STEP (The Senses)

by Paterson, Cindy

  “Fuck,” he shouted as he got up, kicking the broken table across the twelve-by-ten room and overturning the antique chest. “Jesus, let me breathe.” He wiped his tears with his arm and then slammed his fist into the drywall, leaving a gaping hole into the pantry.

  Suffocating. His chest was so tight, it felt as if his lungs were collapsing. He had to get out of here. Leave. Jump into the lake and drown his wretchedness. It was as if he was the one putting her through this torture by denying what she wanted.

  He paced back and forth across the worn-out hardwood floor.

  He was letting her suffer, watching night after night as she screamed for one drop of blood to ease her thirst. He abruptly denied her then he was subjected to her hatred, which soon turned to begging then finally trepidation as she cried for his help. It repeated for hours like a broken record, over and over again until finally, near dawn, she collapsed into an exhausted sleep.

  Last night, he recalled trying to hold her, to offer her some kind of comfort, unable to take her crying and screaming any longer. It’d been a mistake. She’d gone wild, tearing at his skin, desperate to reach beneath the surface, her need so great that the sweet Abby he’d known had disappeared behind glazed red eyes. He was afraid she was too far-gone, that their hope of riding it out was futile.

  He’d never given in to anything in his life, but witnessing Abby’s torture any longer was beyond even his capability.

  “God, Abby, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he said as he stared out the bay window onto the lake. The serene morning calm of the water was laughing at his riptide of emotions. In all his life, he’d never been so tortured as he was now. Rip his limbs apart, whip his back raw, waterboard him, anything but this. Because this . . . this was far worse. It was her pain. Her torture that was destroying his sanity. He had no control over it. He couldn’t stop it.

  He hated that he wasn’t strong enough to withstand this. Most of all, he hated that he cared so much about her.

  Cause he knew.

  He knew one certainty in all this.

  She had managed to touch a piece of his ice-cold heart. And it wasn’t letting him go.

  He took out his cell. Pressed nine. Closed his eyes and pressed call.

  ****

  “Oh!” Rayne stumbled back a step as she faced the most glorious yet scariest man she’d ever laid eyes on. Eyes the color of the bluest water and sculpted cheeks and chin that any artist would beg to paint. Wow. This man was a statue of magnificence. “Sorry . . . I thought this was . . .” She glanced over her shoulder at the door sign. “Umm . . . I think you have the wrong—”

  “You must be Rayne.” Waleron offered his hand.

  Delara appeared from behind him. “Yeah, ah, well, this is . . . well, this is Waleron.”

  “Oh.” The guy who paid for her therapy. She shook his hand and felt the magnitude that exuded from him. It tingled through her skin, and for one second she let her shield down and took in his emotions. She nearly stumbled back into the door and made a complete fool of herself when she felt the coldness seeping through his veins. It was as if he was a soulless being, an empty shell. Was it possible he could hide his emotions from her? Was that why she read him like a blank slate made of ice? “Umm, nice to meet you.” What else could she say? It was obvious Delara was uneasy in his presence.

  He gave a subtle nod and she noticed the tattoo on his neck. She immediately thought of Kilter and his tattoos. Stop thinking about him, she berated herself. Maybe it was because she’d been discussing him in therapy today.

  “Waleron was just leaving. Weren’t you?” Delara placed her hand on Waleron’s arm and Rayne noticed them both tense. Delara quickly let him go.

  Suddenly Waleron turned to Delara, grabbed her around the waist and pulled her up against his chest in one fluid movement. Rayne heard her gasp, but it was smothered by the sudden fierce kiss he placed on her mouth. It was quick and over within seconds, but possessive, and he could be definitely be one of those jam guy’s.

  Waleron let her go and Delara staggered back, her hand flying to her mouth. She looked shocked and downright pissed.

  A soft ringing sounded and Waleron took his cell from his side pocket, glancing at the number briefly and then saying, “Wear the dress, Delara.” Waleron nodded to the silver gown, then answered his phone with an abrupt grunt and walked from the room without a backward glance.

  “Wow,” Rayne said. “I hope I didn’t scare him away.” After the words were out of her mouth, she wanted to laugh. That guy couldn’t be scared by a hungry pride of lions breathing down his neck.

  Delara was fuming as she paced the length of the changing room, shaking her head and muttering something unintelligible.

  “Is he your boyfriend?”

  “Ha,” Delara said. “He’s peanut butter. Forget the smooth though, he’s the crunchy kind.”

  “Did he hit you?”

  Delara huffed. “Nah. Not his style. He just saves your life, has sex with you and then tells you not to call.”

  “Oh.” Okay, he was a bitter subject. Delara obviously had a history with this guy and was still hurting. No wonder, he just showed up in the girls changing room dressed all in black. Then kissed Delara as if he’d eat her alive with his sexual prowess.

  Delara muttered something unintelligible. “I’m giving you the wrong impression. Pez—oh, that’s what I call him cause he’s addicted to—you know that Pez candy thing?” Rayne shrugged. “Well, it doesn’t matter. Pez is a good guy. I mean he can be when he wants and he’d protect you with his life. Never hits a woman. Never swears unless he’s really pissed. He’s just . . . indifferent to love. And, well, he is the leader of the Senses. Our Taldeburu. My boss.”

  Well, that explained his incredible magnitude and why he’d made all the decisions regarding where she’d stay and her therapy. He looked like a leader, unfathomable strength and confidence the size of earth. Yeah, definitely a leader and he obviously had a thing for Delara. She wasn’t sure yet if that was good or bad.

  Rayne hung the two dresses she’d picked out over the empty stall door next to them. Delara needed to talk. She’d never had a friend, but she assumed this was what they did. “You like him?”

  “I loved him. Notice the past tense,” Delara said. “Like rip your heart out and put it on a silver platter kind of love.” She sighed. “He ate it and then spit it back in my face.”

  Rayne didn’t know much about romantic love. She hadn’t loved anyone except her parents and Serafina. She loved the sun and the wind but it was far from feeling the emotions between a man and a woman. “I’m sorry. That must . . .” Say what you mean, Rebecca’s voice echoed. “That’s horrible! What an asshole.”

  Delara smiled then laughed. “Wow, Rayne. I didn’t see that coming. I like this new you emerging. I liked the old one too, but I had a feeling you were holding back.”

  Rayne smiled. It felt good to open up and say her thoughts without contemplating the consequences.

  Delara grabbed Rayne’s selections. “How about we watch movies and eat popcorn all night tonight. We’ll grab pillows and blankets and lay on the floor. A slumber party.” She threw the black gown over the door and held out the dark emerald dress. “Now this is what I’m talking about. Try it on. Then we’re having a girls’ night.”

  She felt herself opening as though a tulip blooming. This was what living was about, the sharing, the laughter and experiences. She’d missed so many years stuck in a dark emotionless pit.

  Strength. That was what was unfurling inside her. The strength to get better and be proud of who she was, regardless of what had happened in her past.

  The dress was perfect according to Delara. Rayne thought it fit too tight and the color was overly dramatic. She liked to walk in the shadows, and being the center of attention in any situation was not her cup of tea.

  She bought the dress, despite her reservations, and they walked to the Wine Rack on King Street. Delara called Danielle, who said she’d meet the
m in an hour with pink pajamas and two bottles of her Balen’s prized stash of red wine.

  They put out pillows, duvets and sat in their pj’s amongst the mess on the living room floor watching Enchanted. Red wine flowed freely as did the giggling and the drooling over Patrick Dempsey’s sweet hot ass.

  “Balen’s is way better,” Danielle said. “It was his eyes that captured me, but his butt that kept me.”

  Delara gave a hoot of laughter. “Oh, please. Nothing can compare to Pez’s. Ultimate hard ASS. I swear that guy must work out twenty hours a day. You saw it today, Rayne. Whose is better, Balen’s or Waleron’s?”

  She was feeling bolder with all the wine and blurted out. “Kilter’s.”

  Delara nearly chocked on the wine she’d been swallowing. “Killer? Haven’t really looked at his ass, considering I’m always watching for his fists coming my way.”

  Danielle proceeded to fill up her wineglass. “Off-Kilter actually threw me in the shower with my pajamas still on one time. But he helped me through a really rough time. He’s just a little—overwhelming.”

  “A little?” Delara snorted. “The guy is a runaway train. And he’s crass and doesn’t trust us.”

  “He was nice to me. Jam maybe. Not sure really. We never had enough time together. I don’t know, he just helped, I guess.” Rayne was making a mess of explaining him. Maybe because every time she thought of him her emotions skyrocketed into bewilderment. The longer she was away from him, the more she missed him.

  “So, it looks like we have a standoff for the best ass,” Danielle said, raising her glass. “Cheers to great butts and jam men.”

  They raised their glasses and repeated Danielle’s words. No one mentioned anything further about Kilter, and she was glad the women understood her enough to not push the issue. He was a Senses and out of bounds. Period.

  “Okay, time for favorite movie of all time,” Delara said as she leapt up to put her DVD into the player.

  Danielle and Delara both said in unison, “The Notebook.”

  “Sounds boring,” Rayne said.

  Delara and Danielle looked at each other and started laughing.

  “Oh, it’s boring, all right.” Delara pressed play.

  “So boring.” Danielle nodded and winked. “With the sweetest jam you’ve ever seen.”

  Chapter 15

  Damien paced the worn-out hardwood floor beside the bed. Every so often he looked over at the bed, thanking Jesus, God, Buddha and whatever other high-and-mighty spirits that she was sleeping.

  She was so pale, her skin having lost its soft pinkish glow to a gray tinge. Any food he tried to get her to eat was either thrown up or uneaten. He was still able to wash her—a chore he detested more than anything—with a bowl and cloth, and on good days taking the chance and putting her in the bath. She rarely reacted in daylight hours any longer.

  There was no question they’d either have to let her take blood and have the Transition occur or . . . he didn’t want to consider the other option. Whatever choice was made, he knew staying here in this situation had to end.

  He’d made the call this afternoon and suffice it to say the silence on the other end of the line only meant one thing—pissed. He had no choice. After losing the child . . . after Jedrik came to take it away . . . God, he couldn’t any longer.

  He glanced at Abby and felt the distinct tug on his heart. He punched the wall and cursed several times, hoping that would erase the feeling. It didn’t. They’d have to end her existence, and it made him sick to his stomach to think that maybe if he hadn’t impregnated her, she could have held on for longer and fought the poison of the vamp blood.

  He was so distraught and fucked up thinking about her impending death that he didn’t even hear, see or scent Waleron entering the cottage.

  “How long has it been?” Waleron demanded as he strode past him and went directly to the bed.

  “I don’t know. Six. Seven months. Eternity. Too fuckin’ long,” Damien said, taking a step back, wanting to get the hell out of here so bad that his legs were already running in his head.

  Waleron didn’t even turn as he said, “Do not even think about it. Explain why I am hearing about this six months after the fact.” He was leaning over the bed, his hand on Abby’s forehead.

  “We thought—”

  “We?”

  “Jedrik, Delara and I. Well, Balen knows about it too and Danielle. Christ, Waleron, I have to go outside and get some air.”

  “Not until I get some answers. Explanation. Now.” Waleron still had his hand on her forehead, probably trying to put her in DS—deep sleep. It would allow her peace from the constant thirst and pain—for a few hours anyway. But the thirst would overtake the DS soon enough.

  “Abby is a . . . well, a witch from Trinity’s coven.”

  Waleron’s eyes went icicle as he turned his attention onto him. “I know who she is,” he said.

  “Yeah, of course you would. Well, she . . . umm . . . well . . . she’s carrying my child. Well—was. She lost it.” That sounded so bad. “And she’s in Transition. Drank from Liam.”

  Waleron raised both brows and remained silent, although Damian could almost see the steam coming from his ears. He’d locked horns with him a number of times and could probably kick his ass, but Waleron had never made him feel as uneasy as he did right now.

  Damien recapped the situation, beginning with Abby hunting down Jedrik, asking for help, and then the lowdown on getting her out of the club that night.

  Waleron never said a word. Never moved a muscle. Didn’t even blink until he was finished.

  “And why has Liam not raised hell looking for her?” Waleron asked.

  Damien shrugged. He was not going to be the one to inform Waleron that Delara was soothing Liam by fucking him.

  “Seems unlikely he would let her walk away with no recourse, especially if she was important to him. And she must be in order to let her drink his blood and risk retaliation.”

  “Don’t know.” Yeah, well Jedrik and Delara—who he suspected would both be getting a surprise visit from Waleron real soon—could explain that one.

  Waleron walked away from the bed and approached him, not a glimmer of compassion in his eyes and he stared him down. “Detox has never been done before.”

  “But Balen—”

  “Balen is a Senses and he had good reason to fight the pull of the thirst. What does this girl have? Her child is now dead. Her coven will not allow her to return after discovering what she has done. Liam—most likely—will turn on her if she doesn’t Transition. So, tell me, what does she have in order to bring her through this?”

  “Damn, I don’t know. I barely know the girl. It was one night. I was drunk—”

  “Then figure it out. She needs a reason to fight or it will eat her alive and then kill her.”

  Damien shook his head. “I can’t do it anymore. The pain. Hell, Waleron, she is in so much pain. Maybe we should end . . .” He couldn’t finish because speaking out loud her death was a lot different than it swirling around in his fucked-up head.

  Waleron quirked one brow. “You believe it would be easier if you let the Transition occur?”

  “Yeah. Shit, yeah.” Either that or kill her.

  Waleron scowled. “Easier on you, perhaps. But she will be enslaved to Liam for the rest of her life—that is, if he lets her live—with the constant thirst for blood. And if she happens to kill a human to curb the aching thirst, then you may be the one to have to hunt her down and end her existence. It is not a life I would wish on anyone. Least of all a girl who made a childish error in judgment. One of which you would like her to pay for with the rest of her life.”

  “No. God, I don’t want that.” Jesus have mercy on his soul, because the next words out of his mouth were going to kill him. “I’ll stay. For as long as it takes. I’ll make certain she lives.”

  Waleron gave a curt nod, then left him alone to the desolation of his mind, which he feared would be irrevocably ruined
by the horrors of one slip of a girl who he had no idea how to save.

  ****

  Rayne had never been to a gala or party of any kind, and when she walked in she thought she’d faint. A huge crowd of people mingled, drinking champagne and wine, dressed in suits, tuxedos and the most brilliant gowns.

  At least she wasn’t underdressed. The dark green gown glimmered with each step she made, clinging to her hips and falling gracefully to her ankles. The back was low cut in a sweeping half circle, matching the neckline that she thought revealed far too much of her cleavage—well, what little cleavage she had.

  Delara looked stunning wearing the slinky silver gown. It showed off her curvaceous hips and accentuated her toned body. She wore tight silver bands around her wrists and a matching silver choker on her neck, leaving her auburn skin bare above the strapless neckline. Her hair was tamed in a chic style that said exotic and sexy. Lips painted a bright red and eyes smoky and dark giving her a mysterious aura.

  Delara didn’t allow her time to panic, nor stop to think about panicking as she swept her into the fray. She grabbed two glasses of red wine off a passing waiter’s tray, then began introducing her to people.

  Rayne found herself relaxing as she recognized customers from the gallery. It took an hour to release the tension in her shoulders and stop worrying about what she was going to say to these people. Gradually, she forgot about her anxiety and slipped into an easy calm that had her smiling and enjoying herself.

  Jedrik made an appearance in a black tuxedo with his wayward curls tamed into place. He was on the arm of a gorgeous French model who spoke little English, and Rayne suspected that was how he liked it.

  Danielle and Balen were linked together, looking like a couple out of a wedding magazine. Anyone who saw them would instantly know they were in love big time. The knowing looks they gave one another, their subtle caresses or handholding. Just the way Balen smoothed back a strand of her hair with such gentleness was enough to make a woman sigh.