by Lynda Aicher
“Amber,” he breathed, his thumb caressing her cheek. “You offer too much. There is so much you don’t know about me. About my past.”
“Then tell me. Trust me to understand. Trust that the energy is right.”
That fast, he shut down. Abruptly, he stepped away. His hands dropped to grip his hips. He looked away, his focus on the open doorway to the bathroom. The hard lines of his profile were void of all tenderness, chiseled now out of stone.
The silence spread between them, the gap widening to form a plunging cavern of unsaid words. Amber crossed her arms tightly across her chest, her hands gripping her arms in an attempt to hold the pain inside. To keep it locked away where no one would see it.
Damian moved toward the bathroom without a word or glance in her direction. The door clicked quietly closed and the innocent sound broke her heart open.
She squeezed her eyes shut, but surprisingly there were no tears to hold back. The rejection—his rejection—stabbed at her, a thousand knife wounds aimed at her heart. How could it hurt so badly?
Her bird curled inward, tucking its wings tightly around its body. A lone tear rolled from its eye, the single drop shed for her.
Amber shivered; the cold invaded her system and plagued her with self-accusations. All the blistering taunts, blatant hatred and disgusted glares she had lived with her whole life came racing back to beat at her mind. Tortured memories that held her in their icy grip.
Damian didn’t believe in the energy. He didn’t trust it or her. Apparently, she wasn’t good enough for him. He’d said she was brave, strong, courageous—all noble words, but none of them expressed his feelings toward her.
Again, she was the fool. She’d been willing to trust, to believe, so easily. Longing for love so desperately that she jumped—no, vaulted—at the first sign of interest from a man.
Pathetic.
But no more.
Straightening, Amber loosened the death-clamp on her arms and slowly exhaled. The soothing breath blew away the self-deprecating tirade she battled. She picked up the forgotten brush from the floor and pulled on the strength Damian spoke of. She dug up the courage he professed she held and turned her back to the bathroom door. She moved away from him, steady steps toward the bed where the food waited on a tray, the dishes encased under metal lids.
Calmly, she set the brush on the bedside table and crawled onto the bed. The pain securely trapped back inside. The thoughts banished.
Her heart beating but locked tight against further invasion.
The water rushed over Damian’s head, sending hot pellets of damnation into his shoulders, across his back, into his heart. He’d hurt her. Fuck.
Of course he’d hurt her. She’d opened herself to him, showed him her shining light of innocence, trusted him with her hope. And what had he done? Kicked her in the gut and stole her candy all in the same asshole stroke.
He was evil.
Had to be to do that to her.
Damian groaned, rubbing his palm over the pain in his chest. Not the battle wound, but the soreness that radiated from deep in his torso.
He tipped his head back and let the water sluice over his forehead and stream down the sides of his face. The steam rose around him, the water heated to a scorching punishment. He deserved more. Shame rammed against the brick wall encasing his emotions. The wall toppled with barely a protest. But then it had been slowly crumbling since he’d first touched Amber.
Cursing—violent, harsh words—Damian shook the water from his face and yanked the soap from the holder. A millennium. A thousand years of fucking isolation. Years of loneliness that had stoked the simmering anger, the burning resentment that ate at him over the injustices piled on him. Of the false accusations and betrayal until he’d finally closed off the emotions. Buried them all before they buried him.
Until Amber.
Damn it.
He scrubbed the soap furiously over his skin, scouring harshly as if the simple bar could cleanse the dirt from his soul. His shoulder protested, the stiffness and pain a reminder of what was at stake. Of exactly how deadly this battle was and how threatened Amber truly was.
The subtle cinnamon scent of the soap reached his nose. His nostrils flared, opening wide to inhale the aroma. His dick throbbed as her scent surrounded him. He’d been hard since she’d stepped out of the bathroom all fresh and soft. The slight hesitancy in her movements, the uncertainty that radiated from her. It called to him. She called to him.
Images of Amber assaulted his mind. Of her standing up to him, challenging his assertions of who she was. Of her fighting to get to him, to save him from his people. Of Amber standing over him, hair lifting with the energy as she reached for the power and used it. Each image showed who she truly was. Why she was the Marked One.
There was serious power within her. Still fresh, untapped. Innocent like her.
So was he to believe that he, Damian, was the Chosen One?
So much had happened so fast that he hadn’t even had time to process all that he had learned today. The shaman had said that Amber was his. Saved for him. Fuck.
Damian scrubbed a hand over his face, trying desperately to make sense of it. The logic didn’t match what he was feeling. What everyone was trying to tell him. Amber wasn’t the only one whose world had turned upside down in a day.
Slamming the soap back on the shelf, Damian cut the water and stepped from the shower. It was time to face the mess he’d created. Hiding in the bathroom wasn’t his M.O. They needed to talk—about the facts—and keep the emotional stuff out of it. It didn’t matter what she thought of him.
His dragon spread its wings wide and hissed in denial.
What did it know anyway? Hell, the damn mark had sprouted wings today. It was yet another thing that eluded explanation. After a thousand years of torment because of the white fucking dragon on his hand, the damn thing decided to grow wings. On the day he found Amber. Coincidence? Not hardly.
But what the fuck did it mean?
Yanking his jeans back on, Damian rubbed the towel over his hair then gave the locks a quick finger comb. Leaning forward, he checked his shoulder injury in the mirror. The wound from the fireball was already partially healed and would probably be gone by morning. The burn mark on his thigh was smaller and shrinking at a steady pace. Amber’s little boost of energy seriously accelerated his healing time.
His shirt was toast, and he didn’t see a convenient change of clothing lying around, so shirtless he would have to stay. The hole in his jeans only added to the GQ cover look. He scoffed at his appearance. It was a far cry from the CEO image he’d begun the day with.
Twisting his head to the side until his neck bones cracked and his spine groaned, Damian stretched the muscles and prepared for the upcoming clash. Amber should be pissed at him. He deserved it.
He jerked the door open, a quick pull that released the captured steam in a silent swoosh of air. His bare feet hit the soft padding of the carpet without a sound.
Amber sat cross-legged on the bed, the food tray to the side of her, her hands clasped in her lap. Her back was straight and she didn’t look at him. He scooped up his jacket and the pile of weapons he’d left on the floor then moved to the other side of the bed, setting the items down but ensuring they were still close.
He resisted a sigh, his lips thinning. He’d caused this rift between him. Now how did he cross it?
“You didn’t have to wait for me,” he finally said. She looked up at him, a blank, emotionless stare, before she turned away and removed the lids covering the plates of food.
“I didn’t mind.” She set the covers to the side before she picked up a set of chopsticks and held them out to him. “I hope you can use these. He didn’t give us forks.”
Her voice was flat. Pleasant, but lacking all the warmth of earlier. Shit. He wanted that back. Wanted to see the light in her eyes, the flush of her cheeks and hear that warm, silky voice as it challenged him. Pushed him to confront what was holding him back.
The mere fact that he wanted to do that, wanted to do whatever it took to get that warm, fighting Amber back startled him to his bare toes. It also told him more than any shaman or Ancient ever could.
Damian placed a knee on the bed and accepted the offered chopsticks from Amber. The mattress tipped slightly as he sat down on the soft surface and faced her. The silence stretched between them as she sorted out the meal and handed him a plate. Despite the fact that his stomach cramped in hunger, the enticing aroma sparking the instant craving to eat, he had lost the desire to eat.
His dragon paced impatiently as they mechanically consumed their meal. Damian resisted the urge to bounce his knee or fidget under the stretching tension that bridged between them. The light click of the chopsticks, the soft clink of the ice cubes, the slight rustling of material as Amber shifted her legs; inconsequential sounds that echoed in the deafening quiet.
“Sorry.”
Damian set his empty plate on the tray and waited for Amber’s response. He knew his coarse apology wasn’t even close to what was required.
“No problem,” she said placidly, her eyes on her plate, her motions flowing without a pause. “You owe me nothing, so there is nothing to apologize for.”
The cold words pierced his chest. She used her chopsticks to smoothly scoop up the rice and lift it to her lips, her movements as unemotional as her words. He could be a bug or lump of coal sitting across from her for all the attention she gave him.
His focus was one hundred percent on her. On her soft lips as they opened to accept the rice and then move ever so slightly to chew the food. His body responded to the non-sensual actions. His blood heated, his pulse accelerated and, unwanted, his dick hardened.
Looking away, he inhaled a quiet breath and forced his hands to relax their fisted hold against his desire.
“You’re wrong,” he finally admitted, his voice still grating with his barely suppressed need. “I owe you an explanation at a minimum.”
She lifted her gaze to assess him with guarded eyes. Her face remained impassive, but she set her plate aside and gave him her attention. Finally.
“All right, I’ll listen.” She clasped her hands in her lap and waited, giving nothing.
Where did he start? Why was he willing to tell her things he’d kept silent about forever? The answer hummed over the energy and pulsed in his chest: because she meant more than anything he’d encountered in his too-long life.
She was everything to him, if he was willing to take the risk.
Chapter Seventeen
“The energy betrayed me,” Damian said, the low gravel of his voice scratching through the heavy silence to crunch under the weight of the emptiness that separated them. He had shifted to rest against the headboard, his fist clenching the opposing wrist as they rested on his bent knees. “I find it hard to trust in something that has caused me so much pain. To trust something that lied to me, about me, is nearly impossible for me to do.”
The admission was pretty much what Amber had expected. That much had been obvious—what she hoped for was the reason behind the distrust. But she refused to ask, to beg further. Anything he gave her had to be given freely or it would mean nothing.
So, instead of responding, Amber removed the tray, now littered with empty plates, to the floor next to the door she assumed was an exit. With her back to him, she took a steadying breath, then straightened and returned to sit on the corner of the bed. The corner farthest from Damian.
He watched her with hooded eyes, the emotions hidden behind a shield so thick it was impossible to tell what he was thinking, let alone feeling. Amber clasped her hands in her lap to hide the telling shake, tightened the lock around her heart and presented the same stoic face that he displayed to her.
One that she was well-versed in. He wasn’t the only one who’d lived a life of betrayal.
Damian closed his eyes before he let his head sag against the dark wood headboard. “I haven’t told this story since it happened a thousand years ago.” His lips moved, but the rest of his body remained still. “I haven’t trusted anything or anyone since the night I lost everything.”
With his dark, penetrating eyes hidden behind his closed lids, Amber’s lower lip was immediately attacked by her teeth. She allowed the nervous habit to fester while he wasn’t looking. It also kept her from breaking the silence that once again circled them in strained intimacy.
She would listen. She owed him that much.
Anything more, he would have to earn.
Damian struggled to block the images that threatened to break him. After holding back the reel for so long, refusing to let the movie play or even let the highlights be displayed, the sudden release of the show was enough to crush him if he let it all go at once.
He would start with the basics. Maybe easing into it would be easier.
“Energy—the most powerful element on Earth,” he began. “It is what we, the Energy races, have fought over since life began and the power of the energy was defined. A fight that still rages. Different locations, different players. But still, it plays on. Energen versus Shifter.”
He paused and waited behind the safety of his closed eyelids. She said nothing. He heard her nearly imperceptible inhale. But he felt her almost like she was curled beside him, holding him tight against the memories that threatened to choke him.
She hadn’t spoken a word, but she was listening. Waiting.
His need to tell his tale was suddenly as strong as his need to hold her tight to his side where she belonged.
The resounding truth of that image pushed him forward into the darkness of the past. The present evaporated as he returned to the dark events that had occurred a thousand years ago. When his brother was still alive. When he still believed in the energy, in the truth it told.
He felt the words leave his mouth, but his consciousness wasn’t in the present. With the release of the show, he let the past roll in and take him under.
The field was dark, the sun long gone. The night hung heavy and waiting around the figures contained within the large ring of fire.
The circle cast, the battle prepared.
Khristos, Damian’s older brother—the eldest of three—and heir to the House of Air, stood strong, tall and courageous in the center. His blond hair fanned around his head with the stroke of the wind, his muscular frame tense and ready. The firelight danced across his bare chest and gleamed off the sharp edge of the sword clutched in his fist.
Behind him huddled a small, thin female. She crouched in fear, almost lost in the deerskin cloak that hugged her body. She hid her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking in uncontained fright.
The Shifter, dressed in black, dark hair long and uncontained, stood across from his brother. A cruel smile lifted his mouth, a long, black blade held at his side.
Damian stood outside the flames, outside the circle. Looking in, but unable to enter. Arriving too late to join the fight. Too late to help his brother.
Heat radiated from the fire, scorched his flesh and blistered his hands as he fought to enter the battle. To break down the shield that barred him. The Shifter had cast the circle, and the energy forbade Damian entry. Held him out while it trapped his brother and the woman he protected. Inside the circle, the war raged between the two combatants: Air versus Fire. Energen versus Shifter.
The metal clang of clashing swords rang hollow and high across the open expanse of the field. The energy peaked and flowed as the fight crested and volleyed.
Disbelief pummeled Damian when Khristos lost his footing, stumbled, then fell. Damian punched at the wall of flames, desperation pounding in his chest, blanking his mind to everything but the need to help. To save.
A need denied.
Damian’s dark tunic burst into flames, his driving desire taking him too close to the inferno that blocked him. Absently, he stripped and discarded the clothing. The flesh burns ignored.
The Shifter launched a fireball, the tumbling ball of flame nailing his d
owned brother in the chest. Denial roared from Damian, the sound echoing across the night on empty waves of pain. Sweat rolled down his spine and dripped from his forehead. His hands were raw, blistered and burnt from the blaze before him.
The agony of the burns was nothing compared to the torture of his own inability. Of helplessness.
Surprise, pain and anger flashed across Khristos’s face before he slammed into the ground, the force of the fireball grinding his back into the cold, hard earth. A piercing scream wrenched through the still air, the female a mass of frozen terror as the Shifter advanced on them.
His brother made a desperate attempt to defend the woman. He scrambled backwards on his elbows, dragging the terrified female with him. Khristos used the last of his waning energy to blow the Shifter back in a failed attempt to hold off his aggressor.
A faint wisp of hope stirred within Damian when his brother struggled up to regain his footing. Khristos could not be defeated. He was the strongest brother. A brave warrior. A proven, trained fighter. He had taught Damian everything, was one of the most respected members of their enclave.
Khristos could not die.
The Shifter flung another fireball into Khristos’s chest; the force of the impact lifted his feet off the ground, suspending his body in the air before he slammed down to the hard ground.
Harsh, violent rejection curled in Damian’s gut. Blatant refusal to accept what he watched. What his eyes saw, but his mind could not process. Wet trails of liquid streamed down his face unchecked.
His brother rolled to his side, defeat etched into the lines of pain that sprang from his eyes and circled his clenched lips.
The Shifter’s deep laugh echoed through the thick air—evil, victorious, merciless. The female’s whimpering scream followed. The two sounds at complete odds yet synchronous.
Khristos struggled to lift his torso and brace himself on his elbow. His bleak eyes met Damian’s through the flames before he blinked and turned away. Resignation settled across his battered features.