by Sophia Gray
I brushed a little of the stew that had been left behind from his lips, finding them to be surprisingly soft and supple. I had the sudden, visceral vision of leaning down to kiss him and quickly jerked my hand back in response.
He’s unconscious! I scolded myself, but I couldn’t help my gaze going over to him time and again, even when I tried not to look at him.
The night passed slowly and the snow outside refused to let up. I wanted to brave the storm and go to my car to dig out my guitar, but resisted the urge. It wasn’t worth being freezing and it wasn’t worth the risk of leaving him alone unattended. So I settled for sitting by the fire and singing softly to myself. I didn’t want to wake him, but singing was how I dealt with things.
It’s why I want so badly to make it.
I hummed and sang a few bars to myself, taking solace from the sound as I did so. I didn’t think I was being very loud, but I heard a groan come from the couch. My head jerked in that direction as the music died on my lips.
“Are you awake?” I whispered, quiet as though there was someone else that might be asleep in the room.
When he groaned again, I hurried over to him and found just enough space on the couch to sit beside him. I leaned over slightly to look down at his face, my hand smoothing across his forehead to find that he was definitely still feverish, and caught my breath when his eyelids fluttered. Half lidded still, I saw that beautiful green color shimmer through. “Oh,” I whispered, my heart stuttering.
“Am I dead?” he asked in a low, deep voice that sent a thrill through me just like the first time.
I cleared my throat. “Um, what?”
He repeated his question, sounding just a little delirious. “Am I dead?”
“No, you’re not. You’re going to be fine,” I reassured him, brushing back his hair again. I smiled softly, wanting to make him feel at ease and definitely to make him know that he wasn’t dead or dying. I didn’t know if that was strictly true or not, after all, people did die from fever and I didn’t know how long he’d been out there, but I didn’t want him to be worried or in pain. And I really didn’t want him to die either.
Half of his mouth lifted up in a small smile, drawing my gaze back to his full lips. I remembered how I’d slid my thumb across them and found myself wishing I could do it again—or maybe something more. “I should have known,” he murmured in a voice as warm as the fire. It drew me back to him. “Because there’s no way I’d have ended up in heaven.”
My eyes widened at his words, but his closed as he finished. His lips relaxed, the smile fading, though his features seemed more at ease than I’d seen them yet. He looked almost at peace.
I tried to make sense of what he was trying to say. Who would mistake this place as heaven? I glanced around at the log cabin and admitted that it was nice, but only nice. No way would I mistake this as heaven or even a five-star resort. So maybe it was a testament to his life or something that he thought this place was heaven.
But I didn’t think so.
A blush feathered across my cheeks, only to dip down the column of my neck and disappear within the layers of sweaters I had on. I thought he was talking about me; I was what made this place heaven. Did he think I was an angel?
Don’t be stupid! I told myself firmly, not wanting to get all romantic and overly invested in some guy who was probably going to go home to his girlfriend or wife or something. Or was just flat out not going to be interested in me. I wasn’t ugly or anything, but I wasn’t automatically every man’s type either.
And why do I want him to think I’m an angel anyway? I lingered on the couch, watching as his breathing was even and calm. I told myself it was because I was waiting to see if he’d wake up again, but secretly it was because I wanted an excuse to watch him. He really was ruggedly good looking, despite the bruises on his face and his split lip. I could only imagine how good he looked when he wasn’t overcome with fever and whatever the hell had happened to leave him buried in a snowdrift out there.
I let myself watch him a while longer before I finally pushed myself away, telling myself not to get too attached to a man I knew absolutely nothing about.
Chapter 4
Ciaran
I spent much of that night dreaming. Some were pleasant. Some were not.
This was not a pleasant one. In the way of some dreams, I was aware I was dreaming. Lucid, was the term I thought, but even as I walked through my dream as though I knew it wasn’t real, I felt a trickle of apprehension run down my spine, a shiver of morbid anticipation. There was a part of me that knew what was coming, but that didn’t matter. The rest of me was walking with trepidation, like this was the first in a series of steps into the unknown.
My boots were steel toed and heavy. They weighed a ton it seemed like and as I walked it felt as though I was moving through molasses, even when they made that heavy clomping sound of rubber soles on solid pavement. It took all of my strength to lift one and put it down, following with the next, but I couldn’t stop myself, I couldn’t even rest. I had to keep moving forward.
Even though I didn’t want to.
But what I wanted was of little consequence it would seem, because my feet kept pulling me forward. I was drawn to something, and once I realized that, I started to pay more attention to my surroundings. I noticed that I was walking down the street. Rain was quickly turning into sleet and it was dark outside. This was my little city, my home since I was a child, and I could see the exact neighborhood I was living in. There was a bakery around the corner that hadn’t switched hands since the first owner died fifty years ago and it had never gone anywhere but in the family. The shops to my life were comprised of a laundromat that was open twenty-four hours, a convenience store that was robbed just shy of nightly, and two competing delis run by batty old ladies who played bridge on Wednesdays.
I knew if I took a right up ahead, I could walk a mile to the library and across from that was a pathetic little park that got cleaned up every five years or so, the graffiti scrubbed clean and the trash picked up. I knew if I went a little farther than that, I’d reach the railroad tracks. Beyond them was the bad side of town, literally the wrong side of the tracks, and I knew that better even than this little slice of urban decay. I’d been born there. I’d been given up there. I’d been starving there.
All of this flittered through my mind in the blink of an eye, like a topographical map showing me the entire area by just rotating slightly. I’d lived here my whole life and it was impossible not to remember how it was laid out and how much farther it had slumped into further disrepair.
But none of that mattered, because I walked through the sleet slicked street going straight. There wasn’t anything up ahead but a line of warehouses that turned into what was once an old dock. They didn’t have any sort of business there anymore, other towns with more important and convenient locations taking over for them, but the docks stayed and some of the old ships did, too. It was almost eerie, like a graveyard on the water, and as kids it had terrified us enough that we’d dared each other to brave it for a night.
I had, and so had Shane.
In the dream, I didn’t know what was coming, but what lingered of my waking self knew and it dreaded it. Don’t go to the docks, I thought to myself, silent but insistent. It didn’t matter. I continued forward undeterred.
The streets were quiet, and once I reached the heavy, rotting boards of the docks all I heard were the twists and pulls of the water as it lapped against the pilings and metal. It was a noise I was familiar with, we all were, but right then it made the whole place feel like the bad end to a horror movie. Or worse, the bad beginning.
Still I crept forward.
My mouth felt dry. I couldn’t swallow, as though there was a cotton ball stuck somewhere in my throat, lodged unceremoniously. My heavy boots clomped against the water-warped wood. To my left was an old shack that had once sold fishing line and netting, some other essentials, but was just like everything else now: abandoned. I stuc
k close to the wall, knowing something wasn’t quite right, sensing it in my gut even without knowing what I knew.
Carefully, I came up to the corner, ready for whatever was on the other side. I had a gun tucked into the waistband of my jeans, but I didn’t want to use it. I hoped I wouldn’t have to.
I’m only here to talk, I reminded myself, but my hand itched for the gun like it didn’t believe me. It had reason not to.
In a flurry of motion that moved frame by frame for me within the dream, I threw myself around the corner, prepared to face off against an unknown and waiting assailant. But when my dream state finally allowed me to swing around, I found nothing but more, empty dock. Something within me should have eased, but even as my body relaxed at the lack of threat, my insides twisted with uncertainty and even a trickle of fear.
Even as I felt that fear, I straightened up and shook my head, running my hand through my hair. Nothing. There was nothing here. Probably, no one had even been here and it had all been a false alarm. This was Skulls territory and I’d had a couple of my boys swear they’d seen a Hound here, but there was no one. Probably it was just some punk pulling the same kind of pranks we’d pulled as kids.
It should have given me a sense of relief.
It didn’t.
A second later, I found out why. A two-by-four swung around with a whoosh that came from moving air quickly and forcibly and landed squarely across my shoulders. I should have been grateful that it didn’t catch my neck or the back of my head, where it would probably have killed me. Instead, I was furious, hurt, and very much pissed off.
A short, angry cry escaped my lips before I could clamp them shut and stop it. I stumbled forward, staggering in an attempt to keep myself upright. I ended up going to my knees harshly, one arm draping across a dilapidated old bench. It was enough to keep me from completely going down, but just barely. But it was enough.
Using it as leverage, I shoved off as the next swing came at me. It put me on my back, unfortunately, but at least the space that took the hit from the two-by-four wasn’t where I was laying.
I looked up to see a younger man, practically a boy still. If he were out of high school, it was only just, and it showed. There were some shave marks coupled with nicks and pimples both. His body was big, but gangly, still disproportionate, like he’d gotten a growth spurt overnight and his body was still trying to fill in all the new length and body space. All of this I took in at the blink of an eye, but what would haunt me forever was the wild look in his eyes.
A look of urgency, a look of fear.
He was afraid of me. Worse now that he’d taken the first strike at me and the second strike had missed.
The guy, clearly an Irish Hound based on the howling fiery dog tattooed on his arm, hefted up his much too large and heavy weapon to swing it again at me but he took too long. Now that I knew what was going on and he’d swung and missed, I had enough time to react. I scrambled up to my feet, still hunched low, and barreled myself into his middle.
A whoosh of air left his lungs in a hurry and he cried out, caught off guard by my move. I heard the two-by-four thump as it hit the ground when he dropped it. Together, we stumbled back until I slammed him into the siding of one of the old buildings on the dock. He froze, eyes wide. I asked him what the hell he was doing, demanded an answer, but he said nothing. It took me forever to realize why, but when I did, I felt something inside me squirm.
His eyes remained wide, his mouth open. I noticed a hiccup of blood as it began to trickle out of his mouth, and that was when I stepped back. He didn’t move even when I released him. It was like he was being held in place.
I glanced down at his chest and saw that was exactly what it was. A sharp, rusted piece of broken off metal was protruding from his chest. It glistened darkly with blood, so dark it looked black in the dim lighting. The sleet continued to come down and it made me numb, or maybe it was just the shock of knowing I’d just killed that boy.
Because there was no doubt in my mind he was dead. His body and his brain didn’t know it yet, but I did. He was living on borrowed seconds that were evaporating quickly.
It took a full minute before he took one last choking, rattling breath. Then he was gone. The blood dripped down the metal pole to pool beneath him and his eyes didn’t close. They remained open, staring at me, accusing me of the truth.
Murder, they whispered.
I shook my head. I wanted to deny all of this, to say this was all a mistake, an accident, but I couldn’t seem to unglue my tongue from the roof of my mouth. As a result, there was nothing in the wake of his death but silence and the soft sounds of water all around me.
He wasn’t the first man I’d killed. He probably wouldn’t be the last. But he was the first one who looked like he probably wasn’t even old enough to get into the bar. Too young to be out here on the streets coming at me with a weapon he could only half lift.
It didn’t feel right and I didn’t think it ever would.
My dream shifted until I was all but sure I was awake. I was lying on a couch now in fire lit cabin in the woods. Outside the snow continued to drift down and coat everything, ensuring privacy on a number of levels. I shifted in my position on the couch beneath a pile of blankets and quilts. I was trying to get comfortable again, but wasn’t quite sure how to do it or if I really could at all. Something in the fire cracked and then popped, sending sparks floating up into the air and dying before they ever hit the ground.
I groaned.
“Shh,” came a soft, soothing voice. “You’re okay, Ciaran, you’re here with me.”
I settled back against the couch, the smooth and sweet tone lulling me into a sense of peace that I hadn’t had in forever. Maybe I’d never had it. For a second, I couldn’t tell where it was coming from. Her voice whispered through the air, almost like a sweet smell wafting in from the kitchen or a perfume bottle.
“Where are you?” I murmured, my eyes now searching for the owner of the voice.
“I’m here,” she answered sweetly, and then she seemed to appear out of nowhere at my side. It was the woman from the side of the road, the one who had dragged me to the car and then to the cabin to save my mostly worthless life.
Her dark hair was long enough to slip down over her shoulders and tumble down her back like a cascading waterfall. Her blue eyes were so large that they seemed to catch you when they landed on you. And her body…
I groaned again as I caught sight of it.
The first time I’d seen her she was wearing a torn up pair of skinny jeans, worn through boots, and layers of sweaters, shirts, and jackets. But she’d changed into what looked to be a white nightie. It was a thin, silky material that covered the essentials but only just barely. I could see her cleavage forming from her plunging neckline and as my eyes dipped lower, I noticed her pebbled nipples jutting out from that thin fabric. The silk pinched at her tiny waist before flaring out again to slip over her full hips. As she came to sit beside me on what little room there was on the couch, the hem of her little nightie rose up to reveal more of those creamy, silken thighs, and promised that what lie between them was just as pretty and silky.
I licked my lips.
Her body was so close now that I didn’t even realize I was reaching for her until my hand was slipping over the slope of one breast, catching on one hardened nipple. She should have gotten mad with me for touching her—she didn’t know anything about me, but then, how did she know my name?—but instead of swatting me away or scolding me, she let her head fall back and arched her back so her breast was pushed into my palm.
Oh, it fit perfectly. Her tits were large and firm, but definitely pliant beneath my touch. I rolled my palm along her nipple, drawing a whimpering sound from her full, rosy lips. “Yes,” she murmured, encouraging me further.
I allowed my hand to clasp tightly over her full tit and squeeze, getting a gasp from her. She jerked her head up to look at me again, her large eyes now full of lust and lidded with desire. My othe
r hand reached for her body, going to her hip and gripping it tightly. She bit her lower lip and fixed me with a look that all but begged me for more.
How is this happening? my lust addled brain managed to wonder.
Some part of me knew this wasn’t quite right. Where did the white nightie come from? Had she packed it? Had she risked going out into the storm to get it, or had she found it here amidst the other things? And if that was the case, why did she put it on at all? Unless she was trying to seduce me. But that couldn’t be happening. The wanton way she was undulating her body, pushing herself into my grip, encouraging my firm touches, couldn’t be real.
And how had she known my name? I wondered again, and that was when I realized this was a dream.
I hadn’t woken up at all. My subconscious had shifted itself away from that terrible night with Shane’s man and now it slid into one of pleasure and need. Maybe knowing it was a dream should have had some effect on me. Maybe I shouldn’t have wanted to continue fondling her or to let my hand slip down lower from her hip to find the hem of her nightie lying across her thigh—but I did want to.