by Cecy Robson
Ryker reaches for my hand, instantly steadying me. “I believe this is a good thing.”
“I believe you’re nuts.”
He laughs again, proving that he’s actually capable of smiling. He has such a nice smile. Too bad his gaping wound and oozing vessels detract from what’s otherwise a dashing grin. “Olivia, the power you transferred continues to burn me—”
“Oh, my God!”
He holds out a hand. “Again, this is a good thing. If your residual power can do all this―” He motions to his mangled face. “―you truly are Life and the perfect weapon to mark and end to the Cù-Sìth.”
I should be twirling with joy at the news. But I can’t. It came at the price of Ryker’s perfect face. I ruined him when his only intent was to guide me. Guilt digs into me like a knife, deep into my gut, twisting once, twice. I want to cry with how bad I feel. Most of all, I want to help him.
I drop my purse and reach for his face, gently stroking around his mutilated skin.
Ryker’s muscles press against his shirt, stiffening the moment I touch him.
Slowly, almost imperceivably, he leans into my hand.
I cradle his face, obscuring his injuries and permitting only a view of his profile. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, breathless with guilt. “I’m so sorry.”
I kiss his cheek and rest my forehead against him, keeping one hand over the damaged tissue. My other hand cups his shoulder. I ruined him. Even if Ryker heals, an ugly scar will permanently mar his visage.
“I’m so sorry,” I say again, fixing on his former self. Ryker was beautiful, flawless―from the rugged firmness of his jaw, to the trace of stubble crawling from the sideburns of his buzzed hair, to his regal nose. And don’t get me started on the captivating coldness of his ice blue eyes.
I wrecked him. My throat tightens and sours. I’m seconds from releasing tears that won’t easily stop.
“This feels . . . nice,” he rumbles.
I’m sure I misheard. “What does?”
“You. Touching me.”
“I like to touch.” I smile against his cheek when I realize how I sound. “I’ve always been affectionate.” I lean in closer. “So, if you don’t mind, I’d rather not stop.”
“I don’t mind.” He pauses as if debating whether to continue. “No one touches me.”
That can’t be right. “Ever?”
“No.”
I’ve seen others withdraw in his presence. But I was certain eventually someone would have the gumption to cozy up to him. I mean, the waitress from yesterday was obviously attracted to him. With a little time and some effort from Ryker, she would do more than stroke his face.
My body sinks against his. “Nah.”
“Nah?” he asks. It’s like he can’t believe such a sound would come out of my mouth.
“You heard me,” I say. “I find it hard to believe you don’t get touched all over the place.” I blush. “Well, you know what I mean.”
There’s a palpable, almost audible pause, and then Ryker curls his arm around my back, his palm trailing up to rest between my shoulder blades. “Humans and Fae alike have kept their distance from me for over a century. Their instincts warn them I can take their souls.”
I’m ready to cry, this time for him. Ryker is more alone than I ever could have guessed. In a hundred years, no one has allowed his caress let alone warmed his bed.
I sweep my lips over his cheek, relishing the warmth emanating from his skin. “I get that you don’t exactly ooze kittens riding merrily on prancing ponies. But that tramp really wanted you.”
He adjusts his hold to pull me closer. The warmth between us increases. I almost forget how to breathe. “Are you speaking of Chelsea, my former secretary?”
“No.”
“Christen from the mailroom?” he guesses.
“No . . .”
“Abigail from payroll?”
Seriously? “I was talking about our waitress from the other day. Jiminy Cricket, Ryker, do you keep the mounting list of ho’s on your iPad?”
His chest vibrates against me as he chuckles. “These women―”
“Airhead sluts from the Planet Spank Me are a better choice of words,” I mutter.
He pauses. I don’t have to look at him to know he’s smirking. “Regardless of the term you choose to describe them, they all shared one thing in common.”
“They want to rock you like a hurricane?”
“No. They feared me.”
I quiet. Understanding to a point. “Chelsea wasn’t afraid of you,” I remind him. “I mean, she was, and she wasn’t.”
“Chelsea was different,” he says, remembering.
“That she was.”
“You don’t understand,” he says. “Despite the boldness Chelsea demonstrated in your presence, she was terrified of being alone with me. She’d enter my office only if the shades were open, and even then, she’d leave the door ajar.”
“I didn’t really see that side,” I say. “I mostly had a good look at her inner psycho.”
“Chelsea wasn’t psychotic, Olivia. She carried a darkness, one she likely kept well hidden, except in my presence. The darkness I carry stirred hers further awake and enticed her closer.”
“She wanted to be Mrs. Grim Reaper of Death?” I deduce.
“No,” he says. “She wanted to embrace more of that darkness. She liked it. It gave her a false sense of power. What she didn’t recognized was as much as her soul craved it, her body couldn’t handle it. When we started working together, Chelsea began to perceive you as a threat, someone depriving her of what she believed she deserved. The combination was too much, and you saw her fall apart. Had I known what it would do to her and how quickly, I would have requested her termination sooner.”
I think on it, and I think a little more. “Why isn’t your new secretary afraid of you?”
“Judith doesn’t carry the same fear most do. She’s a widow and childless. She isn’t afraid to die.” He shrugs. “Unlike many, she’s prepared herself for it.”
“Does it bother you that most fear you?” I ask.
“No. It’s better this way.”
I smile against his cheek, smiling wider when his body temperature rises. “I don’t believe you. If you enjoy my touch, you’ll likely enjoy another’s.”
Mr. Harvard grad doesn’t quite have an answer for that. Instead he says, “Tell me something about you.”
Mm. I’m practically glued to him. “What do you want to know?”
“Bill told me the Cù-Sìth robbed you of your family, except for your brother.”
“That’s right,” I say, no longer smiling. “My brother, Kellen, is five years older than me. Although he never did well in school, he was ludicrously smart. He gathered what remained of our family fortune and used it to help us survive until I was old enough to attend college.” My free hand circles Ryker’s waist, helping me seek the comfort I need when I think of my one remaining family member. “He helped me move in on the first day of orientation, hugged me goodbye, and I never saw him again.”
“What happened to him?”
“I don’t know. He never called and he changed his phone number. When Thanksgiving break rolled around, I took an Uber to Pluckemin to find our home sold and empty. Dahlia’s family came for me and we spent every break searching for him. He covered his tracks well and obviously didn’t want to be found. When my sophomore year began, I stopped looking.”
“He left you? All alone to fend for yourself?”
“I thought so at first. Until I looked at my bank statements and saw I had enough money to pay my tuition, room and board, for the entirety of my college career.”
“But it wasn’t enough.”
“No,” I admit. “I wanted my brother back. Kellen was broken, Ryker, damaged emotionally and I suppose beyond repair. Still, he was a part of me.”
My head falls against Ryker’s shoulder. It should be ridiculous for us to hold each other like this, especially after I marred hi
m. But like I said, I seek and give affection, and, when I really think about it, Life and Death go hand and hand. They belong together. It makes sense for us to be this close.
“As the only boy, Kellen was closest to my father and assumed the role of patriarch when my father died,” I explain. “Kellen acclimated to this realm surprisingly well and helped make our transition easier. He had a way of making us laugh until it hurt and was always quick to smile and make friends. But watching the Cù-Sìth devour our mother and sisters sent Kellen spiraling into that darkness he fought against for so long. He didn’t speak much after that, to me, or to anyone. He isolated himself from everyone and went from being popular to that strange young man everyone stayed away from.”
“I see.”
Yeah, maybe he does. Without thinking, I skim his skin with my fingers. Gentle warmth pours from the tips as I guide them along his cheek. Smooth softness and heat tantalizes me with each stroke, and so does something more.
I jerk back, my eyes flying open when I see his face.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
A thin coat of ash smears his face. “We have to go to the bathroom.”
“Excuse me?”
I grip his hands. He doesn’t fight me and allows me to lead him down the hall. “Is it this way?” I ask.
“Yes. The next door on your left.”
My sneakers squeak against the cold emerald tile. I shove Ryker in front of the oval mirror. He stills at the sight of his reflection and tries to wipe the soot from his face.
I turn on the faucets full blast. “Here. Use water.”
Ryker jumps when I drench his shirt. He shoots me a reproachful glare and adjusts the stream. “Hurry up,” I insist.
He cups the water in his hands and splashes his face. The ash washes away, revealing fresh, unmarred skin, and score, a brandy-new eye. I don’t know what happened, I’m just thrilled that it did.
“Yes!” I toss him a towel and dance around the small space, waving my arms in the air. “Oh, yes, baby, yes!”
Ryker wipes his face, eyeing me up and down. “Your dance skills are atrocious.”
“I’m flossing,” I say.
“How can that possibly benefit your gums?”
Evidently, he’s not feeling my sexy self. “It’s just the name of the dance,” I explain moving my arms and hips faster. “Besides, these aren’t my real moves.”
“They’re not? Good.”
I ignore the dig. “This is my impromptu, ‘Yay you’re not scarred for life’ dance.”
“That’s nice,” he says, having nothing better. He tosses the towel into the hamper and steps into the hall.
“Where are you going?” I ask. “You’re going to miss my split.”
He glances over his shoulder. “I’m certain your flexibility is most impressive, and I’m confident it will aid in your training. Let’s return to the Bat Cave and put it to good use.”
My hands drop. “We’re not doing the whip thing again, are we?”
He frowns. “You need the practice.”
“Did you enjoy losing an eye?”
“No,” he growls. “Which is why you need the practice.”
~ * ~
Three hours later, we abandon the “How-to-torture” lair and return upstairs. I burned lines into his once lovely floor and into his less than lovely cinderblock walls. My aim remains hideous, yet my transfer of energy has improved. I stagger all the way up the curved staircase, using the banister to haul my wobbly body.
I fall dramatically when I reach the top floor and attempt to crawl. “Food . . . must . . . have . . . food.”
Ryker steps over me. I can hear the laughter in his voice. “Does this mean you’re not cooking for me?”
“I cooked last night.” I roll onto my back and drape my limp arm over my eyes. “How about we order in? Does that super awesome bistro deliver?”
“It does.” He fumbles through a drawer and a few cabinets before the magical sound of filtered water fills my ears. “Come to the couch.”
“No. It’s too damn far.” I’m not exaggerating. It’s a big-ass space.
“We really must work on your stamina.”
I wiggle my arms. At least I try to. They weigh more than I remember. Maybe Ryker is holding them down with his Death mojo. “With all the typing and passing out coffee I do, you’d think my guns would be more menacing.” I wiggle them again. Big mistake. “Ouch.”
“I wouldn’t call them guns.”
“No need to be insulting, oh Bringer of Doom.”
“They’re more like sling shots,” he adds.
Now he’s just being mean. “That’s not true.”
“You’re right. Sling shots are tougher. Perhaps those plastic paddle balls are more accurate. Are you familiar with them? They’re given out at fairs to children.”
“Settle down, Death. You think you’re funny, but you’re not.” Okay, that didn’t sound weird or anything.
He fumbles with what sounds like several sheets of paper. “Would you care to join me on the couch, Thumbelina? Or would you prefer I carry you?”
My thighs and arms want us carried. My pride doesn’t appreciate his Disney humor and tells my limbs to take a dive into the nearest rose bush. While my legs did little more than stand, they ache like hell.
I stagger from the floor across the loft, and flop onto the burnt orange couch. Before another witty and spellbinding remark can spew from my mouth, I down the glass of water Ryker poured me. Water good.
I peer over his arm and read the menu, contemplating what will best rejuvenate my spirit and silence my screaming thighs. “Let’s start with the calamari. You strike me as a fried squid kind of fellow. Oh, and tell them to include extra lime and that yummy garlic sauce. I’ll have the marinated rabbit and wild rice, and the beet and goat cheese salad. For dessert, I’ll pop in the blackberry pie we bought yesterday. Their selection sounds a little too frou-frou.”
“Says the woman who prances,” he mumbles.
He chuckles when I nudge his arm. He waves me away like a gnat and continues to skim through the menu.
I’m stretching my leg over my head when he finishes placing the order. “Why am I so sore?” I bemoan.
“You’ve roused a great deal of dormant magic in a very short amount of time. You also stress and tense your body with every release. As your confidence grows, you’ll use your power more efficiently and it will become second nature.” He watches me point my toe north. “Would you like me to help you?”
Yeah. I really would, big boy. Somehow, I keep my mouth shut and my tongue from lolling. I like Ryker. Really like him. And more than my sanity insists I should.
The time we spend holding each other is sweet and wonderfully easy. I want more, but I shouldn’t go there. Embraces can easily lead to intimacy neither of us may be ready for. My first attempt to stir my magic proved as much.
I try to smile and barely manage. I wish our situation allowed us to be more than what we are. “No, thank you,” I finally reply. “I’ll manage.”
Ryker returns his attention to the menu, despite already placing our order. “Very well.”
I lower my leg, knowing I offended him, searching for something to say. As I think about it, I place my hand on his knee. He looks from my hand to my face. No words come, only silence and my desire to draw closer. My fingers squeeze as the sun abruptly fades and shrouds the loft in sudden darkness.
Thunder booms, making me jolt. Ryker rises, his attention toward the row of windows. “The weather called for sun all day,” I stammer.
Ryker’s features harden. He steps closer toward the windows. “Although it has been threatening to storm,” I add rather hurriedly.
Another crash of thunder echoes in the distance. I rush to Ryker’s side. Black clouds bleed from the left and right, the biggest surge of clouds coming at us dead center from the direction of the city.
Ryker presses his hand against my belly, urging me away from the windows. “It’s Cat
hasach,” he bites out. “He’s hunting you.”
Chapter Eighteen
I move several steps back when Ryker’s hand slips away. He stands in front of me, facing the window and what’s coming head on. Me, I’m scanning the room for someplace to hide. Another boom of thunder sounds. This one is louder, closer.
Ryker reaches for me. I don’t realize I’m trembling until he grasps my elbow and steadies me. “He can’t unearth you here, Olivia. My wards are strong, and your talisman will keep you veiled.”
My instincts say otherwise and urge me to flee. “He’s closing in,” I stammer.
Ryker’s expression darkens. He knows I’m right. “He may have sensed you through the magic you created, but my wards are designed to disorient. You won’t be easy to track.”
“Just here, or everywhere?” I catch my reflection in the glass as the sky morphs into night. My eyes are wild.
Ryker’s face splits with hesitancy and frustration. “Your magic carries a unique feel and scent. In using it against him, he’s familiar with it. Should you use it outside my wards, he’ll latch on to your aroma and find you―with or without the veil of your talisman. Until you learn to master your power, never use it outside my home.”
“I won’t,” I promise. He drops his hand away from my shoulder. Almost immediately, my body resumes the horrible shuddering. I scoff at my shaking hands. “I’m the one begging to kill him. How can I pull it off when I’m this scared?”
Ryker’s throaty timbre remains a force onto itself. “You want to survive. You want to avenge. That’s how. Remember that when your fear threatens to overtake you.”
I nod. He’s right. “Okay . . . I―”
Something hard crashes against the window. I jump, biting back a scream. Large scarred paws covered in white fur slap against the glass, the jagged claws scraping lines of azure mist into the magical defenses. The hound’s head pops up, sniffing in the direction of the river.
“Ryker?”
“It’s all right,” Ryker replies, his voice a low whisper. “He’s only searching.”
The hound’s head whips in our direction, his eyes locking one me.