Three Times Torn

by Felisha Antonette

  I blink, letting the thin film blanket my eyes. Uncovered, raw, and innocent, my mate’s not a drop dead gorgeous monster trapped inside of a human’s body. But a being concealed by a burden the world’s made him believe is his beast, his evil, his monster. Even flushed red with malevolent night eyes, teeth sharp enough to tear through my neck, touch strong enough to crush my bones, and a monstrous anger that chills my skin just by his voice, he’s imperfectly perfect enough to grind my gears and take me to nirvana all at the same time. And I adore all his imperfections. I just hope he looks at me through the same eyes. A sight that doesn’t force him to find love in me, a sight that doesn’t demand he care for me, but a sight that sees through me because he wants to, not the mating or the bonding.

  Sparks?

  I jump back at the sound of his voice pulling me from my thoughts. “Huh?”

  “I have twenty-twenty for you.”

  I glare at him through the blur of my lashes. “How can you talk and listen at the same time?” Walking around him, I head for the door going back over my thoughts. He stays back, letting me have my moment.

  I close the thick wooden door. Turning around, I place my back to it and smile. I’m not letting him go that easy. Eyes locked on Nathan, I lick my lips and arch my back a bit.

  Standing a little over ten feet from me, he narrows his eyes, capturing me with their swirl. My smile fades and I hitch a brow, silently questioning him. He’s going to play this out.

  Watching me, he squares his shoulders, and a calling creeps over me. I shake my head. He licks his lips, sliding his hand over his chin. He’s challenging me, seeing if I can hold back from his silent call. I always lose this game. He’ll try to force me to him, and I try to fight it. It never works out in my favor for several reasons.

  I lay my head back against the door and rub the back of my neck, leaving my hand resting there. He can never resist it when I part my lips and lower my lids just enough where he can still see my eyes. In this stance, I will him to me.

  His countenance voids as he bites back his bottom lip.

  I squeeze my eyes shut. Crap. I can never resist that.

  Opening my eyes, I meet hypnotizing ocean blues inches from my face. “Why are you playing, knowing we only have a few hours before your parents get in?”

  “Why do you have to look like that and have so many restrictions?”

  “What do you mean by restrictions?” he questions with a tight smirk that only reveals on the right side of his mouth.

  “I can’t have you whenever and however I want.”

  “Aw,” he groans. “The same reason you do.” His thumb brushes across my bottom lip. “If you only knew the many ways I want to have you.”

  I kiss it. “You have no restrictions with me.” It falls away and rises to his lips. He kisses it.

  He bends down and lifts me on his rise, holding me up by my thighs, pinning me against the door. “Yeah?”

  “Yes. Let me show you.”

  “Mmm,” he hums with a low rumble in his chest. Wrapping my legs around him, I bring him closer and feel the vibration from his hum against my lips.

  My heart pounds when our tongues touch. Nathan’s mouth smiles against mine, and I promise myself, once again, that I’ll get used to him one day soon.

  Burying my fingers in his hair, I want him closer, even though there’s nowhere else for him to go. Our lips twist as our tongues dance, igniting my passion, sending me so close to over I titter tot on the edge. It’s never enough. If I could just find full, maybe then. . . But, no. I’m stuck between falling and landing.

  I growl—growl—meeting the halfway mark. I’d beg for it, but I have no idea for what I’d be begging.

  The door beside us swings open, and I find relief and aggression rising inside me because of it.

  Shuffling to part, Nathan and I innocently look at his mother.

  “Not in the great room, son. We meet in here,” Natalia says, looking away from us.

  I lick my lips, savoring his taste. We’ll have to revisit that later. “Hey, Mom,” I greet with a smile.

  Her eyes brighten. “Hi, Tracey. I enjoy hearing you say that. You know we love you around here.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re always welcome.”

  “And thanks for that too.”

  “We weren’t doing anything, Mother.” She must’ve said something silently to him. “Just first base.”

  Natalia throws her hand up. “That looked like way more than first base, Nathan.” Felt like more too. “That was more like second base and running.”

  I laugh, embarrassed. Moms just keep busting us today.

  “Good point.” Nathan points then turns back to her. “Spark’s mom, Karen.” He moves behind me. “She caught us in Spark’s bed this morning,” he states in a low voice.

  Natalia’s eyes widen, then calms.

  I move from in front of him. With hitched brows and questioning eyes, he gives me the really look. I shrug.

  “Please tell me you two weren’t doing”—She moves her hand between us and the door—“that. What you were just doing there.”

  “No,” he drags. “We weren’t. We were asleep.”

  Natalia visibly releases a breath.

  “I’m telling you because you two will meet today and she might bring it up. She also knows Sparks has been spending the night over here and you knew about it.”

  Natalia waves her hands in front of Nathan’s face. “Son, don’t tell me anything else. I’m going to have to try to make it seem like I don’t support your actions for being so romantically advanced with our daughter.” Our daughter, huh? “I only have one question.”

  “Okay. . .?”

  “Does she know you two are bound?” The real question; does she know you two have sex.

  “Let us try to wean away from those conversations,” I say. “If you don’t mind.”

  She throws up her hands. “Works for me. Why don’t you two go cool off and check on the basement? They may need some help down there.”

  THE BASEMENT WAS THE worst, besides Glen and Scott’s old room, which no one has stepped foot in, even to fix it. They fixed the wall, but no one will go into the room. I refuse even to look at it.

  My stomach’s fluttering. Embarrassment and passion. Our frequently interrupted make-out sessions are becoming routine.

  “We’ll work on that addiction, Sparky,” Nathan says, opening the basement’s door.

  “Stay out of my head,” I warn, passing him. “I’m not addicted.”

  He chuckles. “Yeah, okay,” he sings derisively.

  “You’re a jerk,” I add, galloping down the stairs.

  Besides the hole, where Nathan had kicked the couch through the wall, the basement looks about finished. There’s new furniture, a TV, and all the scraps have been cleaned up.

  “What are we supposed to do down here? Besides needing to patch that hole from when you went super Hulk and kicked the couch through the wall, everything’s done.”

  He meets me in the middle of the floor, looking over the area. “I was angry.”

  I face him. “That goes without saying.”

  “We have family coming in tomorrow. I think they’re going to stay down here. They aren’t into the big family and being crowded lifestyle.”

  “Is it safe for others to come?”

  “Yeah. Our enemies aren’t after them.” We head upstairs as more construction workers come down with the equipment to patch up the wall. When we make it to the landing, he continues, “Just you, me, Olar, and Taylor. Everybody else is good.”

  “Why not Scott?”

  “Scott’s never done anything but be around.” He directs me toward the family room. “He’s only really spazzed out since he met Glen. But he’s been under control since he was born. The golden boy,” he proclaims sarcastically.

  “Are you jealous?”

  “I used to be, long ago, when everyone would speak highly of him. I got over it. And knowing that I
was worse off than he was and I haven’t tried to slaughter you, we see who the golden boy is.”

  I nudge him. “That sounded cocky.”

  Turning the corners of his mouth downward, he jests, “It was.”

  We have to pass Scott and Glen’s old room to make it to the family room. Avoiding looking in its direction, I scurry past it. Every time I glance at the wall or the door, my stupid mind replays images of events I still haven’t fully remembered. It’s bad. My eyes make it worse. Nathan says I forgot because I wanted to, not because I was forced to. He said something about it being post-traumatic stress.

  Whatever. I still think he did something.

  The family room’s been cleaned but not patched up. The TV still hasn’t been replaced, and the walls are still cracked and smashed. “Has your house ever looked this bad?” I ask, going over the rooms I recall needing work done. I count them on my fingers.

  “It’s usually a couple of rooms, one big room, or a few big holes when my mother throws us out of the house. But honestly, this is the worst: two bedrooms, the entire basement, the great room, the family room, and not to mention the kitchen, match hands.”

  “My name is Tracey,” I correct.

  “Yeah.” He looks away from me. “This has been the worst. But . . . it’s another day in the life of Nathan Newcomb.” He shakes his head, pushing his hands through his hair.

  “Is somebody going to clean the torture room?”

  “What room is that?” He squints, eyeing me. The look where he’s searching for something in my head. “Oh, yeah. Olar’s cleaning it now.”

  “He’s a weird guy, that Olar.”

  “Yeah. He likes that kind of stuff.” He grabs my hand, and an uneasy feeling he had goes away with my touch. “Come on, let’s go to the kitchen and help get the food started.”

  “He made that guy crack his skull open.” I’m never going to unsee that.

  “Yep. That’s what he does. He likes the gory torturing type of killing.”

  “And you?”

  “And I,” he carries. “Don’t want to talk about that.”

  “Nathan,” I prompt.

  “Sparks,” he mocks, pushing me to walk ahead of him, yet holding my hand back. “You know, Sparks. You look good from the back too.” He smacks my butt and the sound echoes down the hall.

  That hurt! I whirl around. He runs into me, laughing. “Not cool,” I grump.

  “Stop being sexy and I won’t smack your butt. Turn ugly.”

  “No.”

  He shrugs, turning me around to walk against my will and hits my butt harder. I yelp, and then I laugh at myself. I stop walking; now controlling my legs. His body presses against my backside. Wrapping his arms around me, he kisses my neck. “I’m sorry,” he drones. “I couldn’t help myself.”

  I shiver, letting my head fall back against his chest. How does he do this? Soft kisses rain on my neck, and stream over my shoulder. They’re warm and tingle ever centimeter they cover.

  “Eww, do you two ever stop?” Little Nathan fake gags. Since his advancing, his voice’s gained a smooth base, and he’s taller.

  Nathan straightens, and we finish down the hall. On our passing, Nathan punches him. I move from his front. Little Nathan’s known for his fast retaliations. “Stop interrupting stuff,” Nathan tells him.

  “I’m not interrupting anything. That’s the two of you standing in the middle of the hall. You have a room for that kind of stuff.” He punches Nathan back and my chest aches. I stumble back feeling as if I’d been punched. “Oh shit, Tracey. I forgot. I’m sorry.”

  Nathan grabs me, taking the throbbing away. “Nope. It’s cool,” I say, blowing it off as if it’s nothing. But man did it hurt. Nathan chuckles, raising his hand to rub my chest with me. I smack it away, knowing he’s up to no good. “Stop.”

  “What time are your parents supposed to be coming over?” Little Nathan asks, laughing at us.

  “About five, I think.” I look at Nathan for confirmation.

  “Yeah. I was thinking that time. Still leaving everyone with time to do what they want. Or in case shit goes sour and we need to cut it short.”

  Little Nathan nods and leaves us.

  “How can things go sour?” I ask as we continue to the kitchen.

  “Your dad blows up, or gets turned into nothing.” I punch him in his back feeling the force of my attack like a pinch. He laughs. “I’m not serious, but he’s going to want to talk to you, and you won’t get stolen away from me for the entire evening. I have intentions of being very selfish with your time tonight.”

  “Who said I was leaving you?”

  “You need some time to talk to your parents alone.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Sparks, you do. It’s only right. You’ll get over your anger with your father. He’s your Dad. It could be worse and he not care about you period, maybe tries to kill you every once in a while, or use killing your mate to kill you. You don’t have it as bad as you think.”

  I ignore him. The kitchen’s crowded with uncooked food thawing out on the island and veggies on the counter. I’d swear we invited the president over instead of my parents with the way they’re treating this event. Apparently, it’s paramount to them that my mother and father accept them. Why? I’m still unsure. But I overheard Natalia telling Nathan it’s some old school tradition to be granted acceptance by a maiden’s father and mother upon mating.

  “Do you know how to cut carrots?” Nathan asks.

  “Yes, in circles.” I’ve never cut a carrot, just stuck it with my fork.

  He smiles. “Okay, the carrots are on the counter, wash them off first, and then cut them into half-inch circles. There’s a cutting board next to the sink, the food brush is in the drawer in front of the cutting board, and the knives are in the corner by the microwave.”

  Um. . . “O-kay.” I think I got it.

  He leaves me to it and washes his hands then goes to separate the meat for cleaning.

  I gather the things he’d said I need, wash my hands, and tend to them with precaution. It is about twenty carrots. I cut myself seven times and throw away nine of them.

  Refusing to let Nathan heal my cuts, I wash my hands, preferring to let them heal humanly.

  He removes me from carrot cutting duty. “Let’s give you something a little less torturous.” He washes his hands and brings me a ball covered in what looks like huge lettuce leafs. “It’s called a head of lettuce, Sparks.”

  “Okay. That makes sense. Culinary isn’t one of my strongest talents, and I’m not ashamed of it.”

  He moves the meat from the island to the counter by the sink, freeing up some space. Placing a giant bowl in front of me, he brings with him another head of lettuce.

  “What am I going to do with this, make salad?” I ask, holding the head of lettuce at a distance. It’s heavy and wet.

  He analyzes my quizzical expression. “It’s not rocket science, Sparky. Pull the lettuce, tear it into strips, and throw it in the bowl. Making salad is exactly what you’re going to do.”

  “Okay,” I chirp. “I can do that.”

  Tearing up and tossing lettuce is a lot safer than cutting carrots. I do this with ease while Nathan handles cleaning and then season the leg quarters and halves. When Nathan grudgingly told me the specific names of chicken, that’s when I felt the pinch of embarrassment. As often as I’ve watched Mom cook, half of this I should know; cooking’s just never been an interest.

  The oven clock reads 4:05 pm, nearing the time for the gathering. “This is really about to happen, isn’t it?” I mutter. I can’t say why I’m so nervous.

  “Unless you don’t want it to.” Nathan looks up at me from the lettuce he’s helping me tear and toss.

  “No. I’m cool with it. It has to happen. I’ve just never experienced this before.”

  “If you’re not ready, we don’t have to do it. I’ll call everything off.

  “No. We’ll do it. I’m just nervous is all. My dad�
��s been different, and I don’t know what to expect from him anymore.”

  Nathan nods, taking it in but having no response. He’s noticed it too.

  We wash our hands and head upstairs to dress. Combing through the clothes in my half of our wardrobe, I decide on some light blue jeans I hope will fit me right, a nude blouse that flares out around the collar, and some nude and silver colored flats that match the blouse. After another shower, I dress and go to Taylor’s room to use her curlers for loosely curling my hair in a way that it flows down my back conservatively.

  The jeans hug my hips just right, and the shirt matches perfectly with my shoes and skin tone. Fiddling with tucking my shirt and not, I push Nathan’s room door open and find him exiting his closet. Dressed in dark black jeans and a stone gray button down accented with a white collar, he’s a sight. The shirts fitted, hugging his shoulders and his matching black dress boots compliment his fit.

  Turning to me when I close the door, his gaze sweeps over my face, down past my chest, and stops at my waist. Closing his eyes, he shakes his head. “No. No,” he states. Pointing to the closet while folding down his collar, he instructs, “Change your clothes, Sparks.”

  Insulted, I blurt, “What? Why?”

  “Change. And remind me to go up a size in your jeans.”

  I look down at myself. “I think these jeans fit me perfectly.”

  “Yeah, too perfectly,” he adds, gaze massaging my hips.

  “Nathan, I am not changing. We need to go. Control those Burdened hormones of yours.” I turn to the door.

  “Pfft. Let’s keep this meet and greet short.” He’s right behind me, pulling me by my waist to meet his hips. “Because you, me, and these jeans are not going to last long.” He pulls me closer, kissing my cheek. “You look nice,” he compliments. Inhaling, he adds, “You smell good too.”

  “Thank you.” I face him. “You do too.”

  His hands push to the small of my back, and he looks over my shoulder. Those big hands descend, taking hold of both my butt cheeks. Before I can react, I’m lifted in the air, the door’s closed with my back smashed against it, and his lips are smashed on mine.