North of Need (Hearts of the Anemoi, #1)

by Laura Kaye

  “Well”—she fingered over the hanging flannels, button-downs, and pants—“there’s plenty of long-sleeved shirts. Some jeans and sweatpants. Couple of different boots you can try.” She pointed at the floor, where four pairs of snow and hiking boots sat in a neat line. “And then”—she trailed across the room to the long, low dresser—“this drawer has T-shirts, and this drawer has socks and some longjohns.” She turned to him, but didn’t meet his gaze. “Coats are out in the front closet. Use whatever you want.”

  He stepped to her. His hands rose of their own volition to rub her arms. “I can just stick with what you’ve already given me. It’s okay.”

  Her gaze flashed up to his. She shrugged. Looked away again. “Nobody’s using them. You might as well.”

  His heart clenched at her eyes’ glassiness. “Thank you.”

  She waved him off. “Well, I’m gonna grab a shower.”

  “Take your time.”

  She collected some clothes and disappeared into the bathroom.

  He turned to the closet. All the pants would be too short, so he grabbed the first thing his hands landed on, a pair of black flannel-lined snow pants. He would be hot in them, but he decided to keep up appearances. For now. Soon he was dressed and out the front door.

  Cold air blasted him when he stepped onto the porch. He held his arms out, tilted his head back, and sucked the winter wind into his lungs, one deep breath after another. It smelled like home, fortified his body with its frostiness. Made all these layers bearable.

  He grabbed the shovel from its perch against the front of the cabin and cleared the drifted snow from the porch and steps. Hesitating, Owen looked over his shoulder. He had to be sure. He jogged up the steps, poked his head through the door, and listened. The whine of the plumbing told him she was still in the shower. He might be able to get away with this after all.

  He set the shovel aside.

  Standing on the bottom step, he reached out and touched the snow. On his command, a gust of white powder erupted, lifting itself from the stone path and scattering over the surrounding drifts.

  The entire front walkway cleared before his eyes.

  Chapter Eight

  “Humanity agrees with you,” came a deep voice.

  Owen’s eyes flared as he whirled toward the sound of the voice. “Boreas.” He dropped to one knee, bowed his head before the Supreme God of Winter, the same god who had been the closest thing to a father he’d ever known.

  A gust of wind ruffled his hair. “Rise, Owen.”

  Owen rose to his full height. Boreas hovered over the snow before him, agitation rolling off him in little wispy snowdevils.

  Unease and confusion clenched in Owen’s gut. He’d been with Megan less than a day, so why… “What brings you, my Lord?”

  “I wanted to see how you fared with the female.” Being the oldest of the four cardinal Anemoi showed in the white hair and beard that swirled against the robe of skins Boreas wore.

  Owen crossed his arms. “Well enough, I think.”

  Boreas’s silver eyes flashed and good humor momentarily shaped his face. “Good to hear.” He frowned again. His enormous height seemed to float over the snow’s surface until he paused next to the remains of Megan’s snow woman. He heaved a sigh. “Chione has left Ular.”

  Owen grimaced at the mention of his long-ago fiancée, and mashed his lips together to keep from asking why he was supposed to care. Chione was Boreas’ daughter, after all, and Owen owed the god his respect and civility. Still, he couldn’t restrain the words, “For whom?”

  Boreas’ chuckle was without humor. The Supreme God’s metallic gaze cut to him. “You know her well. Yes?” He turned away. “For Koli.”

  “Gods,” Owen bit out. He had no love for the Norse snow god Ular, not after he’d warmed Chione’s bed knowing that privilege should have been Owen’s alone, but Ular didn’t need another reason to feud with Koliada, the Russian solstice god. Their eons-old animosity was the stuff of legend. Few even knew the origins of it. “Well, I’d say Ular just met karma.”

  “Hmm. Indeed.”

  Now Owen was more confused than he’d been when Boreas first appeared. Did his once future father-in-law think he’d care about the machinations of his daughter after everything she’d put Owen through? He asked even though he really didn’t want to know. “Why do you tell me this?”

  Boreas skimmed over the snow toward Owen, his silver eyes flaring with an anger Owen didn’t understand. The younger man wasn’t used to feeling small, but between Boreas’ immense physicality and barely harnessed powers, it could hardly be avoided. “You do not have much time,” he growled.

  “What?” Owen frowned, held out his arms, gesturing to the blanket of snow that spread as far as the eye could see. “How can that be? This snow will last for weeks—”

  “It should have. It was a good snow. But Zephyros ran into Hy at the solstice celebration, and that set him off. Again. This time, he’s unleashed a powerful West Wind, one that will drive a warm front through before week’s end. This is why I’ve come. To warn you.”

  The news lanced through Owen. Week’s end. It was already Monday morning. Not enough time. He couldn’t expect Megan’s feelings to bloom for him so quickly. Gods. “Can you stall it?”

  “I will try. But you know of my brother’s growing power,” Boreas groused. Every year Zeph tried to bring the warmth and green of spring sooner. It was a power struggle the gods of winter had been steadily losing a bit at a time for the last half century. And Zephyros’ generations-long foul mood made it impossible to reason with him. But this was something else. Nothing enraged the Supreme God of Spring into unleashing savage weather like a run-in with his ex-lover.

  Owen tugged at his hair. Damn Zeph. Greedy son of a goddess. In any other circumstances, Owen would’ve been sympathetic. If anyone understood the kind of betrayal Owen had suffered, it was Zephyros. Several times over. So Owen usually empathized with rather than resented those moments when he let loose bursts of his enormous power to vent his turmoil. But, this time, Owen’s chance at happiness had gotten caught in the crossfire. “Can Chrysander help?”

  Boreas flashed a wry grin. The Supreme God of the Summer was the youngest and most jovial of the Anemoi and had a knack for disarming feuds between them. “It is summer in Rio, Owen.”

  “Right.” Boreas’ brevity on the subject was shorthand for ‘Chrys is enjoying his fill of Brazil’s nude sun worshippers, which you should know.’ Owen rolled his eyes and looked away. Well, there went his last hope. Gods knew Eurus, Boreas’ final brother, was off the table as an ally. Owen couldn’t recall the last civil conversation that had taken place between Eurus and the rest of his brothers.

  So be it. All it meant was he had no time to stand around complaining about the games of gods. He needed to concentrate on Megan, on making her fall in love with him. He bowed to his god. “Thank you.” Owen waited for Boreas to dismiss him before standing straight. He gasped when he felt Boreas’s hand on his head, a true, rare honor. “My Lord?”

  “I did you a great disservice, Owen.”

  Owen stilled. For the life of him, he couldn’t think of a response to such an unexpected admission.

  Boreas continued, “I should have warned you about Chione. Instead, I helped her make you think you were her first suitor, her first pairing. There were others. Before you. She’d kept them secret.” He sighed, a tired sound full of regret. “When you have a child, you cannot help but give her the benefit of the doubt. Protect and safeguard her. But Chione has proven herself incapable of commitment. Her heart is ice. She was different with you, though, and your powers were so strong. You held your own against her, met her as an equal. So I gave in to her pleas to hide her past after I’d learned of it.”

  Eyes still downcast, Owen seethed. A cutting wind whipped around the house. Whiteo
ut conditions surrounded the pair of gods. Owen’s rage. Betrayed. Again. By the god he’d served with faith and loyalty, to whom he’d devoted his existence, considered as a father. His fists clenched.

  “I was in the wrong. But you are better off. Here. Now. With this female. If John Snow’s memories are any guide, she is worthy of you. It is why I summoned you back to answer John’s appeal. If anyone could understand the pain of loneliness, it is the two of you.”

  Owen’s gaze flashed to Boreas’ face. For a moment the older god appeared haggard, deep creases carved into his timeless countenance. It took the sharpest edges off Owen’s outrage.

  Now he understood why Boreas called him back from his long self-exile when John begged for assistance. Now Boreas’ care and interest made sense. It truly was atonement. Not just for Chione. But for himself, for his own role in Owen’s betrayal and subsequent long absence from the Realm of Gods. And he’d admitted wrongdoing. The major gods rarely deigned to do so.

  “Thank you for your honesty,” Owen managed.

  “It was long overdue. I want you to have this chance, Owen, which is why I’d like to give my brother a good thrashing right now.”

  Owen nodded once, let his black hair cover his eyes. The competitive posturing between the Anemoi often struck him as entertaining good sport, but not today. Not at his expense.

  “Go to her. Win her heart. I will help you as I can. But you must not delay.”

  “Yes,” he said, waiting. He could not turn his back on Boreas, or dismiss himself from the god’s presence.

  All at once, the wind and snow calmed. The sun-kissed sky returned, clear and bright. Boreas had sucked the energy out of Owen’s storm upon his silent departure.

  Owen paced the length of the stone walk, covered over again from the whirlwind he’d whipped up.

  Boreas’ revelations resurrected memories better left forgotten. Owen rolled his neck, seeking calm, wanting to return to the excitement he’d felt before over Megan. The golden curls, the pink cheeks, the uplifting sound of her too-rare laughter. He wanted to concentrate on her, think of her. Not the past. He’d wasted too much time wallowing there already.

  What should’ve been weeks of time courting Megan, winning her affection—earning it—was now four days. Four days.

  Disappointment and longing squeezed in Owen’s chest. Megan could make him happy. No, she did make him happy. Already, her companionship, her warmth and kindness, eased him. Her own pain called to the protector in him, gave him purpose—easing her. He could make her happy in return.

  But, unlike Megan, Owen had the advantage of time and forethought. John’s memories of her were now his own. In the days before he’d become corporeal, as he’d prepared the snow that made his presence here possible, he’d observed her, learned for himself what a beautiful, intriguing creature she was. Now, having met her, touched her, held her in his arms, he knew. He wanted her for her, not just for the possibility of happiness and companionship she’d represented as he’d stood before the panel of gods and agreed to help John Snow.

  Four days, then. There was still a chance. And that was more than he’d had in a very long time.

  Resolve grew in Owen’s gut. The need to see her, to be in her presence again, panged against his heart. He released a long, calming breath.

  With a wave of his hand, he swept the thin, trampled covering of snow from the stone walkway. The crystals swirled and shimmered in the morning sunlight. He was ready. He’d give her the world today, his world.

  Chapter Nine

  “What did you do?”

  Owen whirled at the sound of Megan’s voice. “Hey. Uh, I’m done.”

  “I see that.” She took slow, halting steps across the porch, down the steps. She tugged her zipper up in almost slow motion as she gaped at the sidewalk.

  He breathed in her vanilla scent as she scooted around him. He thought of ice cream and bit back a groan. The sun illuminated her golden waves, secured back from her face with a rectangular gold clip. Stray curls framed her face, blew across her cheeks. Her eyes were bright, skin still pinked from the heat of the shower. She could’ve been the famed Snow Maiden, brought to life once again. The stress of Boreas’ revelations ebbed in her presence.

  “But how did you get so much cleared already?”

  “Told you I liked to shovel.”

  “Uh huh.” She looked back and forth, once, twice, her eyes wide. “But, how did you get it so clear?”

  Damn. From steps to driveway, there wasn’t more than a dusting of snow left. Hadn’t given that enough thought. Clearly. He tugged a hand through his hair. “It’s all in the wrist.”

  She eyed him, her gaze skeptical and amused. “You’re so full of shit. You even did in front of the garage doors. How the hell long was I in the shower?”

  He leaned around her. Apparently, he’d put a little too much force into his command. “I, uh, I don’t know.” He kicked at the edged wall of snow along the sidewalk. A clump stuck to the toe of his boot.

  “Well, thank you.” The expression on her face flooded his chest with warmth. He adored her smiling. “Hey.” She stepped closer. “Your eyes.”

  He looked down and his hair fell over his forehead, covered one eye. “Oh. Yeah.” He wouldn’t say anything more. She’d put it together for herself in her own time. That was the most likely way to obtain her belief, acceptance.

  She brushed his hair back and studied him, wonder playing around her pink lips. “They’re different colors. I didn’t realize it ’til now.”

  The heat from her body radiated over him, she stood so close. Despite the gloves she wore, her touch blazed through his skin. He held himself still lest he reach out and collect her to him, like his body screamed for him to do.

  “One brown, one blue,” she mused. “So cool.”

  He remained still, not wanting to discourage her continued touch. So close. All he would have to do is lean down…

  All at once, she dropped her hand.

  Disappointment and need tore through him as she put a little distance between them. He turned his gaze away and looked out over the pristine landscape. “Beautiful country,” he murmured.

  “Mmm. Been coming up here since college. Actually met my husband at Wisp. The ski resort.” She hugged herself.

  His arms ached to embrace her, but he wanted her to share her story. Even though he knew a lot of it.

  Megan stared off into the distance. “He died. Two years ago.” Her gaze cut to him. “But then, you knew that, right?”

  Owen’s heart rate ticked up. He hesitated for only a moment, nodded.

  Her baby blues held him in place. “Did you know it was my fault?”

  The words struck him like a kick to the gut. Never. She could never be responsible for someone’s death. And John’s memories showed nothing of the sort. “No—”

  “Well, it was.” The iciness of her voice was so wrong, so unlike her.

  “Megan—”

  “It was Christmas night. I’d forgotten the eggnog. I acted like I wasn’t disappointed, but John could read me so well. So he ran to the store for me. Three blocks from our house, a drunk driver ran a red light and broadsided him. He never had a chance.” Her gaze swept back out over the snow. “He died, at the age of thirty-one. Because I wanted eggnog.” One tear stole down over her injured cheek.

  Between her words and her tears, Owen couldn’t hold back. Grabbing the sleeve of her jacket, he tugged her into his arms. She held herself rigid for a long moment, then her body melted against his chest. At first she restrained the tears, but they finally broke through, soaking his turtleneck and from there, through to his bare skin.

  He moaned and hugged her tighter, the life force of her tears jolting through him, seizing his heart, igniting a primal urge to protect her, defend her. Even from herself. “You lis
ten to me, Megan,” he said into her silky blonde waves, his voice gruff. “You wanting eggnog did not kill John.” She shook her head, but didn’t voice her protest. “No. John died because some other person made poor choices and demonstrated a lack of judgment. Got into a car he had no business driving in such an impaired state. That had nothing to do with you.”

  “He…wouldn’t have…been there…if I hadn’t asked him to go,” she wailed. Her hands tugged at his shirt.

  He sucked in a deep breath. “Trust me when I say this. Are you listening?”

  She nodded against him.

  “There is nothing, nothing that man wouldn’t have done for you. You couldn’t have stopped him from trying to make you happy. Am I right?”

  “Yes.”

  “He doesn’t blame you, Megan. He would never blame you.”

  Her shoulders shook within his arms’ embrace. Her arms went around his back, held tight. She literally clung to him. He would’ve gloried in the sensation if her anguish hadn’t been pouring into him through her tears.

  “Sshh, angel. I’ve got you.” He kissed her hair. His lips begged for more, for him to keep going, keep kissing, but he held back.

  “How…how do you know?”

  “Know what?”

  “That he doesn’t blame me. How can you know that?” She lifted her head and searched his eyes with her plaintive gaze.

  “I know things.”

  She closed her red-rimmed, watery eyes and shook her head. “Mutual friend.”

  “Mutual friend.” He offered a small smile when she peered up at him again.

  “Master of the vague.”

  “At your service.”

  She smiled, even as her breathing still hitched, and it felt like the most handsome reward.

  §

  “I’m sorry.” Megan halfheartedly wiped at the moisture and makeup on his white shirt.