Tormented by Darkness

by Claire Ashgrove

  Rhiannon slipped quietly outside and leaned on the railing as well. She stared up at the twinkling stars overhead. “My mom died when I was five.” She let the statement hang between them as she took another drink, then set her glass on the thick wood. “I don’t really remember her, but I know how loss feels.”

  In the corner of her peripheral vision, Mick’s posture relaxed. He finished off his drink, set the glass aside, then rested his forearms on the railing and leaned his weight into them. Rhiannon’s gaze traced the bright stars of the Summer Triangle. It lingered on Cygnus. In over two thousand years of existence, she had never told a mortal what she was about to reveal to Mick. But the need to connect with him, to express she understood his silent grief, drove deep. She swallowed, choosing her words carefully.

  “She sent me away when I was born, to protect me from my father. My siblings and I were raised by a friend of the family. But my oldest brother, Cian, told me what Mother looked like. What her voice sounded like. How she’d comb her hair each night before she went to bed. And I wanted that. I wanted those memories. My father ripped them out of my hands.” She tightened one hand on the railing as old longing stirred. “He took my mother from me.”

  Without looking at Mick, Rhiannon laid her hand over his corded forearm. “The ache’s still there. Not as sharp as it was in childhood, but it’s there. I don’t think it will ever go away, and I still hate my father as much as I always have, but that hole filled with other things. More important memories, stronger bonds.” Her fingers tightened a fraction as she lowered her voice to a whisper. “It gets easier, Mick.”

  When he didn’t respond, she let her gaze creep sideways. Pain knifed through her as the moonlight caught the glimmer of a tear that rolled silently down his cheek. Closing her eyes, she drew on the energies surrounding her and called upon her ancient Selgovae ancestors. Her grandmother, her aunt…her mother, all high priestesses, all masters of the healing path.

  Power flowed through her, ebbing out through her fingertips. As she stood silently at Mick’s side, she channeled everything she was, every miniscule fragment of nature she could grasp and hold, into lighting a mere kernel of comfort within his wounded soul. She couldn’t heal the gashes Steve’s death cut—only time could. But she could soothe in ways human beings couldn’t, and she wouldn’t leave this balcony without giving all her immortal gift to him.

  ****

  As a homicide detective, Mick learned emotion was a weakness. He’d been schooled—on his own and through his mentors—to keep those weaknesses firmly under wraps. He’d trained himself so well that now, more often than not, even dead children could only produce a faint twinge in his heart. The anger covered the rest. Locked it up some place tight where it couldn’t hinder his duties, and where no one else could ever accuse him of being too soft for the job.

  Cops didn’t cry. Least of all not in front of anyone. Certainly not in front of a woman he barely knew.

  Yet at Rhiannon’s understanding whisper, all the years of hardness cracked, and that deadly emotion poured free, sending tears splashing down his cheeks. He refused to sniff. Refused to swipe them away—that would make his grieving more obvious. So he stared, unseeing, at the dying grass below, now a blurry landscape of greenish-brown.

  He didn’t know how long they stood that way, her offering comfort through the light press of her fingertips, he trying to ignore the fact he couldn’t stop the salty flow. But after a while, a strange warmth invaded the cold spots Steve’s death left behind. Maybe it was that he’d finally expressed everything bottlenecked inside him. Maybe it was the light scent of her flowery perfume that lingered on the slight breeze and brought aromas of springtime. He didn’t know. Hell, he couldn’t explain half of anything that had happened to him since she’d shown up on his doorstep, flower arrangements weighing her down.

  But something stitched itself up, and his eyes dried themselves out. What hit him next surprised him even further—the need to talk. To tell this woman who’d graciously agreed to keep him company, only to have him turn into a total mess, what weighed so heavily.

  Mick lifted his head, reached across his body to cover her slender hand with his. “I hated him. He was the best damn thing that happened to me, and I hated him until I was an adult. Not just dislike. I hated that man.”

  Rhiannon turned her hand over, lacing her fingers through his. The warmth of her palm felt so good against his, he tightened his grip, wanting to hold onto that incredible feeling forever. Savor it until it stayed with him even after she undoubtedly left and refused to ever see him again. He couldn’t blame her. He wasn’t doing too well in the best date department. At this rate, he’d be lucky if the next time he stopped in her shop total awkwardness didn’t engulf them.

  “I was eleven. Mom worked nights, and often days. I had complete freedom. Then this guy shows up and I’ve got a leash around my neck. He didn’t like my friends; I couldn’t hang out with them. Not that they were the kind of friends you’d want to keep.”

  Despite his black mood, a chuckle rumbled as he remembered that first summer with Steve. “He put me in baseball, for God’s sake. I didn’t even know what a base was. That whole summer I stood out in right field, wearing these stupid tight-ass pants, feeling like a fag. That was after he cut my hair. Buzz cut. Like I’d just enlisted in the damned military.”

  At Rhiannon’s light laugh, Mick found a grin. He shook his head, bringing his gaze even with hers. “But I was at every damn game.” More quietly, he added, “So was he. Right there cheering me on, even as I swung at air and missed every pitch.”

  He took a deep breath and focused on the way her thumb stroked the back of his hand to keep the encroaching melancholy at bay. “I hated him, Rhiannon. It was like that all the way through high school. I came home ten minutes late for curfew, I lost the car for a week. I came home drunk? Yeah well, we had a great fist fight over there.” Mick nodded at a tall oak tree, its withered leaves barely hanging on. He let out a low whistle. “That man kicked my ass. But I swear, it was heaven planting one in his face.”

  Again she laughed, and the same lightheartedness swelled inside him. He turned to face her more fully, took a step closer. One leg brushed against hers, striking the sudden need to hold her close. Feel her body against his. Absorb all the goodness she possessed.

  He pushed his free hand through his hair and looked away from the uncomfortable understanding in her clear blue eyes.

  “When did it change?” she asked, perceptively.

  Mick shook his head, unable to recall a precise time or place. “Sometime during my first year on the force. I was grown. I’d moved to Augusta. And coming here now and then to help with yard work Steve couldn’t do on his own anymore, just stopped being a chore. I saw what he’d tried to do, what he did do, though I fought him every waking day. He made me into something. If he hadn’t, I’d be the one facing down me in an interrogation room at the station.” He paused, emotion clogging him up. Looking over her shoulder, he swallowed it down, but his throat remained tight. “I never thanked him.”

  Rhiannon lifted her free hand, gentle fingers settling on his cheek. “I’m sure he knew, Mick.”

  Gritting his teeth against a wave of sadness, he nodded. Then, in an effort to escape the uncomfortable realization he’d bared his soul, he forced a tight laugh. “I’ve stared down loaded guns, and I’m more afraid of going back into that room.”

  “Then don’t.” She shrugged her shoulders, her hand falling away.

  “I have to. I’m the host. It’s a wake; I’m not supposed to be gloomy. I’m supposed to celebrate his death.”

  “His life,” she corrected gently. “Are you Catholic?”

  Mick shook his head. “Not anymore.”

  “Then I say death is personal. Approach it how you’re comfortable. If that means skydiving at midnight, then go for it. If you want to stay out here, it’s your choice. Your guests will go out the same door they came in.”

  He couldn’t help
but chuckle. She had a point. Still, all the lessons he’d been taught throughout life about manners and etiquette demanded he attend to the roomful of mourners across the hall. Yet as he opened his mouth to point that out, the breeze stirred, shifting overhanging branches, and moonlight bathed across Rhiannon’s face. Like someone had sucker-punched him, his lungs seized. She wasn’t merely pretty. She was beautiful. The intricate tattoos that adorned her high cheekbones only added to that beauty, giving her a mystical allure. The slight upturn to her nose spoke of playful nature, a touch of devilishness that contrasted with all he knew her to be.

  There was something about Rhiannon he couldn’t resist. Something he couldn’t name that drew him in until he’d swear he was drowning, and still he wanted more. She made him laugh when he least expected it. Made him unashamed to set aside the cop and become the man. One who felt far more than he should, and right now, that unacceptable feeling had a hell of a lot to do with her. Damn it all, he liked it too.

  Too much.

  “Don’t go tonight.” The whisper crept free before his mind could process the forming words.

  Rhiannon’s gaze slipped sideways to the railing. “Mick, I—”

  He tucked a wayward strand of auburn behind her ear and slipped his fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck. Taking one step closer, he closed the small distance between them and brushed his mouth over hers. Her lips parted beneath the gentle touch, and his breath caught as her tongue slid over his. As their kiss engulfed him, and what he had intended as a slow, savoring embrace became something hot and stifling, he told himself it was the house, that he couldn’t tolerate the idea of sleeping here alone. That she was full of warmth, and he wanted to forget by indulging in the physical.

  Not that he’d been struck with the sudden, unequivocal need to cement this night into something of substance. Something durable and lasting, like the bonds that had been forged when Steve had turned Mick’s life upside down the first time.

  Chapter Seven

  Everything that was dark and dangerous roared to the surface as Rhiannon slid her arms around Mick’s neck and her body swayed into his. Her soul was hungry. Starved for death, life, for too many uncountable desires that she’d avoided for countless years. Visions of all the things she wanted to do to Mick, of all she wanted him to do to her, blasted to life behind her closed eyelids. His body sliding against hers, his mouth at her breasts, hers on his overwarm skin devouring him in shameful ways. One after one, they rose to the surface, her demonic nature threatening to overrule every last bit of lightness in her spirit in its quest to claim everything Mick was.

  She fought through it, focusing on the warmth that stirred beneath the large hand sliding down her arm to her waist and the fingers that locked onto her hipbone. She clung to the simplicity of the kiss, despite its wild nature, and grabbed for sanity even as she gasped for air. By far, he wasn’t the first man she’d desired, but she couldn’t remember ever being this hungry. Ever feeling this completely powerless.

  And part of her thrilled on the total inability to do anything but stand here and absorb the subtle demand in the press of his body, the rapid thump of his heart against her breast.

  The hand that had tangled in her hair loosened, and his touch filled with surprising tenderness as his fingertips fanned alongside her neck. His thumb stroked the sensitive skin beneath her chin, the rhythm slow and sensual, matching the velvety slide of his tongue. Beneath his caresses, her womb hollowed out with an ache that refused to be denied.

  Mick eased the kiss to a close, leaving her trembling.

  “Stay,” he murmured against her cheek.

  Disoriented by the staggering sensations coursing through her, Rhiannon nodded. It was foolishness, rash impulse in its worst form, but before logic could pull her away from the heady pleasure, she turned her face, her lips clasping his once more. He gave his mouth freely, along with control of the kiss. Though passion demanded she claim what he offered with greedy abandon, she drank Mick in as she had her scotch, savoring the same oaken flavor that lingered on his tongue. Letting that richness burn through her veins.

  When steadiness returned to her legs, she braced her hands on his shoulders and stepped back. His gaze glowed hot, dark eyes warning she wasn’t the only one dangerously affected by the desire that flowed between them. She pulled in an unsteady breath. “I’m going to tell the priest to bring this to a close. They’ve had a few hours.”

  A grimace tightened the corners of his mouth. “I’ll go with you.”

  Rhiannon ran her hands down his lapels, smoothing them. “No. You stay here. I’ll handle it.” Before he could protest, she gave him a soft smile and slipped out of his arms, crossing through the masculine office and out the door.

  In the hall, she took a minute to gather her composure, certain everyone in the room would take one look at her and know what she really was. That they’d see the despicable parts of her nature threatening to break through her carefully composed surface. That they would recognize the demonic half of her soul.

  When she felt more in control of herself, and the darkness steadied to a listless churn, she braved the living room and the gathered mourners. The priest lingered near the hearth, hands folded at his waist, Bible clasped in his long fingers. At the sight of his piousness, all the bits her father contributed to her gene pool recoiled. A snarl threatened, and she pursed her lips. Damn Drandar for this life. Damn him for making everything so vile.

  She cleared her throat, wove through the people, and grasped the priest’s elbow. A light tug brought the elderly man’s ear closer to her mouth. “Father, Mick isn’t feeling up to hosting much more. Can you…?”

  Nodding, the priest gave her hand an understanding pat. “Of course.”

  Before Rhiannon turned around, she sensed Mick’s restlessness, the scourge of conflicting emotion that roiled inside of him. She found him in the doorway, jacket unbuttoned, one hand in his pocket, the other shoveling through his hair. His smile was grim, the tightness having returned to his expression once more. But as his gaze scanned the crowd and landed on her, the tension at his mouth eased.

  He met her in the center of the living room and clasped her hand tightly in his.

  “Mick, you didn’t have to come back in here.”

  He shook his head. “Yes, I did. It’s my responsibility.” With a displaced chuckle, he leaned in to brush his lips against the shell of her ear. His breath whispered through her hair. “Just stay close.”

  She couldn’t think of any place she’d rather be than shadowed by his powerful frame and soaking up the warmth in his palm. She gave his fingers a squeeze. “You got it.”

  ****

  As Rhiannon bid the last of his visitors goodbye at the front door, a strange sense of anticipation settled over Mick. Women came easily and strolled through his life never leaving an impact. Pleasure became commonplace, sex just another outlet to experience a bit of life, a foregone conclusion to the end of a date. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d really looked forward to time alone with someone, or the last time nervousness swirled around in his gut.

  But Rhiannon brought back all the mixed up, jubilant, hesitant nerves that hadn’t plagued him since he’d been a teen. And damn if it didn’t feel good. This was how things were supposed to be—how men and women were intended to come together. Not with the silent understanding orgasms that came with the quiet of a house. But with the questions of what if she refused, would she find him lacking, and the underlying anxiousness of what secrets Rhiannon McLaine harbored beneath that alluring little black dress.

  From his place in the hall, he watched as she waved to the elderly couple, filling another role Mick hadn’t realized he could ever find attractive. That of hostess. His hostess. A woman who fit into this house with the same grace and gentility his mother had possessed.

  That observation tightened his gut uncomfortably, and he shook it off with a shake of his head. He was not planning long-term, no matter how mixed up and confu
sed he felt right now. This was an after-effect of grief, a byproduct of transferred emotion.

  Rhiannon closed his front door and turned to face him. A hesitant smile danced on her lips, telling him she felt the same nervous anxiety that thrummed through his veins. He stretched out a hand, beckoning her to him. Her smile broadened. She approached, her fingers sliding a little too neatly into his. He dismissed the rightness of her touch, wrapped his other arm around her narrow waist, and pulled her in close.

  “I need to call my twin. He’ll worry if I don’t.”

  Twin? Mick blinked. She’d mentioned she had an older brother earlier, but for some reason the idea of Rhiannon having a twin surprised him. “Twin?”

  “Yeah.” Laughing softly, she snuggled into his arms and rested her head on his shoulder. “There’s eight of us. Dáire and I aren’t really twins, but we might as well be.”

  Eight siblings. He took a minute to process the size of her family, to imagine just for a second, what it would be like to have those sorts of bonds. It had always been him. Him and the stepsister who was five years older than he. He rarely saw Allison as a kid, and hadn’t encountered her since. Thankfully, she hadn’t shown up here tonight.

  Savoring the feel of Rhiannon’s soft curves meshed against the length of his body, he stroked her long hair. “Are you the youngest?”

  “Second to. Taran is the youngest, but no one sees him much. You probably wouldn’t get along with him well at all.”

  “No?” He drew back, tipping his head to lift his eyebrows at her.

  “Um. No. You’re a cop. He’s…well…not.” Her mouth quirked with amusement. “Not by any means.”

  Mick chuckled. “Gotcha.” His hand dipped, and he gave her bottom a playful squeeze. “Maybe we’ll save those introductions.”

  “Probably best.” Pushing away, she slid from his grasp. “Do you have a phone? I don’t own a cell.”

  Didn’t own a cell—now that was a tidbit that nearly knocked him sideways. Who didn’t own a cell in this day and age? The woman was simply full of surprises.