by Donya Lynne
Panting through his nose, Trace’s eyes shot open and cast a yellow glow against her skin and the red-satin sheets, making them appear a deep shade of orange. His sight was hunter sharp. Was this normal?
Before he could conjure an answer, instinct took over. He growled and sank his fangs into her breast.
She gasped, spasmed, and the moment her blood touched his tongue, power surged down his arm. His hand clenched, and he drove his palm against her, curled his finger inside her, and felt power rocket from his palm. A split-second later, Cordray cried out and fell into ecstatic convulsions beneath him. Moisture flooded his palm, heated his skin, sent bolts of electricity through him. He ejaculated no more than a second later, spilling against her hip as he grunted and ground himself against her body.
For what felt like five minutes, wave after wave of orgasmic pleasure ebbed and flowed between them, sending them into shuddering aftershocks every few seconds. By the time Trace could actually move again to withdraw his fangs and his finger, the sheets were completely soiled. He had never come so hard or so much in his life. And from the slickness on his palm, neither had she.
“Fuck!” He lifted off of her. They were drenched in sweat. Cordray’s body practically glowed. No. It was glowing. A dim, pulsing light emanated from under her skin then began to fade.
She uttered one last gasp, turned amazed, infatuated eyes on him, and then slapped him across the face.
Starbursts erupted down his spine. “What the hell?” Not that he was complaining. She’d just caught him off guard.
She swallowed, breathed, and then smiled. “I just wanted to say thank you.”
Ignoring the mess he’d made on her, himself, and the bed, he snuggled closer. “And hitting me was your way of doing that?”
With a breathless nod, her gaze ranged up and down his body. “Slapping you was the first thing that came to mind.”
“Of course.” He grinned as their eyes met again. “But you should be more careful.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I like when you slap me.” They were practically nose to nose. “It turns me on.”
“I know it does.”
He raised one eyebrow. “Tease.”
“You’re amazing,” she said. “Fucking amazing.” Her head shook subtly from side to side as if in disbelief.
“Funny. I was just thinking the same thing about you. That was the hottest sex I’ve ever had.”
A devilish grin crossed her face, and a frisky twinkle lit in her eyes as she bit her bottom lip then said, “Can you imagine how hot that would have been if you’d actually been inside me?”
He could almost read her mind, and his own evil smile spread over his face. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
She grabbed his shoulders and pulled him on top of her then wrapped her hand around his still-hard cock. “You know I am.”
He felt the niggling sensation of her mind burrowing into his. He only smiled wider as she raised her hips and positioned the head of his cock at her silken entrance.
“We’re going to have to work on your communication skills, female.” He nudged forward an inch.
She moaned. “Shut up and fuck me, Trace. How’s that?”
Oh, God. Dirty talk. His cock hiccupped in approval. “Perfect.” He drove himself inside. “Now, keep talking, bitch.”
She grinned, showing her fangs. “Oh, you are in sooo much trouble.”
He shoved her legs farther apart with his knees, gripped her wrists, and slammed them against the mattress. “I certainly hope so.”
Chapter 34
Cordray stirred awake to the sensation of fingers caressing her face, from her temple, down her cheek, to her mouth. She sighed and burrowed closer to the solid, warm body she was tucked against. The thick arm wrapped around her coiled tighter, securing her inside its protective hold.
She blinked her eyes open to find Trace gazing at her from hooded eyes. Bedroom eyes. At once confident and seductive, like he was a male in total control. A male who knew what he was doing, even though he had admitted numerous times in the last few hours how inexperienced he was.
Then again, he was a strong, virile male. And he was her mate. Put all those qualities in a cauldron and stir, and abracadabra, you have one sexy-assed male on a fast-track learning curve.
“So, I wasn’t dreaming.” She swept her hand up his corded torso. “You really are here. This really is happening.”
“Yep.”
The sheets were draped haphazardly over their legs. She was surprised they were even still on the bed, given all she and Trace had done to one another since sequestering themselves in her bed hours ago.
“Did you sleep?” She stretched out alongside him. Her body ached in such a delicious way, especially between her legs.
“A little.”
“Mmm.” She snuggled against him. “What time is it?”
He lifted his head and looked over her at the clock on the nightstand. “Almost five thirty.” He settled back down beside her.
Almost sunrise.
Mya and Brenna would be in the kitchen soon, preparing breakfast for the kids.
She really should get up. Take a shower. Get dressed. Clean up the disaster in the hallway.
Instead, she pulled the blankets over them and tucked herself more securely against him, his warmth, his strength. He was like meth. The more she got of him, the more she wanted.
Maybe in a few days, the fascination would wear off, but right now, she wanted to wrap him around her like a straitjacket and never take him off.
His chest rose and fell evenly as his fingers absently caressed up and down her arm, as if he, too, were blessedly content.
“Tell me about Brak and your family,” she said softly. “What happened?”
The arm around her tensed, and his fingers stuttered over her elbow. Then he relaxed again. “Why don’t you just go inside my head and see for yourself?” There was no animosity in his voice. No resentment. It was a simple statement of fact, as if he’d accepted her abilities to dip into his thoughts and no longer wished to keep them from her.
She rolled to her stomach and pushed herself up on her elbows. “I’d rather you tell me. That way, I can hear your voice.” She smiled and briefly dipped her forehead against his shoulder. “I like your voice.”
But her request was about more than hearing his voice. She also wanted him to talk about what had happened, because talking was active. Allowing her to see inside his thoughts was passive. And what he needed was to actively engage with his past rather than continue to dismiss it. That was the only way he would ever truly come to terms with what had happened.
“You like my voice, huh?” He reached across his body and brushed his fingers down her hair.
“Yes.”
His eyes met hers and locked on, shining pure adoration upon her. But he said nothing further.
After several seconds, she shimmied closer. “Tell me, Trace. Tell me about them. Please.”
He blinked, his gaze falling to her mouth momentarily before he turned away and stared off into space. But his arm wound more securely around her as if she were a buoy he refused to let go of for fear of being swept into the current. While his thoughts drifted back in time, the rest of him remained grounded by her side.
With a sigh, he said, “I was twelve when my mother died.” His mouth curved into a wistful smile. “She was so beautiful.” He turned his head on the pillow so he faced her. “She had mocha-colored skin and green eyes.”
“Like yours.”
“Yes, like mine. My father has pale-green eyes, too, but mine are more like my mother’s.” He looked away again, his gaze taking on a faraway appearance as he connected once more with the past. “She was a voodoo priestess, but my father called her an exotic island woman. She was human and refused my father’s offer to change her into his davala. She said that her path was only meant to cross his, not run parallel with it for eternity. Of course, my father never stopped trying t
o change her, but she never relented. And he respected her decision, no matter how much he didn’t like it.”
“She sounds like a strong woman.”
He smiled wistfully. “She was.” After a brief pause, he continued. “She became pregnant with Brak and me during my father’s first calling. And while we were in her womb, she conjured magic to protect us.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “She gave Brak what she called the light, and she gave me the darkness. She never explained why. All she said was that Brak and I were two halves meant to balance each other, but it was clear Brak was the favored son. Both my parents treated him with so much love and affection. Me, on the other hand . . .?” Trace blinked several times and turned sharply away even as his arm tightened around her and pulled her closer. “Me they merely tolerated. I never received the attention Brak did. He was the good son. I was the anomaly.”
Cordray frowned. “But they loved you. Surely, they did.”
He expelled a burdensome breath. “In hindsight, I felt loved. But at the time, I was too young to recognize it. All I felt was distress. Like I was a scourge to the family. A disgrace. A freak.” He nodded and met her gaze again. His eyes glistened. “Most of the time, I felt like a freak. An outcast. Brak fit in with everyone, and all I daydreamed about most days was being able to fit in like he did. That the other kids would want to play with me the way they did him. But that never happened. I was teased and made fun of all the time. Not a day went by that I wasn’t reminded of how different I was from everyone else.
“I came to resent my mother for what she’d done to me. And I resented Brak, too. I resented his power. That he’d received the light instead of the darkness.”
He stopped as if gathering his thoughts. Cordray remained quiet, waiting for him to get to the rest of his story in his own time.
Trace dragged in a heavy inhale.
“My power started manifesting when I was nine or ten. Small stuff at first. Pebbles, paper, things like that. It scared me, but it also fascinated me, and for the first time, I saw a way I could retaliate against those who made fun of me. I was able to move things with my mind, especially when I got upset. I would get angry, and then pebbles would skitter across the ground, or the pages in a book would begin turning as if by a strong breeze. Before long, the pebbles became tiny projectiles, and the books slammed shut and flew across the room.
“My mother told me not to show my power in public. That doing so would be dangerous, and that I needed to be disciplined and work at keeping it under control. That if I didn’t work hard to keep my power under control, it would control me instead.” He let out a bitter huff. “But her warnings didn’t stop me. I was rebellious. I was angry that they didn’t seem to love me as much as they loved Brak, and I was angry at the kids who teased me. So I let my power out around the other kids. Just little things . . . like the pebbles and the books. Enough to scare them without making them realize I was responsible. Watching them freak out over ‘ghosts’ was so fun, though, so I didn’t see why I should try to rein in this magic Mother had given me.
“Then one day I was playing by myself by a pond when this group of kids came along. One of them, a boy named Mason, was my worst tormentor. He was a bully who took tremendous pleasure in making fun of me in front of the other kids. He began calling me names, taunting me.”
Cordray had seen this in his mind the other night. She knew what came next. Still, she remained silent, letting Trace get everything off his chest.
“I remember this odd sensation coming over me.” He frowned and used his free hand to make a fist. “Like I was being squeezed through a pipe. Like my muscles were being stretched to their limits. I’d never felt that before, and it terrified me. I began to panic. I struggled to breathe. I just wanted to get away from them. To get back to my mother so she could take away whatever was making me ill. I didn’t understand at the time that it was my power unleashing at full capacity. That the very thing she’d warned me about was happening.”
He paused and waved his free hand in the air over his stomach.
“I had this rock collection.” He glanced at her. “I still do, actually. It’s at my place, still in the leather pouch my father made for me.” His face twisted as painful memories clawed at him. “I had this favorite. It was a shimmering white color, like fogged glass, with shiny black flecks all through it. Null has one similar to it in his own collection.”
“I know the one you’re talking about,” she said. “I think it’s quartz.”
“Yeah, well, Mason picked up my favorite rock and threw it into the pond. The moment it hit the water, my right arm shot out”—he mimicked the motion, lifting his arm toward the ceiling—“and this blast of energy burst from my hand. It shook the ground like an earthquake, rattling the trees, and threw Mason and all the other kids away from me like ragdolls. Two were injured.”
He paused and met her eyes. “I was terrified. I bolted. Ran all the way home. But I didn’t tell anybody what had happened. Maybe if I had, things would have turned out differently, but I was too scared. I thought my family was already upset with me for all the other stuff that was going on around me, so I thought that if they learned about this, I’d be in grave trouble. I didn’t want to be punished, so I kept quiet.”
Cordray barely breathed, not wanting to disrupt him now that he was on a roll.
“A couple of nights later, I was out collecting herbs and roots for my mother’s tinctures when I smelled smoke coming from the direction of my home. I ran as fast as I could, hearing the shouts of the townspeople. By the time I reached our cabin, it was engulfed in flames.” Tears bloomed in his eyes. “My mother was being dragged by her hair toward a flaming pyre. All I could do was watch. I felt so helpless.”
For a long moment, he said nothing. He didn’t even breathe. Then he let go of her and sat up, burying his face in his hands, sobbing. She pushed herself up beside him and grabbed the throw blanket hanging off the corner of the bed. Wrapping it around him, she straddled his lap and pulled him into her arms. Right now, Trace was back inside his twelve-year-old mind, living those agonizing memories she’d seen thrash through his thoughts in Micah’s dungeon. He needed to feel safe. Loved. Accepted.
“It’s not your fault.” She kissed his forehead.
“You don’t understand.” He buried his face against her breast, his arms holding her as if letting go would kill him. “I was careless. I never listened and didn’t try to control my power the way she told me to. If I had, I might not have lost control of it that day, and if I hadn’t lost control, the town wouldn’t have come for her—for us. If I’d told my mother what I’d done, we could have fled before they came.”
He turned his face toward hers. Tears streamed his cheeks. “I watched them tie her to a cross and toss her onto that pyre like she was nothing more than kindling. I heard her screams as she burned to death. I heard them calling her a demon. They were calling me that. And all I could do was stand there. And then . . .” He burrowed against her body like he could hide there forever. “I killed them. My power rose in a fury, and I killed those who were torturing her before I fled from the others, terrified of what I’d done and what I’d seen.”
She caressed the back of his head, soothing him as best as she could.
“If you ask me,” she said a few seconds later, keeping her voice soft, “they deserved it for what they did to your mother. To your entire family.” She placed her hand under his chin and coaxed him to look at her. “For what they did to you.”
For a prolonged, meaningful moment, she held his gaze.
He blinked and nodded curtly as more tears fell from his chin. Then he leaned forward and rested his forehead between her breasts, head bowed. “Maybe, but I was so ashamed of what I’d done.” He paused. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. “That’s why I chew on matchsticks. It reminds me of how my mother died. Of how dangerous fire is. Of how I always need to remain vigilant and not let my power take control of me like that again.”
&nb
sp; She pressed her cheek against the top of his head and hugged him close.
“I was so scared that night,” he said. “I ran away as fast as my legs could carry me, until my legs gave out, afraid the others would catch me and kill me, too.” His hold on her strengthened. “My mother was dead. I thought my father and Brak were, too. They’d been inside the house. No way could they have survived that fire.”
“But they did,” she said.
He nodded against her chest. “I had hoped they had, since I could still feel Brak’s spirit, but I was never completely sure. And then I found my father in Bishop’s lab . . . and then Brak came to me in the king’s dungeon. Then it became real. They were still alive. But how could I face them after what I’d done? I couldn’t.” He pulled away and looked into her eyes. “That’s why I haven’t gone to see them. I don’t know if I can face the guilt and shame that it was my actions that ultimately killed her. What if they haven’t forgiven me?”
Cordray cupped his cheek. “First of all, your actions did not kill her. The actions of the townspeople did. Secondly, there’s nothing to forgive, and even if there were, you’re assuming your father and brother are so coldhearted that they would shun their own flesh and blood rather than offer forgiveness.” She placed her hand on his cheek. “If they have even an inkling of compassion, they wouldn’t want you to suffer like this. The three of you need to come together if for no other reason than to properly mourn your mother and put her to rest. Because I can’t imagine her spirit is resting knowing that those she loved most—and she did love you, Trace—are suffering and haven’t spoken to one another face to face since the day she died.”
A week ago, Trace would have responded to her outpouring of concern with aggression. He would have told her to mind her own business, and he would have done so with language colorful enough to make a sailor take notes. But things were different now.
“I love you.” Even though he whispered his declaration, his voice rang strong and clear.
And those three little words, said with raw sincerity and complete devotion, were a testament to just how different things between them had become in the past six hours.