by Sue Wilder
“Don’t. Lexi’s here. She’s safe. There’s no reasonable way you could have caused—or prevented—Elene Santori’s death.”
“That doesn’t change the outcome.”
“You’re angry.”
“Angry is not the correct word, Marge.” Lexi was his life and had been from the first innocent smile. He accepted death from old age, part of a natural cycle for humans, but not death due to his failures, and he would never survive receiving a small, sad package like the one that would be Elene Santori. Not a second time. The first had put him in the Void.
“Fight the right enemy, Christan. Not your emotions.”
He turned his head and stared at Marge, his eyes dark pools. Marge touched his arm. “Talk to me, Christan. As the man who loves her, not the immortal enforcer.”
“I told you what they did to her cottage,” he said. “To her bed before they nailed that cat to the headboard. What do you think they’ll do if they find her again?” Christan had shared the details from the basement in Florence, the man tied to the chair, and Marge had absolved both his—and Arsen’s—sins. “Do you know what I thought today? Standing in that tunnel, looking at a dead girl with blond hair? Then I was goddamned relieved, Marge. Relief is not a human emotion I can afford to have.”
“That’s why they left Elene Santori there, surely you realize it.”
“And Phillipe is making it worse.”
“He’s teaching her.”
“He’s pinning a target on her back and you damn well know it. She’s not safe because she’s immortal. Everything can be killed, Marge. An immortal’s body can only heal so much before it falters beneath overwhelming force.” His voice was bitter. “I’ve watched it happen often enough.”
“You love her. You’re doing the best you can, but sometimes the best isn’t what you should think about.”
Christan understood she was offering comfort, but he didn’t want comfort. What he wanted had deeper origins.
Marge continued, “I have to say this, Christan, because it’s something you need to hear. You’re trying to protect her, but Lexi is strong, more your equal now than she’s ever been. She’ll meet you as the lover you need but not if you keep holding her back. You aren’t protecting her when you push her behind you. Lexi needs to stand at your side.”
“Is that what I’m doing, pushing her behind me?”
“Sometimes love blinds us to what we need the most.”
“That doesn’t mean we should be blind to danger,” he responded, his head turned away. Marge didn’t take his action as an insult; they often talked about the way people avoided difficult emotions, and he was no different. His emotions were always difficult around his blood mate.
“You need to talk to her.”
“I won’t know what to say.”
“Neither will she. But you still need to do it, Christan. The distance between you won’t go away on its own.”
“She won’t listen.”
“Neither will you,” Marge said, patting his shoulder. “But I’ve told her the same thing.”
Christan listened to the night cry of an owl, the soft scuffling of small creatures, hiding in the underbrush beneath the cool black pines. He flashed back to the dark tunnel before he caught the faint sound of Lexi’s voice as she spoke to Phillipe outside her cabin door.
The immortal was attentive, taking the increased need for security seriously enough to walk his pupil home. Lexi sounded… happy. Her scent floated in the damp air, the memory of oranges and sunshine piercing in intensity. Christan turned, shifting into his favorite puma form before disappearing into the dark.
✽✽✽
It was late when Lexi walked outside the cabin door and sat on the steps, staring up at a sky that held the lonely stars while the air held the memory of rain. It was too early for bed, but she wasn't interested in sleeping since the dreams came every night that Christan didn’t stay, and he’d been gone more than he was around. Marge said she needed to talk to him, but Lexi didn’t know what to say. He wouldn’t listen, anyway.
She unfolded a mohair throw, an unexpected gift from Marge; it was in a luscious shade of plum with white stripes marking the ends, and Lexi wrapped it around her shoulders, buried her arms into the warmth. Beneath the throw, she wore a soft plaid shirt that smelled of Christan, and the tiny blue shorts that weren’t warm enough. Lexi looked at her bare feet, at her toes, the nails painted with the pretty pink polish Marge insisted she try. A slim silver chain with a dangling onyx stone slid around one ankle. Her grandmother had given it to her. Now she wore it because it reminded her of someone else.
The night cooled, the air rising, bringing with it a profound fragility. This was her world now, and it overwhelmed her. Everywhere she looked she remembered Christan, sensed his presence while he remained beyond her reach. And then she felt him, almost stood up to meet him face to face when the puma emerged from the shadows as if he was part myth—which he was, stalking slowly across the darkened ground to sit in the pool of light at the base of the steps. The long tail twitched. Lexi watched those golden eyes flicker before Christan shifted into his human form.
“It’s not safe out here,” he said, his voice deep and dark.
“Marge told me you were back. I knew you were patrolling the grounds.”
“Then it’s too cold out here.”
“I was waiting.”
“Why?” he asked, suspicious.
“I’m cooking,” she said, rising to her feet. “Come inside, Christan. You know I don’t like eating alone.”
✽✽✽
Lexi turned, and Christan watched the way her body moved as she climbed the steps. He hadn’t liked finding her outside where she was vulnerable, but he wanted to see her. Slowly, he followed her inside and closed the door. Lexi was ahead of him. When she passed the butter-soft couch, she tossed the throw aside. It slid like a purple flower to the floor. Christan picked it up, folding the soft material that smelled of her before draping it across the cushions.
He glanced around the cabin. Evidence of her personality was everywhere, in the tiny collection of stones arranged on a shelf, the twigs, cleaned by the elk down to the mellow white of the inner wood. Beside the twigs sat a feather, shimmering with black and bright blue, and beyond the shelves he could see Lexi walking into the kitchen, silent on bare feet. Blond hair drifted over her shoulders as she reached into the refrigerator, pulling out small packages and arranging them on the black marble counter. Christan watched the way the light slid down the curve of her back.
“What are we cooking?” he asked when she seemed satisfied with her efforts. Little dishes held ingredients lined up in a specific order.
“Something Italian. I’m making it up as I go.” Lexi set a heavy pan on the stove, poured olive oil from a green glass bottle.
“Can I help?”
“You can open the wine.”
Medallions of chicken dropped into the oil when it was hot enough to sizzle. Christan sat on the stool at the island counter while he opened the bottle of wine. Lexi had already set out the Italian bread he liked, with a plate of olive oil and salt. Behind him, the logs in the fireplace popped, flames leaping, and he realized she did that on her own, not needing him. He looked at her bare legs again and concentrated on the wine.
Lexi kept her back turned as she chopped the onions and tossed them into the pan. Rich scents warmed the kitchen. Christan remembered the way she enjoyed cooking, loved relaxing against the counter with a glass of wine while she watched the stove and they talked casually, sharing the day. He hadn’t been talking much since Phillipe arrived, held himself back for whatever reason. He realized he missed her companionship now, as she cooked for him. Wondered what it might be like to have her cook for him every night, or he could cook for her. They could trade off days. It would be like those mechanical signs that flipped from one image to another, gourmet meals one night, something warm and raw the next. He’d never cooked much.
Christan rose and ha
nded her the wineglass. When he returned to the stool he noticed her laptop, open on the desk. A stack of papers sprawled beneath the round stone used as a paperweight. “Have you been researching?” he asked, because that was what she did and she was good at it.
“I have a new client.” Lexi took a sip of the wine. The tip of her tongue moved against her bottom lip before she turned back to the stove. “Fortunately, I can do everything online with the past files I have on hand.”
“You’ve researched the location before?”
“It’s well-known. I’m updating accommodations and meeting rooms.”
She was smashing a garlic clove with the flat side of the knife, and Christan watched her hands move. “Do you miss it?”
“Not entirely.” The garlic went into the pan. Lexi poured sauce into a waiting bowl, using a prepared recipe from the lodge chef, but Christan remembered how she always doctored it with secrets of her own. The chef had asked her once, but she wouldn’t share. When the sauce was finished, she set the bowl aside, opened the refrigerator again. A plate was put in front of him and Christan saw slices of tomato with basil leaves and little balls of mozzarella.
He reached out and took her wrist, his thumb sliding against the memory lines beneath the skin. “Are you happy, cara?”
“I ask myself that question all the time.”
“Have you found an answer?”
“Not entirely.”
He let her go and Lexi returned to the stove, turning down the flame as the pasta began to boil. Steam curled from the pan. She was stirring the sauce, fishing out the bits of garlic because they’d done their job and she knew he didn’t like them in his food. Christan felt totally inadequate with no idea how to reach her.
“How was Portland,” she asked as she plated the food and set one dish in front of him. And because Christan wanted to confide in her, he told her about the day. Told her about the meeting with Darius and Arsen, about a young boy in a blue shirt with a superhero on the front, and finally about a murdered girl in a dark tunnel beneath the ground. Lexi was silent as she listened, and he watched the expressions on her face. “I’ll have to go back to Florence.”
“Why Florence?”
“Ethan discovered the girl is under One’s protection and needs an escort home. It was our responsibility to keep her safe.”
“You couldn’t keep Elene Santori safe if you didn’t know she was here,” Lexi pointed out as she collected the plates and took them to the sink. “Will you go alone?”
“Arsen and Darius will be with me.” Christan spoke casually, but Lexi turned and held his gaze as if she knew.
“This is about Zurich,” she said. “The Calata summoned you.”
“Yes.”
“When will you leave?”
“In two days.”
“And Phillipe will go?”
“I believe so.”
“Are you concerned?”
Christan rose to his feet and began to help, rinsing the dishes in the sink. “We expected it,” he said, squirting out a little soap, watching for a reaction as Lexi put the extra food away. She seemed calm, accepting, but he wasn’t ready to feel relieved.
“I’ll be going, too,” she said, closing the refrigerator and surveying the kitchen, looking for anything left undone. Christan dried his hands on the towel and faced her.
“No.”
“Phillipe told me about the inquiry.”
“It was none of his business to tell you.”
“The Calata issued an official summons and Three made him deliver it in person. Some formality. He said I’m a required witness.”
Christan’s voice was brittle when he said, “They have no authority over you. Did he tell you that, too?”
Lexi turned out the kitchen lights, took her glass and the bottle of wine and walked into the living area.
“I want to go.” She sat on the butter-soft couch and put the wine on the low table in front of her. Christan followed but kept his back to the wall.
“Why?”
Lexi shrugged as if embarrassed. “To defend you.”
Firelight reflected the gold in her hair and Christan softened slightly. “Thank you, cara, but I’d rather have you safe.”
“Your fallback position.” Lexi refilled her glass, sipped as she leaned back and crossed her legs with a resolve Christan recognized. “I’ve been summoned, and I’ve decided to go. You weren’t alone in Zurich. Six tried to kill me, too.”
Christan agreed, knowing Lexi was safer with him than if he left her at the compound with only Robbie and Marge, but Florence meant closer to Six.
“You’ll find the entire inquiry tedious and entirely in Italian,” he said, trying to sound bored as he sipped the wine.
“And I don’t understand Italian.” Lexi’s attention drifted to the flames curling around white logs in the fireplace. “In the past lives, did we always speak Italian?”
“No, not always.”
“But it’s the language you use the most.”
“Other than English, I suppose.” Christan wondered about this new line of questioning.
Her gaze remained on the flames, flickering in shades of white and yellow. “What do you think it means, that you speak to me in Italian when I don’t understand?”
Christan watched the movement of her throat as she swallowed a sip of the wine, the way the light caught the sadness in her eyes.
“I don’t know,” he said carefully. “Does it have to mean something?”
“Everything means something. When I dream of us, I dream in Italian and I understand every word. But when you speak Italian in this life I’m lost.”
He said nothing. His throat had tightened, and it was difficult to speak.
“Have you ever noticed that you revert to Italian when we fight?” she asked. “And then you leave.”
He hadn’t realized he did that until she told him. “Marge says I avoid emotion.”
“She told me the same thing. She said I preferred to run away rather than face an uncomfortable moment.”
Christan studied the wine in his glass. “She might be right.”
“About what?”
“The running. For both of us.”
“It can’t be that easy.” Her glass was empty, and she set it aside. Christan wanted to make love to her and she couldn’t even look at him when they had a simple conversation. He set his glass on the nearest flat surface.
“What is it you want, cara?”
She still couldn’t look at him. “I want you to love me and you always leave.”
“Is this you talking or Gemma?”
Her anger flared. “Both. Maybe it’s all the girls from the past lives. Maybe you have commitment issues.”
Christan moved in and she jumped up, took a step back, coming up against the corner of the couch. Christan remained still, didn’t go after her, but he refused leave this argument with this woman who made him so crazy; she was finally looking at him.
“Commitment issues?” he repeated softly.
“How many times have we tried this?”
“How many times do you think we’ve tried this? Ten? Twenty?”
“You know I don’t remember.”
She wasn’t as sure of herself; Christan saw it in her eyes as she scrambled over the back of the couch as if she were the frightened doe and he the stalking cat. Which, of course, he was.
Lexi pushed at her hair. Her fingers were delicate. “I think it must be too many,” she said. “How can I even be sure, this time?”
“What proof would be enough for you?”
Christan advanced until her back was pressed against the wall. He watched the movement of her tongue as she moistened her lips and tried to slide closer to the door. He intercepted the escape. Her breathing grew wobbly, the tiny gasps giving her away.
“I wasn’t asking for proof,” she said when he drew too close. “I wasn’t setting up prerequisites.”
“You weren’t?”
“You alway
s misinterpret.”
“Then what do you want from me?” And if there was a bite to the question it came from the way she made him feel—as if he was lost and aching to be found.
“If you need to ask,” she began archly, but he interrupted with the efficient slice of the blade.
“No, you need to tell me what you want.”
Her eyes were deep amber pools. “I want to sleep and I can’t when you’re not here.”
“Because I keep the monsters away?” She nodded. “What else do I do?”
“Keep me warm.”
“You have blankets for that. What. Else.”
“Keep me from dreaming.”
“What did you dream?” Christan brushed his knuckles along the curve of her jaw. She turned her face, but it wasn’t completely away. He thought she was grieving inside.
“I dream about when we were happy.”
“We can’t go back to that old happiness,” he said.
“We can’t?”
“No, because you are you now and we have to make new happiness.”
“Can we?”
“Do you want to try? Because happiness isn’t easy. You have to work as hard as I work.”
Her mouth moved as she tried to moisten her lips again. “How?”
“Well,” he turned her face until she was looking at him, “you could touch me so I knew you wanted me.”
“Like this?” And she rose on her pink-painted toes, kissed along his throat, against his jaw. It was gentle, sweet, the intimacy of silent connection.
“Like that.” His voice was rough in his throat.
“You told me once that touch was the most erotic form of foreplay,” she whispered.
“Other than the imagination,” he agreed. “And I’m imagining everything I want to do with you.”