Bound Guardian Angel (10 page)

Sweetheart. There was a word she couldn’t
see anyone associating with that fireball changing into pink
sweatpants in the hall bathroom. But if the past had shaped Cordray
into living barbed wire, that meant whatever had happened had been
harsh, cruel, and likely the equivalent of an emotional
tsunami.

Sam thought back at her own life. She’d made
a major misstep marrying Steve before she really knew him, and she
still bore a scar on her abdomen to remind her of the abuse she’d
suffered at his hand. But thanks to her upbringing, she’d been
strong enough to break free. True, before she met Micah she’d lived
every day in fear of Steve catching up to her and dragging her back
home, where he would have made her a prisoner, but she’d had the
strength to get away. That alone was a step most abused women were
too frightened to take.

Fear made for a treacherous ally. It kept
you in bad situations when what you really needed was to find the
courage to strike out and make a new reality for yourself. She had
let fear rule her decisions far too long, even though she’d broken
from Steve within a couple of years. But those two years had
affected her terribly. Even now, within the safety of Micah’s
protection and knowing he had wiped Steve’s memory clean of her,
she still looked over her shoulder when she went out in public. She
still feared giving her real name anywhere she went. Using the
credit cards Micah had given her still gave her anxiety. Paying
with cash had become such a way of life to protect herself from
being found that using a credit card even now made her nerves
quake. Part of her was still terrified Steve would remember her and
use the credit cards to track her down. Yes, the name on the
accounts was Micah’s, but the name on the cards was hers.

If just a couple of years with Steve could
fill her with that much insecurity and dread, what would it be like
for an immortal vampire to endure abuse or at least some
devastating emotional blow for decades or even centuries?

What would it be like for Cordray, for
example?

She’d had a lot more time to suffer. Longer
for the pain to seep into her soul and alter not just her outlook,
but her behavior, as well.

She was making a huge assumption about
Cordray’s past, but Sam would bet a million dollars that Cordray
had been severely hurt at some point. The question was when, how,
and why? And how had that damage manifested into the
woman—female—Cordray was today?

She poured hot water into the teacups and
dropped a bag of herbal tea into each. Maybe what Cordray needed
was a friend. Not that Sam necessarily wanted to volunteer for the
job, but a friend might be able to help Cordray sift through the
shit.

One thing was certain, though. She couldn’t
let Cordray think she felt sorry for her. If Cordray thought that,
the thorny atmosphere around her would just get thicker and draw
more blood. Cordray was one female who clearly didn’t take well to
compassion or sympathy, so Sam wouldn’t give it to her. But she
didn’t have to show compassion and sympathy to feel it, and feel it
she did.

She took a careful sip of her tea and gazed
down the hall toward the bathroom. Hopefully, Micah would
understand.

* * *

Cordray stared at her reflection in the full-length
mirror. Pink? Really? Pink sweatpants? And pale pink at that? As if
white had bitch-slapped red into submission then ejaculated a
bucketful of semen on it.

And then there was the shirt.

Young.

Cutesy.

Feminine.

And one hundred percent
not
her. It
didn’t even fit. Not really. It fit everywhere but around her
boobs, which pressed against the fabric and stretched the red,
Greek lettering into distorted, geometric shapes.

In the movie
Nightmare on Elm Street
,
there was a scene where Freddie Krueger pushed his face against
what was supposed to be a sheet but looked like a layer of latex.
It stretched over his face, smashing his features until he used his
knife-fingers to slice himself free.

That’s what her boobs reminded her of in
this shirt.

She was so not taking a selfie with this
getup on. And no one else would, either, if they valued their
ability to pass waste without a colostomy bag.

With a perturbed sigh, she hung her wet
clothes over the shower curtain rod, set her combat boots to the
side, and grabbed the towel, draped it over her shoulders, and
began unraveling her braids. Her hair would dry faster if
unbraided, but damn, she hated undoing Aiden’s impressive work.
That two-year-old mixed-blood had mad skills when it came to
hair.

Five minutes later, a small pile of elastic
bands sat on the bathroom counter, and her wavy, black-and-blue
hair spilled over her shoulders and hid her breasts. That was
better.

She dabbed the tip of her index finger
against the scuff marks on her cheek then poked at the laceration
just to the inside of her lip ring, which constricted her swollen
bottom lip like a belt that was two sizes too small. Her injuries
appeared better than they had an hour ago, though, and seemed to be
healing nicely. Her vision was even back to normal. By nightfall,
her face would look good as new, thanks to her vampire
heritage.

Granted, she was only half vampire. She was
also half human. Her human half allowed her to go out in the sun.
Full-bloods couldn’t do that. But vampire genes trumped all others,
so while she was granted certain gifts from her mortal side, her
immortal side ensured she was more vampire than human. So much so,
she was classified as a vampire. A mixed-blood, but a vampire
nonetheless. She still had fangs and still had to feed off blood.
Furthermore, those high-octane vampire genes she’d inherited from
her royal father, along with regular feedings, kept her healing
powers in tip-top shape.

When she returned to the kitchen, Sam was
leaning against the counter, sipping her tea. Cordray noticed a
second cup awaiting her where she had been sitting earlier.

Well, lookie there. Sam had decided to play
nice hostess after all.

Without saying a word, she sat down and
lifted her cup. Chamomile. Not her usual poison, but it would do.
She took a sip, her gaze meeting Sam’s.

Neither spoke for a long time. It wasn’t in
Cordray’s nature to accept charity, nor was it in her nature to say
thank you when such charity was given. If Sam couldn’t deal with
that, tough shit.

After a few more tense moments, Sam set her
cup and saucer on the counter. “How does everything fit?”

She smirked, set her own cup down, and
stood, pulling back her hair. “Like my boobs are pregnant.”

Laughter burst from Sam’s mouth. She quickly
bit it back. “I’m sorry. Um . . .” She turned away
and tried to wipe the smile off her face.

“You’re punishing me for being such a bitch
earlier, aren’t you?” Cordray let her hair fall over her chest
again and sat back down.

“No, I . . .
uh . . .” Sam poured herself another cup of tea and
offered the teapot in Cordray’s direction.

She waved it off. “It’s okay, you can admit
it. I was a bitch. I deserve it.” She lifted her cup and blew over
the tea’s surface.

Sam set the teapot back on the stove. “Well,
maybe I’m punishing you just a little.”

“I thought so.” Cordray grinned and caressed
the rim of her teacup with her fingertips as she set it back in the
saucer.

The two eyed each other for a moment, and
then Sam burst out laughing again, almost spilling her tea as she
haphazardly set the cup on the counter. “
‘Like my boobs are
pregnant’
?”

Cordray glanced down and chuckled, unable to hold
back any longer. “Well, yeah. I mean, look at this.” She lifted her
hair and glanced down at her chest. “Don’t you have
any
cleavage, Sam? I mean, my
God
! I’m like two basketballs
trying to fit inside a Pringles can.” She flipped her hair over her
shoulders and patted her palms over her breasts, which made Sam
laugh harder.

And just like that, she and Sam went from
being mortal enemies to tentative friends, laughing and bridging
the gap between them. Sam wasn’t the bad guy here. She was just
mated to one. Cordray couldn’t hold Micah’s and Trace’s misgivings
against her.

And, honestly, she liked Sam. That woman had
big lady balls, but in a good way. Don’t mess with her, because she
wouldn’t just sit back and be walked on. Sam was a fighter. She’d
taken on drecks to save Micah’s life, and she’d almost died from
Apostle’s venom before Micah gave her his and made her his davala.
The transformation had to have been painful as hell, maybe even
excruciating, and now Sam was taking her new body and the strange
new world of vampires, drecks, and the supernatural in stride. The
woman was a fortress of mental strength and fortitude.

Cordray had to admire a chick like that.
Hell, after what she’d been through in her own past, maybe she
could learn a thing or two from Sam, because she certainly hadn’t
taken change half as well as Samantha had. It was enough to make
her question who the stronger female in the room really was.

“I wasn’t blessed with busty genes.” Sam
dabbed the knuckle of her index finger under one eye then the other
to clear away tears of laughter.

“Then maybe you should give me one of
Micah’s shirts.” Cordray groped herself one last time then shook
her head as she disengaged her hands from her breasts and picked up
her cup.

“Hey,” Sam said, giggling and pretending to
be offended. “Are you saying my man has big tits?”

It was Cordray’s turn to laugh. “You tell
me, girl. He’s
your
mate.”

The two chuckled, and Sam joined Cordray at
the counter. “I’d give you one of his shirts, but—no offense—he
would probably make me burn the thing after you left.”

“No offense taken. I know how he feels about
me.” Everyone else felt the same way about her as Micah did. She
eyed Sam over the rim of her cup. Well, not everyone. She and Sam
seemed to have found an accord. “But I guess that answers that
question.”

“What question is that?”

“Whether or not Micah has told you about
me.”

Sam smiled at her. “Yes, I’ve heard all
about you.”

“All good, I’m sure,” she said
sarcastically.

With a roll of her eyes, Sam laughed. “Micah
is ultra-competitive . . . and ultra-protective. And
he’s a man.” She rolled her eyes again then caught herself. “I
mean, I love him and all, but you know how thick men can be.”

Cordray swirled her tea and nodded. “I do.”
All too well. Males were ruled by their biology. The primal urges
in their balls tended to overrule their hearts and brains.

Her past threatened to strike her with
sadness again, but she shook it off, took a deep breath, and
saluted Sam with her teacup. “Sam, of all the times I’ve seen you
in Micah’s thoughts, I’d never have taken you for a cynic.”

Sam tilted her head in acknowledgement.
“Well, from all the bitching Micah has done about you, I’d never
have taken you for someone with such a great sense of humor.”

Cordray set down her cup and held her fist
toward Sam. “Hell yeah, girl. Give me some.” She nodded toward her
fist.

Sam grinned and fist-bumped her. “Here’s to
cynics and bitches with senses of humor.”

“Amen.” Cordray killed her tea and settled
the empty cup in the saucer.

“More?” Sam got up.

“Sure. I’ll have one more cup.” In the right
company, she enjoyed a good cup of tea as much as a shot of Jack.
And Sam was swiftly becoming the right kind of company for
both.

As Sam fetched the teapot from the stove,
Cordray’s gaze swept the room. “So, how bad a shape was Trace in
when Micah brought him home?” She tried to sound disinterested. No
sense making Sam think she was more concerned than she was, even if
she couldn’t quite convince herself of that.

Sam poured water in her cup. “I figured you
would have poked inside my head by now to see for yourself. Micah
says you’re as bad as he is about seeing inside people’s
thoughts.”

“I’m being nice,” she said with an air of
false modesty.

One of Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “Ooohh? How
did I warrant such special treatment?” She returned the pot to the
stove.

Cordray stirred the water around her used
tea bag. “It’s true, I do have talents in unlocking mental
barriers, but I
can
restrain myself.”

“Micah told me you can see inside Trace’s
thoughts. Is that true?” She lifted her cup to her lips and blew
over the hot liquid.

Cordray cleared her throat and shifted on
the bar stool. “Yes, I can unlock Trace’s mind.”

“Really?” Sam swept around the counter and
sat down beside her. “What’s going on with him? Is he okay?
Is—”

Cordray held up her hand. “I can’t answer
that.”

Sam sighed and sat back, appearing ashamed
for even asking. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s just that
Micah and I care about him so much, and it would really be helpful
if Micah could get inside his thoughts.”

Something in her chest fluttered at hearing
Sam talk about Trace. Kind of like she had heartburn, but good
heartburn. As if she
wanted
it to feel like it was a bad
thing when it really wasn’t.

Still, she felt she owed Sam a morsel for
being so nice to her. “I’ll tell you this much. Trace thinks the
world of you and Micah. You’re always first and foremost in his
thoughts. I’m almost jeal—” She cut herself off, frowning as she
caught her Freudian slip and attempted to cover it. “I
mean . . . as much as I can’t stand the guy, Trace
is lucky to have friends like you.”

When she met Sam’s gaze again, it was clear
her slip hadn’t gone unnoticed. Sam’s acutely aware green eyes were
laser-locked on hers, studying her. “We all need friends like that,
don’t we?” she said as if probing for information.