“Do that again. Make that sound from here.” His breath lingers where the sound came out of. The edge of his thumb is pressed against my voice box, sliding up and down on the thin skin.
Arousal pits deep. Vision blurs.
It’s hard to focus on anything else besides him, his voice, his low breathing. I want to reach out, tug at his hair, feel the coarseness of his beard on my face. I want to rub myself against him. I want him to feel me.
I want to feel the rub of him.
A slow finger runs along the inside of my arm, and his nose touches the shell of my ear, skimming against the ruby earring.
“Do it again, Treajure.” His voice pitches even lower. His hand on my thigh doesn’t pull away. The weight of his warm palm soaks into the material of my pants.
A brazen shiver runs loose—without balance. The sensation is overloading.
“Hmmm.” The sound is said with eyes closed and thighs pressed together.
“I know you can talk, Specs. I know it.”
Opening my eyes, it’s impossible to move. He’s staring right into me.
I watch his lips as he pulls on an edge with peaked teeth. He might kiss me. I wait. He doesn’t.
“I need to change, Specs. I’m no good this way. I’m no good to anyone this way.” He shifts away from the space that I feel is my refuge.
A knock on the window is startling. Cassius’s emotions sluff off his face to be fixed with a blankness.
“Do I need to call Caleb, or will your father be needed?” The window isn’t rolled down, but we can hear Clayton clearly.
“You won’t have to call anyone,” Cassius says as he opens the door and steps out with shoulder attitude.
“Are you sure about that, Cash?” Clayton’s voice seems purposely controlled. Subdued even.
“I’m sure. I was just looking at the house.” There is nothing there when Cassius turns his head in the direction of the tall weeds.
Clayton scratches the side of his jaw with the edge of his thumbnail. He’s clean-shaven with a shaved head. It’s very rare that he makes the first move; it’s always Cassius.
“I have a question for you.” Cassius’s words are teeth bared. There is a subtle alert in the stiffening muscles on the side of Clayton’s neck. I watch from the backside of the truck, using the metal to block my body from two males who will fight, because there are thick things between them, like blood.
“What’s the question?”
“All the time you two were together, and look at you. All clean and shaved.” Cassius continues with teeth bared, words meant to bite into bones.
Clayton’s strides are efficient, confident, not vain.
Both of them seem to loom at the other. Their fight never seems to bleed out; there is always more blood to be spilled.
“What do you mean by that?” Clayton asks.
Cassius crowds into Clayton’s space.
“Let’s see,” Cassius says, “all the time with Kennedy and you can move on. You make it look simple. Easy even.”
There is a feeling of a trigger being pulled right before the explosion of sound.
Clayton fists both hands into Cassius’s shirt, pulling him close. Eye to eye.
Teeth bared, breathing flared.
“I haven’t moved fucking on.” Clayton’s words shake from his mouth, and spit flies from between clenched teeth.
“I’m not fucking over her.” Clayton struggles on his words; he sounds like an old wound reopening again. Words leak out like blood.
A torn second holds between them.
Clayton uncurls his fists from Cassius’s shirt.
“I have obligations. My sister needs me. My nephew needs me. The pack, whatever is left, needs me. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about everything. Not one day goes by that I don’t think about her. So don’t stand there and tell me things you know nothing about,” he snarls.
Clayton is still mostly an open flesh wound, stuffed with his own self-made tragedy.
“You took everything away from me. Everything.” Cassius’s blood drips now in words that come out like a split-open gut.
“No. You took everything from yourself.” Clayton points his finger in Cassius’s face. It’s met with a hard fist from Cassius.
Both of their bodies collide as their war spreads and tramples down the weeds underneath their bodies.
Blood and snarls mix.
“You were the one who let her die. Don’t blame me for what you did to her.” Clayton’s words hurtle the pain across Cassius’s face. The sad part is that Cassius accepts that as his truth; meeting him was her death.
“I loved her, and I thought she would be safe with you. I was wrong. That’s why I let her go with you. I thought you could be something to her.” Words strangle, blanching both their skins.
This is more a warring of blood-soaked words than scraped knuckles.
“You tore out her throat. How was that safe?”
“I didn’t do that. The Wild did. I would never hurt Kennedy. Ever.” There’s this feeling of a sputtering matchstick newly lit, the violence growing as the flame takes hold of wood.
“I let her go. I couldn’t give her the one thing she truly wanted in life: pups. You could give her that. You. Not me. I knew that when I was put on the pole, and I wanted to die knowing that she would get everything she wanted with you. Instead, she died.” The violent flame between them catches, burning brighter.
“You have two kids that you need to raise, and you’re here? What kind of fucking father are you? She would hate this. Raise the kids she always wanted to have.” That is savagery at its best, because it brings out the long teeth from Cassius.
“I’m raising my kids.”
“Are you? How, when you’re here with me? Grow up, Cash. Be a father. See what’s in front of you.”
Flesh lacerates, and I stumble backward.
Triggers flash, glasses slide off. The world becomes hazed. The taste of blood coats the back of my throat, and I’m hurtled back into memories that have no place in my mind.
The feeling of claws scratching over my gut, except it’s not claws, it’s silver-tipped nails that he uses to scratches lines into my skin. He pushes fingers into my mouth and calls me a fucking miracle as I lay on top of the bed, healing. I try to dig, splitting nails into his skin, as the taste of iron washes down, bloating my stomach. I’m mitted with a silver collar around my throat. I’m afraid that the oxygen will rot in my lungs before I’m allowed to take another breath.
This is terror.
Can terror be both noun and verb? Can it?
“Treajure.” The afterimage of him is still pressed behind lids even when I open them up. His shadow seems to remain even when I’m looking into the blurred face of Cassius.
I have to blink a few times. Once isn’t enough to get rid of the shadows. My glasses are put back on my face, and Cassius’s bruised blues look down into mine.
“Let’s get you home.” I’m in the sanctuary of strong arms that feel like safety and the word forever.
“It’s not fair you drag her here with you. Look what this does to her. Look at her.”
Cassius says nothing back.
“You’re fucking selfish, Cash. All you can think about is yourself. That’s what killed her, you being selfish. You haven’t changed. I’ve been waiting for you to grow up and stop acting like you’re the only one who lost someone. You aren’t, but I give you all these excuses, and so does your family. It’s time, Cash, to stop making an excuse out of yourself.” Clayton is in his face, and Cassius is holding onto me with a grip I’ve never felt before. It’s as if he needs me to hold on to and not the other way around.
“At least show Treajure some respect and stop bringing her here. She shouldn’t be here. You know it, yet you still bring her as some kind of excuse to yourself.”
Cassius’s head hangs low. His shoulders have curved in as he puts me into the passenger seat.
“I’m sorry, Treajure.” There is a breach
of emotion in his words. He can’t look at me.
The door shuts gently, and when we drive away, it’s the first time that Cassius leaves on his own and not dragged away with blood still clinging to the undersides of his nails seeking more violence.
Letter 6
I wrote letters to Clayton. Please give them to him. I know it will be hard for you, but please do this for me. He has a chance with Rya, to be happy, to have a family that I couldn’t give him.
Don’t read these letters. Don’t read them. They aren’t for you and you’d only be hurt more.
I want my chance to say the goodbyes we didn’t get to have.
A proper goodbye.
Kennedy
Chapter 7
Words Felt in Velvet
The tread of tires on asphalt is all that’s heard for the longest time within the truck.
The sound reminds me of the way his truck would pull into the warehouse, almost silent except for the grind of tires. He was meticulous with the hunts, a new location every time. Never the same men. Never. Two men waited by the doors, excitement noted in their dilated eyes. Rich men, powerful men waiting for me. Crossbows in gloved hands—not silver-tipped, injuries will heal. I have to make it look believable that they killed me. That they were the hunters and I was the prey. My mother, father, brother, mate all killed by his loss of control. He waited out my shift then it was my turn to be stalked, to run, to try and escape, but “never too hard,” he would say. Don’t try so hard. I can still feel the scream against my skin because it was always met with the lash of silver. The stinging bite that he would purposely not go too deep, but he’d eventually lose his temper and those times I was left on the top of the bed, bleeding into the mattress, waiting to see if I would heal. I always did, but barely. I was this bleeding girl spread out like a crime scene for these men of particular taste to fawn over with congratulations on their good kill. Some would come alone; others would come in pairs or threes. It was different every time. What wasn’t different is him with an open duffle bag counting bills with a smile spread like cold ash across his face. A silver bracelet on my wrist to prevent my Wild from teaching him, them who was a hunter and who was prey in those early days when I thought I could win. They had no idea what I was, but he knew what I was. He knew it all, his fucking miracle.
“Sorry, Specs.” His voice slides my eyes away from the window to look at him. Memories of old bones and blood fade.
He frowns. “You’ve been through a lot, and I’m putting you through more. I’m selfish. It feels better not being by myself on the drive home.” His hand reaches out, tightening the knot up in my throat.
His hand on wrist, my skin explodes in the sudden sensation.
“I can feel your heartbeat. What’s going on in that head of yours?”
I can’t say a word; my teeth won’t allow it because of a knotted-up throat. Difficult to let even a swallow down. My glasses fall off the bridge of my nose, and I don’t put them back on, not right away. I like the blurry. I like the feeling of my wrist held in the palm of his hand. The weight of him, gentle and caring. A shiver shuffles between spinal bones. This is enough, I think. This is more than enough for now. Him holding me. It’s enough. For now.
“Were you thinking about the evil queen?”
Drilling my top molars into the bottoms, I give him a nod, yes.
“You know she can’t get you, right?”
I don’t nod my head yes. I keep still and silent, but the throb of my heart is in my ears because of the wrist grip. Desire devours in the feel of his skin on mine.
“One day you’re going to need to tell me what happened. Not today. One day.”
There is nothing to say back to him. Not a no, not a yes. Nothing. What could he do with the secrets I would tell him? Nothing.
The side of his thumb draws circles around my wrist bone, over and over again, reminding me of the way he first got me away from the window on a Sunday waiting for Belac to come back to me. He gripped my wrist, thumb drawing circles, and his steady voice gave me the first story of the evil queen. He talked for an hour, I listened. The Wild within turned her head and observed this male beside her. She angled her ear to mouth, not listening, more noting the infliction of his voice, the rise and fall of sound that brushed her fur down and calmed the stiffness of her curled down tail. She relaxed around him, and so did I in that hour of storytelling. After that, we paid more attention to Cassius. We followed him and settled around his space. The stories kept coming, and before long, I thought of his space as my space. This would be enough, I thought. For now, that was enough being in his space, but something began to happen between my thighs, something that felt tingly and alive—full of unrelieved pressure.
His breath is felt pressing along my inner wrist; he’s brought my hand to his mouth. He sniffs. I’m still not wearing the glasses, and it feels nice having the road blur by and his breathing is all that I can focus on.
“It gets ahead of me. You make me scared, sometimes.” He releases my wrist with a broken breath out, picks up my glasses, and hands them back to me. I can hear the hard grip of the steering wheel.
I want to ask him how could I make him scared? He’s never once made me scared, not once. Never.
The light on the clock says it’s 12:45 a.m. It feels earlier than that, more a ten o’clock feel than after midnight.
“I shouldn’t put you through that.”
A stretch of self-inflicted silence as he seems to be chewing on unsaid words.
“He was right about the twins. He has a point.” I can hear the grind of his words. Some words can feel soft and kind, while others can be textured rough and abrasive.
“I shouldn’t waste my time with him. I should be spending it with them.” He takes a big breath in, filling his lungs as his words fill the space inside the truck.
“He was right about a lot of things, Specs. A lot of things he was right about.” He’s not looking at me; he’s focused on the road ahead of him. He puts his turn signal on, and we move to the next lane.
“I have to come back here once more, and after that, I’m done. I’m fucking done with all this.” Anger and sorrow weave and spread across his face.
Everything is dark when we enter the house, and Cassius goes straight to the picture of Kennedy. He stares at her unchanging face while I stare at him, and everything else is forgotten.
One picture that has him tied to the past to keep the present distant.
He’s not at ease within the world.
“I need to change, Specs. I’m no good like this. Not to anyone.” I get to watch his reflection leave the glass of the picture.
He’s half undressed by the time I make it into our room—pants are being tugged down thighs. His socks are off before I have time to close the door. The layers of shirts are nothing but a crumpled pile by the bed. Sometimes I think I see the Wild move within him. The dark creates this delusion that has a possessive feel and lingers long after he’s crawled into bed, laying on his back over the top of the covers, his eyes facing the ceiling. I’m not ready to go to bed, not yet, not with the low light resting along his hip bones. How would it feel to climb up on his bed? I’d like to feel the soft bulge in his boxers harden. How would it feel to curl into his side and nudge my nose into the hollow of his neck, inhaling until I fell asleep?
I undress fast, picking up one of his worn shirts, slipping it over my body—it’s still warm.
He turns his head to the side, catching the Moon’s glow outlined within his eyes. He’s watching me standing in the middle of the room, watching him. His eyes roam from my feet to land heavy on my chest. I can feel my nipples through the shirt.
He looks back up at the ceiling. “You need to wear more to bed, Specs. You’re too big to wear my shirts now.” He crosses his arms over his chest and turns his head once again to face me.
“Did you want something, Treajure?” His low voice doesn’t interrupt the deep night. I watch the way his throat moves with a swallow.
My mouth opens up, but nothing comes out.
He breathes out through his nose, long and controlled, and I have lost my breath.
“Goodnight, Specs.” He turns over with his back facing me and his face to the wall.
I’d like to slip past boundaries and reach out, touch him… Instead, I stare, and this is enough for now. It’s enough for now, I think as I slip underneath the bed with my palms pressed against the baseboards, trying to feel for the movement of his body above me.
This is self-destruction. To love him is to love ruin. Can ruin ever love you back?
Letter 7
Cash,
You wanted to talk last night. I just couldn’t talk about that. Not Kimberly. It’s a subject I couldn’t talk to you about.
You wanted to know how could I? How could I have done that to someone I loved or thought of as a little sister?
At the time, I justified my actions and said a baby would bring the family closer together. I’d watch the baby when Kimberly went to school. The baby would make things between Clayton and me better. His parents would have something to think about other than getting me away from their son. Clayton’s mother would see how good I was again. We would bond over the baby.
It wasn’t some plot having Kimberly become pregnant; it just happened. That day, her mother asked me to bring her a plate of food to the secure area. I saw Jake sniffing around, nosing into any cracks he thought he could see. He was pawing at the windows, and I smelled the scent he was spraying along the side of the container.
Kimberly and I talked a long time, and I felt bad for her; it’s something all females have to bear, the cold sweats, the pain, the cramping, the unrelenting pressure inside your cunt to be smashed into so you can burst open. Kimberly was sweating and holding her stomach. She was in real pain. I know that kind of pain. It’s what drove me to you.
When I was going to lock the door back up, I stood there looking at the key in my hand, and I had that first thought. If Kimberly had a baby, everything would be better. The family would get closer; the heat would be off Clayton and me. Everyone would be concentrating on her and the pup. I wanted that baby, too. I wanted a baby for myself. It all came like flashes, the way I could raise the pup because Kimberly was really young, and she still has high school to finish then college. It would be years before she would be independent enough to move out with her mate, who was still at school. I’d convince the family and Jake that he needed to go back to college so he could support her. I needed Jake out of the way for the now-budding plan to work.
Cassius (The Wildflower Series Book 3) Page 6