Not from him.
“Okay,” she said, taking a deep breath. “So you don’t want to hurt me. Fine. You got me out of there. I’m safe. Can I go now?”
Dominic cocked a brow. “Go? Exactly where do you want to go?”
“How about home? It’s late. I’m tired.” Fear and worry hovered in the air around her, like a cloak. “Besides, I’ve got somebody waiting for me. I don’t want her to worry when I don’t show up.”
“Jazzy isn’t expecting you to come home.”
She froze, her slender body rigid. She was strung so tight, it was like she’d shatter if she took even one deep breath. “Jazzy?” she parroted back at him.
“Don’t worry . . . she’s safe.” But even as he said it, he laughed at himself. Ugly, acrid bitterness flooded him. How could he expect her not to be scared? She didn’t know what was going on. She didn’t know who he was—didn’t know what he was.
Hell, he didn’t think she entirely understood what she was.
How could she? She had thought he was going to kill her . . . Stop it. Stop. One step at a time. One thing at time.
“How do you know about Jazzy? And why wouldn’t she be waiting for me?”
“I know Jazzy. She’s the one who told me where to find you.” He did know Jazzy—in the shallowest sense of the word. He’d met her. He knew her name. Not a lie, right?
Hell, he wasn’t sure who he was dealing with, at least not entirely. She’d looked at him with utter fear, utter confusion—she didn’t know what he was. Which meant she didn’t know what she was . . . and if she didn’t know what she was, she didn’t know who she was.
Which meant he couldn’t exactly trust her, especially considering he could smell the blood on her.
Blood.
She had blood on her hands. He had to make sense of that, somehow. Had to, but he didn’t know where to start.
He knew where he wanted to start, though.
He needed her.
He ached . . . deep inside. Inside his heart, in a way he had never known. He knew, as surely as he knew his own name, that if he held her the pain would go away. No . . . not go away. It would change, change into that kind of ache that wouldn’t go away entirely until he had that soft, sleek body under his, with her arms wrapped around him, clutching him tight.
Maybe a few dozen years of that would help.
If he could just make love to her, let the rest of the world fall away, then later, they could make sense of everything.
Of course, he somehow suspected she wouldn’t be open to that idea.
He heard her moving behind him, drawing close. He turned and instinct had him stepping to the side at the same time. He was two feet away before she could try to brain him.
Caught off balance, she stumbled forward and the castiron poker she held struck the floor.
She scowled, spinning around to glare at him. “Damn it, how in the hell do you keep doing that?”
Okay. Might as well start with this, then. See if we can make sense of anything.
She looked completely, utterly confused, and it wasn’t any sort of act. That would reek of lies and he scented no deceit on her.
Dominic ran his tongue along the inside of his teeth, then idly pressed the tip of his tongue to the sockets where his fangs rested. Do I start there? Flash my fangs and see what happens?
So . . . do you know you’re a witch? Yes? No? Maybe? Here’s another one to try on for size . . . I’m a vampire. And I’m the reincarnation of your long-lost lover. Whaddya say . . . wanna go to bed with me?
Somehow, he didn’t see that conversation going over very well.
THERE was something seriously unnerving about the way he stared at her, Morgan decided.
It made her twitchy.
It made her edgy.
Be honest. Be honest with yourself even if you can’t do it with anybody else. He doesn’t make you twitchy or edgy.
He makes you hot.
She scowled and wished the voices in her head would start clamoring at her again. She’d had no thoughts but her own, and right now, she’d give almost anything to have those other voices whispering at her. Her id and her ego. Both of them were quiet and she was left alone to face the man in front of her.
With nothing to distract her.
Except him, of course.
And although it sounded incongruous, he could certainly distract her. She should be trying to figure out what was going on, and she was . . . sort of. When she wasn’t overcome with the urge to fling herself at him and sob on those wonderfully strong-looking shoulders. Or the skin-blistering lust that had her yearning to peel off his clothes and learn every muscle, every line of his body. With her eyes, her hands, her mouth.
Get it together, Morgan, she told herself.
“So are you going to answer me?” she asked, finally forcing a question past her tight throat.
He lifted a brow at her. “Answer what?”
“That . . . thing. Hell, I don’t know what to call it. But you move fast. Too fast.”
“Maybe I work out.”
“Superman on steroids doesn’t move that fast,” she said sourly.
A grin curled his lips. When he smiled, he had a dimple in his cheek . . . and his eyes crinkled at the corners. It was that sort of smile that would lay women low . . . that boynext-door kind of smile, with just a touch of wickedness.
“Superman wouldn’t do steroids. It would mess with his mojo,” he said.
She blinked at him, and then, to her surprise, she laughed. “Good point. And we can’t have anything messing with the Man of Steel’s mojo.” Her smile faded and she shook her head. “But you didn’t answer me.”
“Because I’m not entirely sure how to do that just yet.” He shrugged and rested his head on the back of the couch. “So, what’s your name?”
Morgan narrowed her eyes. “I thought you knew my sister.”
“I do.”
“You know my sister, know her well enough that she told you where to find me, but she never mentioned my name,” Morgan said slowly. Not likely.
He lifted his head just long enough to meet her eyes. “She was too busy sputtering about what a mistake you were making.” He lay his head back down and murmured softly, “A bad mistake. The worst kind.”
Yeah, she’d figured that much out. She’d known it going in but she hadn’t seen another way out. Actually, I just didn’t look hard enough, she admitted.
“Where is Jazzy?” Morgan asked, folding her arms over her chest.
“Someplace safe. I’m not sure where.” He didn’t sound too concerned with that fact, either.
“You don’t know where she is.”
“No.”
Morgan ground her teeth together and tried, for about five seconds, not to lose it. Then she bit off, “I need to find her.”
“Do you? Why?” he asked, his voice oddly flat. He came off the couch, his muscles uncoiling, that lean body unfolding. He hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans and watched her from unreadable dark eyes.
Morgan stared at him. “Why?” she echoed. “Damn it, she’s my sister. That is why. She’s my responsibility. I need to take care of her.”
“You were doing a lousy job of it today.”
She flinched as though he’d slapped her. It would have hurt less if he had. Tears burned her eyes but she blinked them back. Spinning on her heel, she folded her arms over her chest and stared at the wall. “This is none of your business, you know.”
“I hauled your butt out of a mess of trouble. That kind of makes it my business, at least in some way,” he said after a few seconds.
“Nobody asked you to haul my butt out of anything. I was handling it.”
“You were scared to death.”
Morgan glared at him over her shoulder. “I was handling it. It was my mess—it was my responsibility to clean it up.”
“Yeah, it was your mess. And that’s why I found your sister hightailing it out of town like she had demons cha
sing after her,” he responded. He shook his head. “You honestly don’t realize how much trouble you were in, do you? Jazzy, that kid you claim is your responsibility, has a better head on her shoulders than you do. She knew something bad was going down and she had the common sense to get the hell out of Dodge. But you were lingering right in the middle of ground zero, admiring your manicure.”
She flushed. “I wasn’t admiring my manicure.” She shot a glance at her nails—they were bedraggled, cracked and desperately in need of some TLC. The hangnail she’d been picking at was gone, revealing a small, tender red area. “I was . . . ”
“Trying not to let that bastard see how scared you were?” he offered.
Somehow, she knew he wasn’t talking about Sanders.
Tearing her eyes away from him, she started to pace the living room. It was a lovely space, the hardwood floors gleaming a mellow gold, the furniture white as snow, soft as a cloud. A huge window faced out over the ocean. It would be one hell of a view for an early bird with a desire to watch the sun rise.
She felt terribly out of place.
Swiping her hands down the front of her jeans, she glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “I was scared. I was in trouble, and I know that,” she said quietly. “I do appreciate your help . . . ah . . . you know what? You never told me your name, either.”
He was quiet for so long, she didn’t think he’d answer.
She held her breath as the silence stretched out.
Then, his voice deeper, rougher, he murmured, “It’s Dominic.”
For some reason, for some bizarre reason that made absolutely no sense, his answer made her want to fall to the ground and sob.
Dominic.
What did you think he was going to say?
She swallowed and tried to smile. “Seeing as how you hauled my ass out of the fire earlier, I guess I ought to at least tell you my name. It’s Morgan. Morgan Wakefield.”
His mouth spasmed. Pain flashed through his eyes. It was fast, there and then gone. And if she hadn’t been so aware of him, she would have missed it. His features smoothed out and he said, “Well, I can definitely tell you that it has been an experience meeting you.”
“Yes.” She licked her lips and glanced away from him. Okay, niceties done. She really did need to get out of there.
“Look, I appreciate your help, seriously. But I need to try and figure out where my sister went.” She edged away, keeping him in her line of sight as she made for the door. “I get why she took off—she’s a hell of a lot smarter than I am, I guess. But still, she’s just a kid and I . . . hey!”
She’d almost reached the door. Almost.
Then he was there, one hand braced against it, the other braced at the wall just over her shoulder. Pinned between his lean body and the wall, she stared up at him. Her pulse raced. She could feel it, fluttering in her neck, and she could hear her blood roaring in her ears. She swallowed and his gaze dropped, lingering on her throat.
Hypnotized by the heated intensity of his eyes, she held still as he lifted a hand and brushed his finger across the hollow of her throat, rested it just above the mad beat of her pulse. “I’m sorry . . . Morgan,” he murmured. His voice hesitated over her name. He tore his eyes away from her neck and met her gaze. With a slow shake of his head, he whispered, “I’m sorry, but I can’t let you walk away.”
She ducked under his arm, backing away from him. Her entire body shook, and the farther away she moved, the more she ached. She didn’t want to move away from him. She wanted to grab him, lose herself in him. Her heart raced faster and faster and she felt out of breath. She hadn’t done a damn thing, but she felt like she’d just got done doing ten miles at an all-out run.
“You can’t keep me here,” she said, her voice shaking.
You can . . . and why in the hell do I want you to?
Dominic sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. He stared at the floor, his shoulders slumped. He looked tired, exhausted to the bone and . . . sad. She could feel his grief. Feel his pain. It beat inside her heart, like it was her own pain, not just his.
“Look, Morgan. It’s late. I know you’re confused and scared.”
“Scared,” she muttered. She pressed her fingertips to her temples. Inside her head, it was quiet. Too quiet. Everything inside her seemed frozen . . . waiting.
Waiting for what?
She was staring at the floor and never heard him move, but as the shadows on the floor in front of her shifted, she jerked her gaze up. He stood there, less than a foot away. She licked her lips and watched as his eyes tracked the movement. She could remember his taste . . . she wanted more.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said quietly. There was a plea in his eyes. Desperate and determined, as though he could will her to believe him. “I’m not. I’ve spent . . . ”
His voice trailed off.
Morgan stared at him. “You’ve spent . . . what?”
A muscle pulsed in his jaw as he reached out, smoothing a strand of hair back from her face. He tucked it behind her ear and then slid his hand around her neck, cupping it in his hand. She sighed and leaned into his touch, even as she tried to remind herself she needed to get the hell away from this strange, disturbing man.
But she couldn’t get away. And not just because he wouldn’t let her.
He stroked her cheek with his free hand, feathering the roughened pads of his fingers over her face as though he wanted to memorize it. “I’ve spent too long waiting for you. Looking for you. Now that I’ve found you, there’s no way in hell I’d let anybody or anything hurt you.”
Time fell away.
She fell away.
Her breath lodged in her throat, and for the longest time, she wasn’t aware of any sound but the beating of her heart, racing faster and faster. The world whirled around her . . . racing in time with her heart. And suddenly, she wasn’t standing in a lovely little house on the beach with a dark, grim stranger with sad eyes that broke her heart.
No. She was . . . somewhere else. Maybe even someone else.
She was on the ground, and in her arms, there was a man. A man with sun-streaked golden brown hair . . . and sad eyes that broke her heart. His blood pumped out, hot and wet, staining the ground beneath them, turning the dusty earth into mud.
He watched her with those sad, grieving eyes as he reached up to touch her face. He was dying. In her arms, he was dying . . . this man she loved more than life itself.
My beautiful, foolish, wonderful girl. I love you so much. I will come back . . . I will find you again . . .
“No!”
She screamed, and the sound jerked her back to herself. Tearing away from Dominic, she backed up, shaking her head.
His voice echoed in her head.
So different . . .
I will find you again . . .
I’ve spent too long waiting for you. Looking for you . . .
All of sudden, those voices were in her head, again, clamoring. One of them was louder, stronger.
Calling out a name.
But Morgan couldn’t make sense of it.
She took one more step away and then . . . darkness.
SHE might not know him here . . . but in her dreams, she knew him.
In her dreams, he was waiting for her. But she was too afraid to believe it.
Too afraid to come out of the shell she had crafted for herself, a shell spun of her magic. A spell . . . a spell that kept her pain at bay, a spell that split her from her memories.
She was on that wide, soft couch under the window, and he was there, with her, next to her, stroking her hair back from her face.
She reached up and with a trembling hand, cupped his cheek. “Is it you? Truly?”
He caught her hand and nuzzled it, pressing his mouth to her palm. “It’s me. Dear God, darlin’, I never meant to be gone from you this long.”
“I can’t believe this,” she whispered, her voice thick with tears. They stung her eyes and she blinked them away, furi
ous at those salty drops because they blurred her vision, kept her from staring at him.
He was so different.
But his soul felt the same.
And those eyes, those eyes . . . she would know them anywhere.
“Why?” she demanded, her voice cracking. “Why now? Don’t you know how . . . ”
How lonely I’ve been? How much it hurts . . . just living, every single day without you? Why now?
Now . . . Now. When she was so broken. So shattered inside. So unworthy of him. Of a second chance. Of happiness.
“I can’t believe this,” she said again, shaking her head. I won’t.
“Why?” He stroked her hair back from her face, his hands gentle, so gentle and warm and strong.
“Because it’s too late.” The tears blinding her spilled over and she murmured, “It’s too late for me. I’ve fallen.”
“It’s not too late . . . I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall.”
I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall . . .
The words echoed inside, left her shaking, aching. Too late . . . too late . . .
I won’t let you fall.
A harsh sob tore from her throat and she collapsed against his chest, crying.
This can’t be real, she thought. It’s just my foolish loneliness, my empty heart, playing tricks on me. It isn’t real . . . he isn’t real. He can’t be.
He kissed her. As though he’d heard her internal arguing, he whispered, “I am real. Come back to me, my beautiful little witch. Please come back.”
DOMINIC sat on the couch, cradling her in his arms.
He stared at her face, stroking her tousled blond hair back.
She wasn’t asleep. This was deeper than sleep. It was as though she’d gone some place deep, deep inside herself. But she couldn’t escape the pain. And he couldn’t escape her pain—it dug inside his heart, tearing, clawing.
She cried.
Tears slipped out from under her closed lids, and he wiped them away with his thumb, kissed them and rocked her, held her. “Come back to me. Come back to me, Nessa, my beautiful little witch. Please come back.”
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