Bound Guardian Angel

by Donya Lynne

  “Nothing’s wrong with you,” Sam said. “He just wasn’t the right man for you.”

  “Tell that to my body.” She swallowed past the lump in her throat. “Something backfired in me that night, and I’ve never recovered.”

  Sam tilted her head and frowned. “Are you talking about losing your sense of touch?”

  Cordray swiped at the traitorous tears that wouldn’t stop leaking from her eyes. “He tried to comfort me. Tried to help me. But when he touched me, what felt like fire blasted through my body. The pain was indescribable. When I fell to the ground, screaming in agony, he tried to help me up. But as he gripped my arms, he only made the pain worse.

  “I pushed him away, screaming at him not to touch me. ‘Don’t ever touch me again,’ I said. Then I said—and I still remember the words as clearly as if they’re seared into my brain—‘You’ve killed me. I’m dead now. Dead! You’re dead to me!’”

  Sam gasped.

  Cordray pressed on. “He reared away from me. Pale. So pale. Terrified. Of me or for me, I don’t know, but it didn’t matter. The look on his face said it all. We were over, and he didn’t know me, anymore. Seemingly overnight, we’d gone from being as close as two people could be to being total strangers.” She let out a shaky sigh. “He apologized again, told me I’d never see him again, and left.

  “I remained curled on the ground, knees to my chest, crying until I didn’t think I could cry anymore. He had someone warm to return to. He had another’s arms to console and comfort him, another’s lips to kiss away his pain. I had nothing and no one. After years thinking I’d found the male I would spend the rest of my life with, he was lost to another, and I was all alone.”

  She sat quietly for a minute. Then she leaned forward, grabbed the bottle, and filled her glass to the brim before guzzling half of it down in one swallow.

  “Hours later, I finally pushed myself up and headed back home. But as I trudged numbly along the path, I realized I couldn’t feel the dewy, damp undergrowth beneath my slippers. Or the coldness of the cobbled path that led from the woods to the stable gate.

  “Within hours, Gideon and his mate were gone, but so was my sense of touch. I couldn’t feel anything. Nothing at all.”

  Silence stretched between her and Sam. Recalling her past had felt both like a purge and a reliving of events, leaving her mentally worn and bone weary.

  “Years later, I heard that Gideon’s mate and his young son were killed. I never learned what happened to Gideon, though. He disappeared, lost to his suffering, I’m sure. I don’t envy him that. That’s got to be a worse hell—or at least an equal one—than what I’ve gone through.”

  “But it doesn’t mean you’ve been hurt any less,” Sam said, her voice maternal.

  “But it doesn’t take away the hurt, either.” She downed another swallow of whiskey. “But all this time, I’ve felt nothing. Nothing at all.” Her eyes met Sam’s. “Until now. Until Trace.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Cordray chugged the remaining Jack in one swallow then clunked her glass on the table.

  “I can feel him, Sam. He touches me, and I feel it. Everywhere, I feel it. What does that mean?” Her head buzzed thickly.

  “I can tell you what I think it means, but I’m not sure you want to hear it.”

  She thought back to what she had said to Gideon the last time she saw him. That he had killed her. That she was dead without him.

  She hadn’t actually died, but in a manner of speaking, she had. Her desire had died. Her ability to feel had died. Her emotions and nervous system had died, making her an automaton. An unfeeling ghost.

  Until now.

  The more time she spent around Trace, the more her sense of touch revived, along with her emotions. He was pulling her back to the living. In his own way, he was resuscitating her. Resurrecting her heart. Isn’t that what she’d thought a couple of days ago?

  Earlier tonight, she’d wanted to be where Null was, pressed against Trace’s body, her cheek against his chest, his hands rubbing her back, his warmth pouring into her. Not since Gideon had desire so strong commanded her thoughts.

  I don’t hate you, Trace. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  And then what she’d wanted actually happened. Trace had held her and pressed all that heat against her body. He’d kissed her. And it had felt so good. So incredibly perfect.

  But then she had run away. As she had run from the cottage in the woods, so she had run from Trace. All because she feared he would do the same thing to her as Gideon had.

  Even so, she couldn’t resist his magnetism. Even now, she could barely keep herself from jumping on her Ducati and racing back to Asylum so she could see him, touch him, and be touched by him. To hear his voice and watch him while he slept. To share her dreams with him and awaken with him between her legs again, wanton, hungry, aching with need. To drink from him as he drank from her. To spend forever with.

  Forever.

  Had she really just thought that? Yes, she had. She wanted forever. With him. With Trace.

  “Oh, God.” She dropped her face into her palms.

  “What? What’s wrong?” The cushions rustled as Sam scooted forward.

  She peeled her hands away and turned beseeching eyes on Sam. “You’re right.”

  “What do you mean, I’m right? Right about what?”

  This couldn’t be happening. Please don’t let this be happening.

  “I’m in love with him. I’ve fallen in love with Trace.”

  Chapter 21

  At half past five in the morning, Micah entered the house through the garage and stuffed his keys in his front pocket.

  And immediately pulled up.

  What the fuck?

  The air smelled like the fresh scent of Jack Daniels-infused vomit.

  And Cordray.

  Now there was a fragrance combination Glade should definitely look into. Not.

  Just . . . blech.

  He followed the wet, gagging sound of someone barfing and found Sam holding the hand-painted, metal waste can from the guest bathroom under Cordray’s head.

  Damn. He liked that trash can. What a waste of a fabulous floral paint job.

  The offending empty Jack Daniels bottle sat on the coffee table.

  “What’s it doing here?” He dropped his duffel on the floor.

  Sam gave him a scornful over-the-shoulder look. “Not now, Micah.”

  Cordray stopped puking long enough to say, “It’s puking its guts out, asshole.” To Sam, she said, “And here I thought your mate was the observant one.”

  He rounded the couch and picked up the bottle as Cordray retched again.

  “Ol’ Jack deserves better than this.” He spun the empty bottle on his palm then caught it by the neck.

  “Micah . . .” Sam’s tone held an unspoken warning to be nice, something he emphatically didn’t want to be to the female currently redecorating the inside of a perfectly good trash can.

  Cordray dry-heaved so violently she fell to her knees and thrust her head deeper into the can. “Jesus!” She gagged again. “Fuck me, but this fucking sucks.”

  Micah almost laughed. Seeing Cordray so miserable was the best thing that had happened to him all week. “Look at the bright side. You’re getting a week’s worth of ab workouts in two minutes.”

  Sam scowled at him.

  “Fuck your bright side.” Cordray flipped him off then heaved again.

  Micah struggled not to chuckle. He really wanted to tell her she’d gotten what she deserved.

  “Jesus,” Cordray said, finally sitting back. Her face was covered with a sheen of sweat and was the color of dried concrete. “I can’t feel when a bullet blasts through my shoulder, but I can feel this? How’s that for irony?”

  Was she talking to him, herself, or the great and powerful Oz?

  “Excuse me?” What the hell did she mean, she couldn’t feel a bullet?

  She regarded him as if contemplating whether or not to explain he
rself. “Nothing. Never mind.”

  “Fine, whatever.” He went to the kitchen sink, rinsed the bottle, then tossed it in the recycling bin.

  Sam steamrolled into the kitchen behind him and slugged his shoulder.

  “Ow.” He rubbed his arm.

  “You and I need to talk.” She bobbed her head toward the back hallway.

  Was she pissed at him? When had she become chummy enough with Satan’s mistress to get all bent at him rather than her? Oh, that’s right. Two nights ago. If only he could forget.

  Once they were out of earshot, Sam spun around and shoved him hard enough to hurt. “Stop giving Cordray shit.”

  “What the hell? You know I don’t like her.”

  “Not everything is about you, Micah.”

  “I don’t like coming home to find her here. Throwing up our last bottle of Jack Daniels, no less. Why the hell is she here, anyway? Shouldn’t she be lording over Trace? She barged in here for him the other night demanding we turn him over, and now that we have, she’s back here again? What does she want this time? To borrow a cup of sugar?”

  “Micah—”

  “Jesus, I just want her out of our lives.”

  “Micah—”

  “Can’t she find someone else to torture?”

  “MICAH!”

  “What?”

  “She’s in love with him!”

  The brakes engaged in his brain, and for a very long moment, his feet cemented themselves to the floor.

  “What? What did you say?” Surely she didn’t mean Cordray and Trace. No way. That was just absurd. This took the whole k-i-s-s-i-n-g song Sam teased him with the other day to a whole other level he’d never seen coming.

  Sam sighed and took a step closer. “You heard me. Cordray is in love with Trace. Our Trace. She loves him.”

  He cringed. “Stop saying that.” He glanced behind him as if he could go back to the kitchen, hit replay, and create a different outcome to this conversation. Then he turned back around and searched Sam’s face, as well as her mind. “Does he . . .? Does Trace . . .?” He couldn’t even finish that sentence for all the ramifications it held.

  Sam finished for him. “Love her?”

  A chill ran down his back, and he swallowed without nodding. But he could tell Sam knew she’d hit the monkey with the banana.

  Sam’s eyebrows rose, creating cute wrinkles in her forehead. “If you want to know what I think—”

  “I’m not sure I do.”

  She crossed her arms and tilted her head. “Well, I’m going to tell you anyway, Mr. Grumpy. I personally think Trace has mated her and just doesn’t know it, yet.”

  Micah sighed and closed his eyes. There went the last of his good mood. Just—poof!—right out the door.

  “Now I think I’m going to be sick.”

  Sam smacked his shoulder again. “Would you grow up for five seconds and help me figure out how we’re going to get those two to see what’s going on between them?”

  “I don’t want them to see what’s going on between them.”

  Sam huffed and adjusted her crossed arms as she cocked her head in a show of irritation.

  “Fine,” he surrendered, jacking his hands up on his hips. “What do you want me to do?”

  He could think of about a hundred other things he’d rather be doing right now than discussing Trace and Cordray’s romantic status. Furthermore, if Trace had mated that bitch, what would it mean for him and Sam? Would Trace up and leave?

  He couldn’t deny his mate anything she set her sights on, though. And right now it looked like Sam had taken the coupling of his dearest friend and his greatest nemesis as her latest project. Until he got on board, Sam would make his life hell.

  Sam brushed her palm up and down his arm. “Why don’t you just . . . oh, I don’t know . . . not interfere for once.” She took his hand. “Do you think you can do that?”

  He scowled, not liking the idea of standing by while Trace maybe, possibly, probably was moving to the dark side of the Force. He felt he needed to initiate a rescue mission and fight for Trace’s soul.

  Sam cocked her head to the side when he didn’t answer. “Micah, we talked about this the other night. I thought you had already accepted this was a possibility.”

  Pulling pigtails.

  That’s how Sam had described it.

  “Yeah, well, it was a possibility I’d hoped wouldn’t come true.”

  “Then you weren’t being realistic.”

  He nodded over his shoulder toward the living room. “I don’t like her.”

  Sam let go of his hand and crossed her arms again. “Then I guess it’s a good thing you’re not the one she’s in love with.”

  He actually cringed at the mental image. “But—”

  “This isn’t about you, Micah. This is about Trace. What’s best for Trace. What Trace wants, not you. You’re his best friend. Don’t you want him to be happy?”

  “How is Cordray going to make him happy? She’s absolutely all wrong for him.”

  If only he could wave a magic wand and make all this nonsense go away.

  Sam shifted her weight, the angle of her head deepening as her left eyebrow arched impatiently.

  “That’s not for you to decide, Micah. She might be exactly what he needs. Because let’s face it, Trace isn’t your typical male. He needs an atypical female. And how much more atypical can you get than Cordray?” She swung one arm in the direction of the living room. “If she’s not the perfect match for Trace, then I don’t know who is.” She lowered her arm. “And, Jesus Christ, Micah! You don’t need to be such a control freak about everything. Sometimes you just need to let go, sit back, and let nature take its course.”

  He sighed and took a step closer, resting his hands on her hips.

  She recrossed her arms and angrily averted her gaze, chin high.

  Sam. His little spitfire. It was why he’d fallen in love with her. Why his body had chosen her as his mate. Because few people, male or female, challenged him the way she did. Those who did normally felt his wrath. When she did it, it actually turned him on.

  Like now.

  “Are you finished?” he said.

  Her gaze lanced his. “Are you?”

  He sighed and pulled her closer. “Yes, dear. I’m finished. Just tell me what you’d like me to do.”

  “That’s just it,” she said. “I don’t want you to do anything. Just let them figure this out on their own.” She uncrossed her arms and played her fingers over the front of his shirt. “You meddle too much in other people’s relationships, baby.”

  “Well, if I didn’t, they’d never mate.”

  She offered him a crooked smile. “You don’t know that.”

  He lifted his gaze to the ceiling. “Let’s see, there’s Sev and Ari, Io and Miriam . . .” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Malek and Gina.” He met her gaze again. “If I hadn’t gotten involved, Sev, Io, and Malek would probably be dead right now. And that’s just since New Year’s.”

  She patted his chest with her palms. “True, but Trace isn’t in any danger. Let him figure this one out on his own.”

  “And what am I supposed to do in the meantime?”

  Her grin turned into a playful smirk, and she wound her forearms around his neck. “Oh, I’m sure I can keep you busy.” The way her gaze fell seductively to his mouth and her fingertips brushed the back of his neck gave him a clear idea of exactly how she planned to keep him busy.

  “Now you’re talking my language, female.” He leaned in for a taste of her lips then bobbed his head in the direction of the living room. “Let’s get her cleaned up and out the door, and then you and I can share some quality time downstairs.”

  She shook her head and rolled her eyes, biting back a grin. “Did you see the shape she was in? She can’t go anywhere.”

  “She’ll be fine.”

  “Uh, no. I may be in the land of the immortals here, but I’m pretty sure it’s still not safe to drink and drive.”


  He could already see in her thoughts what was coming next.

  “No,” he said. “Absolutely not.”

  She gaped at him. “Micah, she can’t leave when she’s that drunk.” She pointed toward the living room.

  “So, you want her to stay here?”

  “Of course. Isn’t that the polite thing to do?”

  When it came to Cordray, polite wasn’t a word that came to mind.

  “Micah, either she stays and sleeps this off or you’re sleeping alone today.”

  “You’re threatening to withhold sex to get your way?” Damn, but Sam knew how to negotiate.

  “Whatever it takes,” she said. “I learned to fight dirty from the best.”

  “Me?”

  “Bingo.”

  “Fine. She can stay upstairs in one of the guest rooms. With a huge trash can beside the bed. I’m not having her ruin the carpet.”

  Sam let out an exasperated laugh as she began to lead him back through the kitchen. “She’s not going to throw up everywhere. She’s—” She pulled up and let out a breathy laugh.

  “What?” He followed her gaze toward the living room.

  Only to find Cordray passed out cold. She was facedown on the couch. One tattooed arm draped down to the floor, and one leg hung halfway off the cushions. Her long hair dangled in stringy ropes and haphazard braids over her face.

  Sam nudged him toward the fridge. “Grab a bottle of water.”

  “Why?” He yanked open the refrigerator door. “Are you going to throw it on her?”

  She rolled her eyes and quietly opened the cabinet. “No, I’m not going to throw it on her.” She huffed and shook her head as she pulled the bottle of aspirin from the top shelf then reached for the water. “I’m making a care package.”

  He slapped the bottle in her palm and grinned. “I like my idea better.”