by Briar, Robin
Heck, and that’s to say nothing of the times I piggybacked on what they were feeling in the same situations. Granted, that doesn’t happen quite so often as it does with me, but still, of all the people in this world who should be cool with Mason and Sylvia sharing a bond, I should be one of them.
To make the loss feel even worse, I’m also qualified to be with Mason. I actually like his feral aspect, but it’s more than that. I have the magic to endure Mason in his bestial form. The times when he becomes unhinged and simply must have me.
Like he did in the kitchen, when the painting of Artemis overwhelmed him and his wolf boiled to the surface. Oh, to be the object of that desire again! It’s such an ache now. A void that I can’t imagine being filled by anybody else.
There I go again, my lack of imagination. Yet I don’t want to imagine anybody else. I don’t want to use my imagination at all. I want to be with Mason. In the flesh and blood and fur and claw.
It’s not just that I’m qualified to be with a shifter, I’m uniquely matched for Mason. That’s why I’m in such a funk. If it were any other guy, some random man whose libido I was draining solely to fill up the quicksilver pool, I wouldn’t care who was listening or watching, but it’s not any other guy. It’s Mason.
I’ve never met anybody like him. He speaks my language even when we aren’t using words. He knows what it means to lose yourself in a person like I do in my paintings, like I did with him. He knows what it means to lose himself in the craft as well, when he painted me the way he did. His fingers all over my body.
I can’t help it. Twin sister or not, it bothers me that another woman feels what Mason does before I do. I want him all to myself, but that also makes me a horrible person, because I share my sexy times with Candice and Saffron.
Not just that, but I did it without considering how Mason would feel if he knew my coven was there, connected to how he makes me feel through the pool. I’m greedy and selfish and I didn’t go after him when I should have. He walked out of here, paused at the door, clearly struggling, and looked back at me.
“Are you sure this is what you want?” he asked, the pendant keeping him calm.
“I’m not sure of anything right now,” I told him stoically, no inflection in my voice.
Mason didn’t linger after that. He stepped outside and closed the door behind him. Not with a slam, not even pulling it closed loudly. He simply shut the door and left.
I’m in a bad way, and there’s no denying it. The parents who pick up their children at work can see it in my face. The children can see it most of all. How many times have I been asked Are you okay, Ms. Aberdeen? during the past week? I’ve lost count.
I’m sure it will reach Sylvia soon, if it hasn’t already. I’m really not looking forward to seeing her again. Mercifully, she hasn’t come by the studio all week. Neither has Piper. Maybe they’re out of town. It’s not unusual for her to go on trips without saying anything.
I start working on The Vision of Endymion to distract myself. Not just at work, but at home too. The painting travels me with everywhere I go. I can’t stop working on it. I think it’s the only thing keeping me sane right now, knowing that it’s there waiting for me. Nothing else matters.
I always start exactly where I left off. All the time in between has a way of disappearing ; any moment that comes between me and the time I spend working on Mason’s favorite painting is a blur.
I know what I’m doing. I knew the moment I started. I’m using this painting to keep Mason in my life, to keep him alive in my heart. The painting is a bridge between me and wherever he is now. I was going to recreate this painting for the wrong reason at first. I know that now. Not anymore. Now I’m working on the painting for the right reason. At least, it feels that way.
I know it’s the right reason, because I’m not tricking Mason anymore. I’m not influencing him with an image that I know he finds meaningful. I know this, because he’s not here to see it. How can there can be guile when the subject isn’t here to manipulate? There’s just me and the painting he loves.
If this is all I have left of Mason, then I will see it through to completion. I will make it perfect. Nothing less than perfection will do. I’ve already gone through several canvases in the past week. The others were false starts. Poor imitations of the original.
The smallest mistake or errant brush stroke is enough to make me start over. I’m moving through layers of paint in my mind. Painting The Vision of Endymion exactly as Sir Edward Poynter would have done it. The same order of details. The same discovery of color. It has be identical.
The trouble is, I’m not getting much sleep and I’m not eating. I don’t care. I’m obsessed now. I can feel my mind unraveling a little more each day. What’s worse? I let it. The painting is all that matters. I am merely the conduit through which it will emerge on the canvas.
That’s when I trip across a thought. A ludicrous one at first, but I nurture it. Turn it into a conviction. I’ve grown quite attached to that thought now, despite how ridiculous it sounds.
If I can perfectly recreate this painting for Mason, he will come back to me. It will summon him to my door and we can be together again.
My mind passes into a fugue after that. I wake up and I’m already standing in front of the canvas, painting in my sleep. It’s getting harder to tell the difference between my waking life and my sleeping world. That’s not good either. I should be looking after my health.
Hang my health! There’s no time for that. Maybe later, when I’m done.
I have one purpose, to let Mason know that there isn’t anything we can’t work out together. The painting will do that for me. It will call out to him, wherever he may be. All he has to do is see it eventually. All he has to do is come back here and glance at the finished product for a second.
That’s when the dream washes over me. At least, I think it’s a dream. I must have passed out again.
In the dream, I can feel the wind rushing against my face. I’m floating above the ground. Not quite flying, but still in motion. Mason’s silver pendant is around my neck, which means he isn’t wearing it. My hands are clenched in fur. I’m holding on to something big and musky.
There’s another smell. Grass and trees. The sound of a river burbling over rocks. Shouldn’t there by huckleberries nearby? I’m at the embankment where Mason and I first made love. How did I get here?
It’s dark, late at night, but pleasant outside. I can’t feel the wind anymore. I’m sitting in the grass, propped up against a tree. When did that happen? I must be waking up and falling asleep again. That’s when I see him. Mason.
He’s on the other side of the river, but it’s not Mason the man, nor Mason the half-man, half-wolf. It’s Mason the wolf. Larger than I’ve ever seen him. Massive paws the size of my head. Legs rippling with muscle. Black ticked fur.
Still, I’d recognize him anywhere. I know those warm brown eyes too well, even at this distance. The way they look at me.
Mason leaps over the river in a single bound. He’s been hunting. I can tell because there’s a rabbit in his mouth. He pads up to me and drops the bloody carcass at my feet. I smile at him, the offer. He’s trying to feed me, which is sweet. I reach out for his face. Stroke the side of his enormous muzzle.
“Thank you, kind wolf, but I don’t have the strength to eat your gift.”
The wolf tilts his head at me, trying to figure out what I’m saying.
Some of it must sink in, because he picks up the rabbit and lopes away. I lie down, or slump down. I can’t tell which. I close my eyes for just a moment and lose track of time. The stars move above me. The full moon charts across the sky.
Huckleberries wake me up. I can smell them. I open my eyes, and Mason is there again. Not Mason the wolf. Nor mason the half-wolf, half-man. It’s Mason the man. Not a stitch of clothing on him. He’s trying to feed me huckleberries. I accept. They taste so good.
Mason feeds me every last huckleberry in his hand, one by one, until they are all gone
. That’s when he climbs down into the river and returns with water cupped in his hands. I drink and lick the moisture from his palms until they’re dry. It’s so delicious. He goes back for more.
I watch his slender, well-muscled body make the journey over and over again. He climbs back up using only his legs, nimble on his bare feet. I’m sure he’s had a lot of practice.
When Mason returns for a fifth trip, I notice his manhood swinging between his legs. That’s when I know I’m not dreaming anymore. I am exactly where I am.
It’s early in the morning. The sun is starting to come up. Mason’s silver pendant is around my neck. He’s about to head back to the river for another handful of water when I reach out for him weakly, stopping him.
“Don’t go.”
Mason looks back at me, making eye contact. His entire body is alert, poised. He looks into my eyes and can see that I’m lucid now. Sated with berries and water.
He turns and sits cross-legged across from me, attentive. I can feel the nourishment he brought me slowly taking effect. I’m already starting to feel stronger. I cup the side of his face like I did with his snout.
“You came back.”
“I did.”
“I’m glad.”
“That makes both of us.”
We look at each other without saying another word. There’s so much concern in his face. Mason is paying attention to my every move, vigilant. I can see his eyes dart across my face. Reading the changes in my expression.
“Thanks for the food.”
“You needed it.”
I look around at our surroundings. It’s no less beautiful here among the trees than I remember. Than I painted.
“What made you bring me here?”
Mason shakes his head. “To be honest, it wasn’t a conscious choice.”
“No? What was it, then?” I ask with a pleasant lilt of curiosity.
Mason looks out across the river and narrows his eyes.
“It was all I could do to resist changing last night, even with the pendant. The enchantment won’t let me change, but it’s painful if I don’t, especially during a full moon. The need to change is so powerful. I couldn’t think straight. That’s when I stumbled up to your door.”
“You came to my apartment? I don’t remember that.”
“I knocked, urgently, but you didn’t answer. I could smell you inside. I could hear you breathing as well, but it was ragged. Shallow. I may have broken your door to get inside.”
“May have?”
“Okay, I splintered both doors. The lower one and your loft entranceway.”
“I forgive you,” I say with a sarcastic grin, thinking it will make him smile. It doesn’t. He continues in the same even tone of voice.
“You were so weak when I found you, and there was nothing to eat in your place. Well, nothing edible, at any rate. Then I remembered what you said. That I didn’t hurt you when I half-shifted in the kitchen. That there was some part of me which held back.”
I blink in disbelief at what I’m hearing. I lied to Mason about that part of the story. The half-wolf didn’t hold back. If I hadn’t protected myself with a spell, Mason would have torn me to shreds.
“I was in so much pain already,” Mason continues, “trying to resist the change, but I couldn’t leave you like that. So I placed my pendant around your neck. You seemed to understand what I was doing, but you weren’t really conscious. Still, you held on to my back, even as I changed beneath you. That was the last thing I remember… until the sun came up and I found myself at your feet.”
I place a hand over my mouth as the realization sinks in. It wasn’t a dream.
“I didn’t bring you here, Jess,” Mason continues. “The wolf did.”
3. Wolf over My Threshold
Mason looks ashamed. He considers giving in to the wolf a failure on his part.
“I’m just glad you’re here,” I tell him.
“To be honest, it didn’t feel like much of a choice. I had to see you. Despite what you said.”
I reach forward and hold his head between my hands.
“Forget what I said. So what if your twin sister can feel what you feel. It’s no weirder than anything else in my life.”
He shakes his head in my hands.
“No, it isn’t. I understand, Jess. I get it. I’d be a hypocrite if I didn’t. I want you all to myself as well. How can I expect you to be okay with my bond to Sylvia, knowing that I’d be bothered by it if our situations were reversed?”
Okay, now I really feel like a heel. If Mason only knew the truth about me and my mentors. Now would be the time to tell him. I want to. I’m on the verge of spilling all my secrets, what I did, what I am. That I’m one of three witches in a coven. That I’ve shared our experiences with two other women through the connection we share.
I’m about to tell him everything, but then I bite my tongue. I can’t. It’s not just about me. I swore a pact of secrecy and I can’t betray that trust, not after all this time, simply to put Mason at ease.
So I kiss him instead.
I don’t have much strength after how badly I treated myself, but I kiss him with all the vitality he’s given me. I want to balm the wound in his heart. The emotional dagger I buried there. Even now Mason is trying to see things from my perspective, by putting his feet in my shoes. He’s trying to sympathize with me when I’m the villain here. A hypocrite who has to remain silent about her hypocrisy.
If only you knew, Mason! How differently you might feel about me then, about us. You came back to me. You saved me from myself, from wasting away. How can I not kiss you now? You are fighting for us because I was too self-absorbed before. I let you walk away like a fool. I can’t kiss you enough right now. It’s everything I can do to show you that I was wrong.
Mason wraps his thickly muscled arms around me and lifts me to my knees. I can feel the strength in my limbs returning, but he gathers me up and returns my kisses. His hands tighten on my body, grip me like he doesn’t want to let go. I don’t want them to let go.
I’m weak, but I can do this. No matter how tired I am, there is an ember of stamina in me that wants him inside of me. It’s not even hard to find. I drink deeply from his lips and fan that spark alive. It returns my investment. The warmth spreads quickly through my limbs. My fingers dig into his shoulder, anchoring themselves there.
I break from the kiss and adjust myself to straddle his lap. Then I look down at Mason from my perch.
I want him to see the desire I’m feeling for him in my eyes. I need him to know that I don’t care what his twin sister feels, not if it means we can be together. Not if it means that he will be there for me like I will be there for him.
That’s the deal. The agreement I strike with myself, even if he has no idea. Mason won’t know that I occasionally share our times together with my coven. He will, however, know that I’ve come to terms with sharing our time together with his twin.
If the past few days have shown me anything, it’s that I’d rather be with Mason than not with Mason. I’ll make it work.
I’m still wearing his shirt and a stretchy pair of capri shorts, but no bra or shoes. I’ve been barefoot all night.
“One of us is overdressed,” I tell him.
My shirt is the first article of clothing to go. I pull it off over my head. Mason’s eyes dance in that excited way men can’t help, no matter how hard they want to stay calm. He tries and fails. I like the transparency of his lust.
“Jess, nothing has changed. Are you sure? With my pendant off…”
“I’m sure.”
If Mason ever finds out about my coven, maybe my acceptance of his connection to Sylvia will earn me some good faith regarding that secret. For now, I need to forget all about his twin. It’s just Mason and I in our favorite place.
I stand up in front of him. My legs are shaky, but the huckleberries and handfuls of water helped tremendously. I don’t feel quite so hollow anymore.
“I’m warning y
ou. You’re not getting me at my best.”
Mason raises an eyebrow at me. “You’re always at your best to me.”
I narrow my eyes at Mason and smirk at him with my lips pressed together.
“Those are some thick rose-colored glasses you got there.”
I grab one of his broad shoulders to steady myself and push the stretchy shorts down to my ankles, balancing on one foot and then the other. I bend my lower leg up to pull them off completely.
My head swims at the lopsided gesture, but I manage to avoid falling over, which is a small miracle in itself. I’m not sure how to get through this yet, but where there’s a will, there’s a way. It’s certainly not for lack of arousal. Still, I ask for clemency.
“Will I be getting Mason the man or Mason the wolf?”
“There’s always a little of both, but I’ll make sure the wolf takes his lead from me.”
“You’ll hear no complaint from me.”
My hipbones are sticking out a little more than they normally do. I really starved myself to finish that painting. I cover them self-consciously, but Mason can tell why I place my hands there and looks up at me admiringly.
He gently lifts my hands away and kisses the skin inside the slope of my hipbones. My nethers quiver as he tickles me with his lips.
“My bones,” he says.
I want him so badly now. The energy I was worried about not having surges through my body. Mason grabs both sides of my hips, pulls me forward, and buries his face between my legs. His tongue curls up between my lips, spreading them open with one forceful flick after another. I gasp at the cadence of his mouth.
Mason brings his hands up the inside my leg, brushing the skin ever so lightly, and then moves his lips to my belly. He dots me with kisses as his thumb draws across my breach. The engorged nub is easy to find, and he strokes me steadily. Unhurried.
His fingers are rhythmic. Mason slides his other hand up the side of my body until he finds a breast. He cups it in one hand and massages the nipple between two fingers. I gasp at the sensation as the ability to think clearly slips away from me. Mason pinches the nipple and I squeal. The momentary pain sharpens my thoughts. I’m back.