by Eden Bradley
He ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t mean to make her feel bad.”
“And I don’t mean to make you feel bad. This isn’t about rubbing your nose in anything. I don’t operate that way. Just be open to talking with her, Declan. You’re both adults. We have to treat her as an adult if she’s to find her place in the world.”
“That makes sense, I guess. It does.”
Why did he feel as though Ruth was trying to give him permission to be with Angel? It was too weird.
He did want to be with her. No question about it. But that didn’t mean he had to do more than recognize it. He didn’t have to act on it. Angel may be an adult, physically, but she was still an innocent young woman who’d been isolated from the world. A virgin, for God’s sake. Could she have the maturity to make intelligent decisions about her own life? Wasn’t that why she was still basically under his care?
It wouldn’t be forever. Eventually Angel would be capable of caring for herself. She would move on, make a life for herself.
He didn’t want it to be without him.
But wanting to be with her was crazy. Wasn’t it?
Or was it?
He still didn’t know what to think. What to feel. If he should allow himself to feel anything.
Too damn late for that.
That was the truth. He cared for Angel. More than cared. He wasn’t ready to look at how deep those feelings ran. He never had, not since Abby. But it had been over six years. How long was he going to carry that shit around with him? The bitterness. The loss. The need to remain completely shut down, a wall between him and every other person on the fucking planet.
Angel had broken through that wall already.
He was right. It was too damn late.
* * *
DECLAN STOOD ON THE PORCH, throwing an old tennis ball for Liam, trying to work on a small carving of a trout between throws. The dog never tired of this game. He’d probably chase the ball until he dropped, if Declan’s arm didn’t wear out first. But it kept Liam happy, and it created a sort of meditative state for him, too. He’d been playing with the dog for a good half hour. Angel was inside now, cleaning up from dinner. She’d insisted, even though she’d been the one to cook. She was a good cook. It was nice to come home to a hot meal.
And Christ, was he really that guy? The kind that goes to work all day and comes home to dinner and a beautiful woman? Had he ever wanted to be that guy? Had he ever thought he could?
Having Angel around was making him question himself too much for comfort. But he liked having her there. Too much for comfort.
He lifted his arm, ball in hand, and Liam watched him with absolute concentration, his body tensed for the throw. Declan pitched the ball and Liam raced after it, his big, pink tongue lolling. He went back to the piece of wood in his hand, shaping the tiny scales, while Liam ran for the ball and came loping back.
He’d spent the week trying not to think about his conversation in Ruth’s office, but of course, it was all he could think about. He couldn’t escape the realizations he’d had that day. About Angel. About himself. No matter how practiced he was at keeping a lid on his emotions it kept coming up.
Liam nudged the ball with his big nose, and Declan rolled it under his booted foot, holding it there.
“That’s enough, boy. You’re gonna wear us both out.”
Liam watched the ball longingly for a few moments, then sat down at the bottom of the stairs, wagging his stumpy tail. Declan let his gaze rest on the trees, highlighted by the lowering sun. The air was getting misty with the first of the evening fog, bringing the rich, loamy scent of the woods to life. He took a deep breath, held the cool air in his lungs.
The issue of sex kept coming up, too. Not that Angel had tried to get back into his bed again. Not that it was anything new. But he thought of her constantly: while he was at work, when he was with her, when he was alone in his bed or in the shower. He’d stopped resisting that pull, figuring it was better to work it out of his system. Not that it ever seemed to help for more than a few minutes.
He groaned. He had to stop this physical obsession he had with her. Somehow.
He rubbed his fingers over the wood, letting the rough texture bite into his skin. Why couldn’t he calm down? It hadn’t gotten any better. If anything, it was more intense as he and Angel got to know each other. They were comfortable together now, despite the hot zing of chemistry between them. Despite how much energy it took for him to resist the absolute driving fucking need to touch her. Be with her. Some days he didn’t know how much longer he was capable of resisting. Not that he’d jump on her out of the blue. But if she came into his bed again…
Liam jumped up and Declan knew Angel had come out onto the porch.
“Declan, may Liam have a little beef stew? I saved some of the meat for him.”
“Sure.”
She came to sit next to him on the porch steps. He did his best to ignore the heat emanating from her body. The smell of her hair. The tightening in his groin.
“Dinner was great. Thanks, Angel.”
“You’re very welcome. I like to cook for you.”
“Liam likes it, too.” He patted the dog’s head, who only had eyes for Angel, hoping for another bit of meat.
She was in one of the sundresses she’d taken to wearing. She loved anything with flowers on it, and he’d taken her shopping at a local boutique recommended by Georgia and bought her a good dozen. The shopping had overwhelmed her, but she’d loved it.
All too aware of the rise of her full breasts above the edge of floral cotton, he realized he’d never thought to suggest she buy a bra. Not that he minded.
“I brought a paper towel for you, Declan. I know how slobbery Liam’s toys get.”
“Thanks.”
He set his unfinished carving down on the stair, took the paper towel, wiped his hands. They sat quietly together then, listening to the sounds of the forest settling in for the night: the soft chirping of the birds, the quiet sigh of the wind in the leaves. They did this often, both of them content in the still evening air.
“What are you working on?” she asked him, picking up the half-finished piece.
“It’s a trout. A steelhead, like the ones my dad and I used to catch.”
“Is this for him?”
“What? No. I don’t know.” He took it from her, rubbed his thumb over the grooves in the wood.
“Oran would like it, I think.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
He looked up and Angel’s blue gaze was soft on his. She rubbed her arms, pulled her hair around her shoulders. Even in the dying light, it still looked like spun silk. Golden. Shining.
“Are you cold, Angel?”
“No. I’m warm enough. I don’t want to go in until the sun is done setting. I don’t want to miss it. I’ve always loved the sunset.”
“Do you miss it?” he asked her, not even certain why he felt a need to bring it up. “Do you miss your old life, Angel?”
“Sometimes. I still miss my garden, but my leg is so much better, I hope to plant here soon. A new garden will soothe me.”
“But you need soothing.”
He looked at her closely. Her face wore her usual sweet expression, but her sky-blue eyes were serious, and there was a small frown on her lovely mouth. Her hands twisted together in her lap.
“Yes. I miss The Grandmother. I know you think it’s strange. But I do. She was all I knew my entire life.”
“For most of it, anyway. Do you remember anything before that yet?”
“Small flashes sometimes.” Her golden brows furrowed. “I sometimes see things just as I’m falling asleep. A woman with hair the same color as mine, and my eyes. She has warm hands. But when she talks to me I can’t understand what she’s saying. And then it goes away.”
“Your mother, maybe?”
“Maybe. How would I know?”
He nodded. He still had only the faintest grasp on what it was like to be her. Someone with a lost p
ast. A lost family.
“There had to be good times in your life, Angel.” He wanted there to be. He couldn’t stand to think of her in some constant, utterly miserable existence. Fucking awful to think of her like that.
“There were good times. When The Grandmother felt well we would talk in the evenings about what I had read that day.” She took the ends of her long hair, twisted them between her fingers, her gaze going distant. “She knows so much. I loved when she taught me about the ways of herbs, the ways of the birds and the earth. And when she was ill, I liked to care for her…not that she was sick, of course, but the taking-care-of-her part. Is that odd?”
“I don’t think so. In my mind it means you’re empathetic. It’s a good trait.”
Angel smiled, that lovely, brilliant smile, and then it dimmed. “It wasn’t all good, Declan.”
“I know.”
“There are many things I haven’t told you. I’ve talked to Ruth. I know you have some bits and pieces, but there’s more.”
“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”
“But I do. I want you to know. Is that all right?”
“Yeah. Of course.”
She reached out and took his hand in hers. Her fingers were warm. The heat of her was there, but he pushed those thoughts aside to listen. His stomach was pulled tight. He knew whatever she had to tell him was going to be hard as hell to hear. Hard to have her looking right at him while she told him this awful shit, but he wasn’t going to turn away from her.
“You know I was with her from a very young age. Ruth and I have figured that I was about five years old. I remember being afraid of her, The Grandmother. Well, I was always afraid of her, but at first there was nothing but the fear. She did some…terrible things to me.” Angel stopped, her grip tightening on his hand. “She started giving me the herbs—the drugs—even then. She would drug me and sit me on her lap by the fire and tell me things. I suppose she was teaching me her ways, her beliefs. That was how it started. I didn’t even know at first there were other people. The compound. She kept me to herself for a while. Maybe as long as a year. Maybe more.”
Her face was tightening up a little at a time, turning into a rigid mask. He’d never seen her like this and it scared the shit out of him. But he didn’t want to interrupt her.
“Things got harder,” she went on. “She started to take me outside at night, into the forest. The others came, then. I never saw their faces. They wore hoods. I only heard their chanting voices, and sometimes they would whisper to each other, but I rarely understood what they were saying. When I was little I thought they were ghosts in the dark. As I got older I would see their shoes when I was tied to the ground, and I understood they were real people.”
“Jesus,” he whispered. It slipped out, he couldn’t help it. But it was as though she hadn’t heard him.
“They staked me to the ground and spread rock salt around me in a circle. I was always naked. I don’t mind being naked, but sometimes it was cold. And the ground was hard, even with the dreaming herbs. And I remember when they tattooed my palms…”
She let go of his hand, held both of hers faceup, looking down at the red pentagrams there, then curled her fingers closed. It hurt him to see those marks in her skin, to think of what she’d been through. Too fucking awful. But he was going to sit there and listen as long as she needed to talk about it.
Her voice was fading, but she was still talking. “The Grandmother was always in charge. No one dared to speak against her, to argue with her. Everyone did her bidding. I came to understand that very early on. They worshipped her, I think, almost as much as they did the Dark God.”
He swallowed hard, trying to keep quiet, to let her speak no matter how awful it was.
“Sometimes they cut me…” Her voice was a whisper and he had to strain to hear her. “They used a hunting knife. It was different from The Grandmother’s ritual knife. Hers has a handle made from hazelwood. The others would make just small cuts to gather my blood. They marked me in my own blood. More pentagrams, other symbols. And then I would go to the dream place.” She took a quick breath, exhaled. “There is a place, another plane—I’ve told you a little about it before.”
“Yeah.” He didn’t like to think about what went on there. That whole demon thing. She hadn’t brought it up for a while. “As long as you understand it’s just a dream.”
She wrapped her arms around herself, seemed to come out of the daze she’d been in while talking, looked right at him. “I don’t want to tell more just now, Declan.”
“Sure. Whatever you want. I understand.”
“Do you?” She was watching him very closely, as if the answer were crucial.
“What do you mean?”
“A life is made up of both good and bad. Can you know someone if you don’t know both?”
He wasn’t sure he liked where this conversation was going. But it was true. He shrugged. “You’re right, I guess.”
“I want us to know each other.”
“So do I.” More than he liked to think about.
“Declan, I’ve told you some of my bad. Will you tell me about yours?” He started to shake his head, but she insisted. “Please tell me. Share that part of yourself with me. Please, Declan.”
How could he deny her? He didn’t want to talk about this stuff. But she was right. And some part of him was actually eager to get it out. To let her know him. And who else could he talk to about it? There was no one but Angel. There never had been.
“Okay. I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you the things I never talk to anyone about.”
CHAPTER NINE
THE SUN WAS SINKING BEYOND the veil of trees, their branches making dark silhouettes against the sky. The mist was coming in, giving Angel tiny goose bumps over her arms and shoulders, but she didn’t want to go inside to get a sweater. Declan was ready to talk to her about his pain, and she didn’t want to risk doing anything that might undermine the shaky trust he had in her at this moment.
Declan rubbed a hand over his jaw, at the scar that ran along it, then ran his fingers through his hair. He wouldn’t look at her. But that was all right. The important thing was that he talk to her.
“I don’t know where to start. There’s my mom…and Abby. And my father.”
“Ruth always tells me to start at the beginning.”
“Okay. Okay.” He sat a few more moments, staring off into the trees, while all around them the forest grew darker, quieter. “So…my mother got sick. I was about twenty, away at college in San Francisco. I came home right away. Do you know about cancer, Angel?”
He looked at her, his eyes gleaming in the pale light coming through the windows from the one lamp she’d lit in the living room. They were a deep, midnight-blue. Full of banked emotion.
“Yes. One of The Grandmother’s dogs had cancer when he got old. I read about it. I wanted to help his pain, but it was hard—he hurt no matter what I did. I’m sorry, Declan.”
He turned away once more, and she thought perhaps it was easier for him to talk that way.
“Everything happened really fast.” He shook his head. “Actually, it took months. But I felt…shocked the whole time. Anyway…she had a round of chemotherapy, and it worked at first. Then it stopped working. She got sicker and sicker. They offered another treatment, more chemo, something new. They said it would give her more time.”
He stopped, and she watched the tight line of his shoulders, his mouth. She could hear his strained breath. She wanted to reach out, to touch him, soothe him. But she understood he wouldn’t want that right now. He was too involved in the old pain that still hurt him so much.
“So,” he continued after a long pause, “she decided she didn’t want it. I asked my dad to talk her into it. He refused. Said she could make her own decisions. But goddamn it, she was too sick.” His voice was a low growl, but she could hear the fury there as easily as if he were yelling. “He should have done it. He should have made the decision for h
er, taken it out of her hands.”
He went quiet and Angel let him sit for a few moments. “Declan, she may have simply been ready.”
His head whipped up at that, his stare hard on her face. “Ready to die?”
Oh, yes, he was angry. But she knew it wasn’t really directed at her.
“Yes. She may have had enough suffering. And chemotherapy is terribly hard on a person’s body, isn’t it? I read about it in the books.”
“It was fucking torture for her. Five months of it.”
“I know you wanted her to stay with you. But you can’t ask that she choose to suffer more in order to do that.”
“It would have extended her life. It wasn’t just for me,” he insisted.
“Wasn’t it?”
His eyes narrowed and she could feel the anger and the grief radiating from him like a wave of heat. Except that everything about him was icy cold. She shivered. But she wasn’t going to let this go. She knew she was right.
“I don’t mean to be cruel, Declan. But if she didn’t want to live any longer, and your father—her husband and life mate—accepted that decision, then it wasn’t up to anyone else to make. Not even her child. That’s the only way I can see it, and perhaps I’m wrong. But I think the earth was ready to receive her, Declan, and she was ready to go. This is part of the cycle. We must all accept. When we don’t, the pain and the fear and the grief build up until we drown in it.”
He rubbed his palms on his jeans, his mouth loosening a little. “Maybe.” He pulled in a deep breath, blew it out. “I don’t know. I’ve been so used to carrying this around with me. Being pissed off because it’s easier, maybe.”
“Is it really easier? After all these years, don’t you want to simply feel better?” Angel asked.
“Maybe part of me doesn’t want to feel better. There’s some sick security in hanging on to it. And I am fucking pissed at my dad. He should have done more. He should have at least had one conversation with her. How hard would that have been? I can’t let that go. That he wasn’t willing to let her have one more chance at getting better. That he wasn’t willing to give us one more chance at being a family.”