by J. Kenner
When he thrust inside her, she almost did. He consumed her, filled her, and when he pounded inside her, she was certain she was going to rip apart. She matched him, thrust for thrust, her hips bucking. They were wild, desperate for each other, as if by this frantic lovemaking they could discover the source of their connection. As if, by the melding of flesh, they could become one.
The orgasm ripped through her, and she clung to him, fingernails clenched into his shoulders, her body bucking beneath him. It was primitive and wild, and with this man, it felt completely right. Exhaustion took her, and she curled up against him, still half-clothed. His fingers played with the buttons on her shirt, finally unfastening them all and laying the material open to expose her breasts. She hadn't worn a bra, and now he stroked her, his fingers dancing lazily around her nipples.
"I'd be careful if I were you," she said dreamily. "I might demand a repeat performance."
"And I might be happy to oblige." He kissed her breast, the heat from his lips shooting straight down between her thighs. She squeezed her legs together, prolonging the pleasure, and sighed. "You're wonderful," he said.
"No, I'm not." The words came out automatically. A simple truth. And she rolled sideways, drawing her thumbnail to her mouth even as she spooned against him. She hadn't meant to bring her past into their bed, but it had come anyway, and now she shrank from the memories.
His hand idly stroked her hip, and she could feel the light touch of his breath on the back of her neck. For a moment, she didn't think he was going to speak, then he shifted, moving to sit up with his back against the headboard. She stayed where she was, but pulled her knees up to her chest. His fingers found her hair, and he stroked softly.
"I can only report what I see," he said.
"My father raped my mother," she said simply, unable to look at him. Tears welled in her eyes and she squeezed them tight, fighting the pain, trying to hold on to reason. She wasn't stupid. She knew that simply because her mother said something didn't make it so. But that didn't change the hole in her stomach when she thought about her life.
"She told me that he was more than just a bad man—that he was cursed. And that he passed it on to me."
His fingers stilled in her hair. "I'm sorry. Was he a stranger?"
"No. She knew him. He was obsessed with her, and she’d avoided him. I don’t know his first name, but his last name was Duchat."
"Duchat?" The word was a question.
"Do you know the name?"
"No. There’s something familiar about it, but ... no."
She knew she shouldn’t be disappointed—it wasn’t as if she’d expected he would know the man—and yet she couldn’t help the niggling frustration that seemed to poke at the back of her neck.
She shrugged, forcing it away. "For years, I tried to track him down. Never managed."
She drew in a shaky breath, hating that her mother’s coldness toward her because of what that man did still stung so much. "She tried to end the pregnancy. It didn't work."
"Oh, baby." He held her close. "You were—you are—innocent."
"I know. But it doesn’t feel that way. It feels like he was cursed. Like there’s something of him still inside me." She didn't want to cry. And she told herself she didn't want his sympathy. But when he whispered, "Come here," the dam burst. The tears poured out and she rolled over, letting him close his arms around her as she buried her face in his chest. She did want him, dammit. She wanted his sympathy and his support.
For the first time in her life, she not only wanted a man's love, she needed it. She needed this man's love.
He held her for an eternity, his hands gently stroking her back, his muscles taut and firm under her hands. And when the tears stopped and she was no longer shaking, he said simply, "Tell me all of it."
And she did. She told him about growing up with her mother, about never doing anything right. Of trying anything and everything to get the woman's attention until, finally, she'd forgotten just why she'd been acting out in the first place. "I stayed out late, I drank, I was rowdy as hell. I slept around. Anything and everything to prove my mother right. I was cursed. A bad girl."
"You were looking for someone," he said. "Someone to save you from your life. Or for your father, for retribution."
"No—"
"And when you didn't find either, you became a cop. Now you're helping other people. Doing for them what no one ever did for you."
His words shot through her, the touch of truth cold against her heart. "No." She whispered the protest. "I'm not that noble. All I'm doing—all I've ever done—is try to erase my mother's voice in my head."
He pressed a kiss to her hair. "The cause doesn't matter. What you're doing is noble. You are helping people, and you are doing good."
She'd been pressed against him, the top of her head to his chest so that if she opened her eyes all she saw was the bed and their bodies. Now she tilted her head up, straining to look into his eyes. "It doesn't matter," she said, "because it never ends. I can't save anyone. Not really. Hell, I can't even save myself."
"Perhaps you aren't meant to save yourself," he said. "And as for others, about that, you're wrong."
"No—"
He pressed a finger to her lips. "You can, Cate. You can save me." He stroked her cheek. "And believe me when I say that you already have."
She was obsessed with finding the escaped cat, and Luc could do nothing to dissuade her from her job.
He watched as she used her vacation days to pore over records, check 911 calls for reports of animals in alleys, and check in with the hospital, hoping that one of the victims had regained consciousness. She was concerned about the victims' condition, of course. But she also wanted information.
Luc hoped the victims survived, too, though for a different reason. While Cate wanted information, he wanted absolution. He wanted to know that he was not a murderer even though he couldn't erase the fact that he'd surely put those people through hell.
Most of all, he wanted Cate to back off the search. If they survived, and if there were no more attacks, then with time he figured she would back off. The city would assume the animal had been killed by a car or a shotgun, and that would be the end of that.
Right now, though, he knew that her blood burned with the need to capture the savage who was stalking the innocent on the streets of New Orleans. What would she do, he wondered, if she knew that he was the man she sought, the creature she'd come to hate even though she did not know him?
There was no reason for her to know. The realization came to him in a flash, and he knew that was the only way. With Cate in his arms and in his bed, he was safe. He'd carry the secret to his grave. She need never, ever know the dark parts of his soul.
Indeed, he tried to escape the dark himself. During the day, when he managed to pull her away from work, they walked the French Quarter, sipping chicory coffee and eating beignets at Cafe Du Monde before strolling down Royal and peering into the windows of the antique stores that lined the picturesque street. They held hands and laughed and joked.
At night, though, shadows loomed, the shadow of his secret most of all. And even when he was spent, exhausted after losing himself in her arms, still he lay awake, watching this woman who was his savior. This woman he'd come to love. He couldn't disappoint her. Couldn't ever let her know. The truth, he vowed, would remain hidden.
As he did every night, Luc watched as Cate's chest rose and fell, sleep having finally overtaken her. He'd meant what he'd said a few days ago. She had saved him. This woman who didn't even know her own worth was, literally, his key to salvation.
She deserved his love. And, so help him, she had it.
She murmured in her sleep, shifting against him, and he stroked her hair, saying soft things, wanting to make the world right for her. She stilled, and he simply watched her, amazed that someone so beautiful could doubt herself so much.
They sat like that for a while, him watching, absorbing the essence of Cate, until sleep
started to overtake him. He was just about to drift off when she tensed, crying out in her sleep and sitting bolt upright, her breath coming in gasps as she clutched his arm. She stared at him, her eyes wild, but she didn't seem to see him.
"Cate. Cate."
She blinked, finally focusing, the alarm on her face fading to relief. "I had a dream."
"A nightmare, more like it."
She nodded, easing herself up to hug her knees and press her body closer to his. It was a subtle motion, but it warmed him. She trusted him, wanted his comfort. And he wanted to give it to her. "Not as bad as some of my nightmares, though." She tilted her head a bit, this time aiming a gentle grin toward him. "And not nearly as pleasant as the other dreams I've been having. Though I will say that being with you makes those dreams seem pretty tame."
He had no idea what she was talking about, and his confusion must have shown on his face. "It started a few days before we met," she explained. She licked her lips. "It sounds silly, but I've been having these, well, these dreams."
A bone-deep cold settled over him, and for no reason at all, he feared her words. "What kind of dreams?" he asked, forcing himself to form the question.
Color rose on her cheeks. "At first, just erotic dreams. Very erotic. As if I was being called by someone and I could feel him touching me."
"I see." His jaw tightened, and he forced himself not to be jealous of a dream. "And was that the kind of dream that woke you just now?"
She shook her head, her eyes meeting his. "No. Those dreams have stopped since I've been with you. I think..." She trailed off, no longer meeting his eyes. "I think I don't need them anymore."
Good. But he didn't voice the thought.
"This was a nightmare." She spoke the word matter-of-factly, and he realized that this nightmare was something she lived with.
"Your mother?" he asked.
"No. These are ... violent. I don't know. It's hard to describe." She shook her head, as if shaking off a memory. At any rate, I shouldn't have even called it a nightmare. The real nightmares always have Midnight in them."
Immediately, his senses were on alert. "The panther?"
She nodded. "He's there. And he attacks. Violent, hideous attacks."
Nausea rose in his gut. Him. She was seeing him in her dreams. They were connected, he and Cate, even more than either of them had ever imagined.
He forced himself to form words. "And these dreams. Do they—" He couldn't finish the thought. It wasn't necessary. She knew what he meant.
"Yes," she said. "They seem to coincide with the maulings." Her face twisted, contorted in anger. "It's as if he's taunting me, showing me that he can attack, that he will attack, and that there's not a damn thing I can do about it."
She hugged herself, trembling slightly. "Apparently, my part in all of this is more than just my job. More even than the fact that I used to go to the zoo to watch him. It's like I've failed."
He frowned. "Failed?"
She nodded, clearly miserable. "I see the attacks in my dreams, and I should be able to do something. But I can't, and now all those people are in the hospital. I couldn't save them. Hell, I couldn't even help them."
His stomach roiled as he remembered that he was the one who put them in the hospital.
Her features hardened. "That's why I have to catch him. It's my job, yes. But I have to do it for me. For my peace of mind." She drew a breath. "I have to—no, I will—catch Midnight."
A chill settled over Luc, and he trembled, just the smallest shaking of his muscles. She felt it, though, and her face transformed. Gone was the anger, replaced with pure compassion and total beauty. "Are you okay?"
He forced a smile. "Just concerned for you." He pulled her into his arms and pressed her cheek to his chest. He wanted the feel of her against him, but he also didn't want her to see his face. "When did these dreams start?"
"My birthday," she said. "It was the last time I saw Midnight," she added. "I'd spent the day at the zoo. I'd opened my birthday present there. I'd even—" She cut off with a shake of her head, the color high on her cheeks.
"What?"
"You," she said, and his blood ran cold. Did she know? How? How could she know?
"Me?" His own voice was hardly recognizable.
"I think it must be the bottle," she said.
“Bottle?”
“A perfume bottle with gypsy writing. It was my present from a friend. But I think it did something to me. So many things have happened since then. The maulings. The visions. And..." She broke off with a little shrug, but a smile danced at her mouth. "And this connection to you."
"What do I have to do with the zoo?"
She frowned, perhaps hearing the urgency in his voice. Then she licked her lips. "That's the odd part. I first felt this connection, this thing, between us there. And I heard your voice in my head."
"My voice? What did I say?"
"That I was yours." She lifted herself and pressed a kiss to his lips. "And the voice was right. I am."
He clutched her close to him as terror coursed through his veins. She was right about the connection. But what she didn't realize was that it was all connected. Him, the maulings, everything.
"Tell me about this bottle." He asked the question more from curiosity. He had no idea what a bottle could have to do with anything.
She drew in a breath, looking disturbed.
“Cate?” he urged.
"Supposedly, it increases paranormal gifts a person might have." He saw tears glisten in her eyes. "I think—I think my mother was right, and it’s making the curse stronger."
"No." He spoke firmly. "You’re not cursed, Cate. And no bottle would change that." He ought to know. He was cursed.
He frowned, considering what she’d told him. "And your dreams haven’t changed?"
"No." She frowned. "Well, actually yes. Sort of. Since I've been with you, I no longer dream of the cat. I guess that’s a good thing." She snuggled close to him, her eyes heavy with sleep. "I love you, Luc. I don't really understand what happened between us, so fast and furious. But I want you to know that I love you."
His heart wrenched, and he stroked her hair. "And I love you, my Cate. My love."
She leaned against him, and as the moon rose outside his windows, she slept.
And Luc realized what he had to do.
Shadows taunted her.
She walked barefoot down a darkened alley, the stench of garbage hanging in the dense air. The humidity seemed to envelop her, but even so, she shivered, not from cold, but from fear.
He was out there. He was stalking her. And this time, she wouldn't escape.
A low growl filled the air, and she spun, looking for the source but finding nothing.
And then one of the dark shadows moved, taking the form of a leaping panther—teeth bared, eyes golden and lost in the thrill of the kill.
She stood frozen to the spot. So she did the only thing she could do.
Cate screamed.
The sound ripped from her throat, jerking her to consciousness, and she sat up, the cold grip of terror still on her as she fumbled beside her for Luc's warmth.
He wasn't there.
She waited, knowing he would have heard her.
Knowing he would come running to hold her. To soothe her. To make it better.
But he never came.
And as her pulse slowed, finally returning to normal, Cate hugged the pillow to her chest and told herself she wouldn't cry. This was expected, after all. The people she loved betrayed her. And Cate could rely on no one in this world but herself.
Eight
"If I might say so, sir, you are being most unreasonable."
Luc glared at Martin from behind the bars in the basement confine. He'd left Cate hours before and gone to his study, unable to hold her while knowing the truth—that the passion with which she hunted him was spurred by more than just her job. It was deep and personal.
He had to tell her the truth. He'd been selfish in thinki
ng he could keep it from her, thinking only of his own pain and not his victims'. Cate was right—he should be caught. Should be made to pay retribution even though he wanted nothing more than to live out his life in peace with Cate at his side.
And so he would leave the choice to her, even though he already knew that she’d turn him in. In her eyes, Midnight's attacks were a betrayal. So, too, would be the secret that he'd been keeping from her. And in the end, she'd do what she must. For duty, for the victims. And because, as she'd said, it was personal.
"I've made up my mind, Martin. Now can I please have some water?" He was locked in now, an unfortunate necessity, but he'd felt the change coming on. At first, despite his newfound resolve, he'd thought to go to her, to use her, his feline instincts urging him back to his mate. But he'd fought instinct, fought for his humanity to shine through, and in the end, he'd won the battle.
A dubious victory, considering he felt less than human now, locked in a cage, depending on Martin to bring him food and drink. "You cannot tell her that you attacked those people."
"I have to, Martin. She deserves the truth. She deserves to find the culprit she's been searching for."
"Dammit, man, you did not injure those people. Your parents taught you control. Don't offend their legacy by not believing."
Self-loathing consumed him. "It's not a question of belief. I've seen the blood on my hands. I attacked. Just as I attacked little Clarissa Taylor."
"The child survived, sir," Martin said.
"I almost killed a five-year-old," Luc shot back.
"Sir, you are—" Luc never found out what he was going to say because Martin's words were lost, buried beneath the pounding of blood in his ears as the force of the change struck him. The world spun out of control, and he rushed the bars, beating against them with his fists.
And then he was gone, the maelstrom sucking him in, pure animal instinct taking over and, once again, he was floating in the blackness of his own soul, awaiting the moment when awareness returned.
Cate had wasted half an hour crying in the bed, tears of anger and betrayal, then finally falling back to sleep. She'd hoped he'd come back. That she'd been wrong and he'd simply gone for a walk because he couldn't sleep.