Gazing at my reflection is no longer a horror scenario. The dark circles under my eyes aren’t as bad anymore. I look more like a human being since the night terrors have stopped. I have no clue what chased the man of my dreams and the deserts away. Being around Blaze? Thinking less about my insanity? Or maybe just time. Whatever is responsible, I owe it big time.
Thunder rolls through the sky as I take the Horus necklace off. It makes me jump a bit. Don’t be such a baby, I calm myself. It’s just a thunderstorm. A vicious one, I might add.
I strip down and start the shower. Waiting for the water to heat up, I put my iTunes playlist on shuffle and secure my phone, at a safe distance, on the sink. I have a bad track-record of killing phones. Since I’m not sure when, or if, I’m working again, I can’t afford to off this one.
Two things I’m absolutely certain of: a shower can never be too hot, and music never too loud. All the better when it’s Bruno Mars’s voice blasting through the speakers while your skin is soaking under the water.
The bathroom steams up to a point where I barely see my own hand. A clear sign I should hurry up before I get a heat stroke or something. I quickly shampoo my hair and shave my feral legs. Why I let them grow so long is a bit of a mystery to me. I guess it’s a winter thing. No one gets a glimpse of what you’re rocking beneath your jeans.
&nb
sp; I sing along to The Weeknd’s song, “False Alarm,” when all of a sudden the lights go off. “What the f—”
I push the shower door open, peeking outside. It’s pitch-black. I don’t see a thing. The storm must have messed with the electricity lines, or so I tell myself.
Careful not to slip on the wet floor, I step out of the shower and grab a towel. Shampoo runs down my forehead, burning my eyes. I try to rub it out. It only makes things worse.
Now what? I ask myself.
The fuse box is in the basement. I should check it out. Feeling my way to the sink, I switch the flashlight of my phone on. I can’t even fathom how people survived before the golden age of smartphones.
Securing my towel with one hand, I use the other to shine the light on my path. The music is still playing. The storm is raging. I reach the hallway without breaking my neck. Branches of the old elm tree beat against the west side of the house. In the darkness, they look like creepy fingers tapping the hallway window. Oh, boy. Why does shit like this happen today of all days?
I choke back the fear crawling up my throat and move toward the staircase. That’s when I hear it…a clicking noise. I silence the music and freeze at the top of the stairs, gazing down. Even with the light of the flashlight, I can’t make out much.
Click…tap…click…tap…
The sounds grow louder.
Click…tap…click…tap…
Footsteps echo through the hallway downstairs.
Shivers run down my spine. My belly cramps. My lungs refuse to draw in oxygen. Horrifying memories rise from the depths of my soul, conquering my consciousness like a wrathful, invasive king.
I dreamt of the dang desert rose again. It lay in my hands, taunting me with memories I didn’t want. Love, pain, joy, sorrow, creation, destruction—they were all part of it. Of what? I wasn’t quite sure.
“You’re mine,” the man of my dreams—Seth—whispered, imprisoning me in his dark dream world. “Always and forever mine.” His intensity scared me. At the same time, it felt like I belonged here. With him.
“Who are you?” I asked as the icy sand wove around my ankles, pulling me down. Drowning me.
Book of Souls (Gods of Egypt 1) Page 18