Broken Heart 08 Must Love Lycans (14 page)

“Well,
un
fuse us!” I demanded.

He released me, and I unfolded my legs. My feet touched the carpet, but I stayed in his embrace, waiting until I felt steady enough to walk on my own. I estimated it would be some time next decade.

“Thank you.” I met his gaze. “I’m really not a wimp. Not much, anyway.”

He cupped the side of my face, his thumb sweeping over my cheek. “You are amazing. And strong. And beautiful.”

My shields had dissolved long ago, so I could feel the truth imbued in every word. And underlying those compliments was the heat of his lust. He desired me, but his need to protect me, to comfort me had taken priority. But the slow burn was there, and it wouldn’t take much to get the flames roaring.

“You won’t leave again?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “I only left to take out the trash. I’d been checking on you every half hour.”

“Oh.” I leaned in, because I couldn’t help myself, and pressed my cheek against his chest. His heartbeat was so strong, so steady. “Thank you.”

His arms went around me again, and for the first time, I realized that I was giving something to Damian, too. His emotions felt a little … I guess “musty” would be the best word. Yes. A little unused, as if he’d locked them away for a long time. Well, at least the ones I was beginning to associate with me. He liked holding me. And doing so allowed him to feel affection. Knowing that he was receiving comfort, too, made me feel less selfish.

“I’ll fix you a snack,” he said. “Meet me in the kitchen.”

He pulled back, but I clung, not quite able to let go. Shame filled me. I was so freaking pathetic. All this non-judgmental warm-fuzzy-type notice from Damian had turned me into a piping hot bowl of Cream of Wheat.

“I can wait for you,” he offered.

“You can’t listen to me pee,” I said, horrified.

He laughed. An all-out burst of genuine hilarity, too. His response made it easier for me to move away, especially since his chest was jiggling so much. I pried my fingers off his arms and took a wobbling step back. “Obviously, I can cling to you like a beauty queen clings to her tiara,” I said crossly, “but I hardly think we’re to the point of being comfortable with bathroom … um, noises.”

He laughed harder.

“Damian!” I whopped his arm. “I’m serious!”

“I know,” he said, “that’s why it’s so funny.”

“Whatever, Mr. Sensitive.” I pushed past him, and looked over my shoulder. As soon as he had left the hallway (laughing all the way to the kitchen, thank you), I went inside and took care of business.

A few minutes later, I entered the kitchen. Damian was seated at the table. A built-in bench seat accented the window, which jutted out from the kitchen like a pointy chin. He sat in the middle with a tall black can of something in front of him, and to the left, a triple-decker sandwich filled with meat and slathered with spicy mustard. I could smell it—even from the doorway where I stood surveying the counter where jars, bread bags, and meat containers were strewn across it. I was starving, and that sandwich looked delicious squared.

“Oh, baby. Come to mama!” I scooted onto the bench seat until I was thigh to thigh with Damian. There was a can of Sprite, too. Meat
and
sweet, empty calories. If there had been a cupcake, it would’ve been the perfect snack. Still, I was a happy, happy girl.

Damian had apparently spent his time making sandwiches and neatly boxing away any residual kindness or humor. It didn’t take a psychotherapy license (or maybe it did) to figure out he didn’t like the way I invoked his emotions (not on purpose, mind you). He liked me, and he wasn’t thrilled by his attraction to me.

He was giving me that stone-faced, mean-eyed look again. I didn’t understand his need to create distance, but I wasn’t having it. I liked him. We were in this big ol’ muckety-muck—together. For all I knew we were really were werewolf married. I wasn’t sure how to feel about that (Just because I was an empath didn’t mean I had my emotional shit together—haven’t you figured that out already?), but I did know that I didn’t feel bad.

“Don’t start that again, Skippy.”

“Start what?” he asked coldly. “And don’t call me Skippy.”

“Yeah. That’ll happen.
Skippy.
” I waved my hand in the air. “You know, where you go back to being all stoic and serious. You wanna act that way with other people, then okay. I think it’s stupid, but you know …
okay
. But not with me.”

“And how should I act with you?”

“Like you like me.” I took a huge bite of sandwich. The bread was homemade—sourdough, OMG—and there was ham, salami, and roast beef layered with spicy mustard and dabs of mayonnaise. “Mmmmphhggggrrrr.”

“What?”

I swallowed the bite. “Mighty phenomenal sandwich.”

One eyebrow arched. “All that noise sounded like dialogue from a bad erotica novel.”

“You read a lot of those?” I asked.

“Every chance I get.”

“You should try some of the good ones,” I said.

His eyebrows hit his hairline. The chilly look in his gaze melted. You know, he had really nice eyes. And his face was
GQ
model material, all sculpted cheeks, square jaw, and aquiline nose. I wondered how he would taste. Better than my sandwich, I bet … and that was a mighty fine sandwich.

“What?” I said primly. “I’m allowed to read dirty books.”

“Hmm.” He sipped on his can of—

“What is that barf you’re drinking?”

He choked. It took him a full thirty seconds to get his breath back. “It’s not barf!”

“Smells like it.”

“It’s the werewolf version of an energy drink. It’s good.”

“If by
good
you mean
barf
.”

“Stop saying ‘barf’!”

I smiled at him sweetly. Then I ate my sandwich.

Damian apparently lost his taste for the werewolf go-juice. He pushed the can away and stole my Sprite. I was only a few bites away from finishing my snack, but I was full—and now soda-less, so I pushed away the plate. “That was awesome. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I can’t help but notice that I’m in a big T-shirt.” It covered my ass, and I was still wearing my bra and panties, but I really wanted a shower and more appropriate clothing. “Where are my clothes?”

“The shirt was destroyed and the pants are in the bedroom.” He frowned. “I will get you new clothes.”

“When?”

“Ah. When you run out of my T-shirts.” Then he looked at me, I mean
really
looked at me, and this wave of red and heat and lust roared over me.

My nipples went hard, and my breath left in a rush, and my panties got soaked.

“You’re flushed. Are you okay?”

I swallowed the knot in my throat. His desire beat through me like ancient drums, so primal and raw that I was held hostage by the intensity. I sucked in oxygen, but my body was on fire, as if he were touching me, and kissing me, and … oh.
Sweet mamma jamma.

The more he looked at me, the worse it got. Well, the better it got, I should say, because pleasure tingled through me, gathering hot and tight between my legs. I bit my lip and dug my fingernails into my legs.

This had never happened before.

I stared at him with wide eyes.

“What’s going on?” he asked softly. He was studying me, his own body tense, his gaze burning. “I can smell your arousal.”

“It’s your fault,” I managed through clenched teeth.

“I haven’t touched you.”

“Well, duh.”

He wanted to touch me. Badly. There was so much color in his emotions. Like those emotionally colored ribbons I’d discerned earlier. This, however, was mostly red, mostly passion, and I could hear whispers of words like “beautiful” and “need” and “take
.
”

What the hell? Emotions had never come in colors and I wasn’t telepathic, so I didn’t understand why I could hear words. It all pulsed together, a living, breathing thing, amazing and powerful.

“I’m an empath.” It was the first time I’d ever told anyone about my gift. “And I seem to be absorbing your lust.”

He grinned.

“Seriously?” I was flabbergasted. “Me being an empath doesn’t freak you out?”

“Why would it?” His grin widened. “I’m more interested in my ability to make you come.”

“What?”

“I’m not touching you,” he pointed out again, “and you’re nearly vibrating.” His nostrils flared. “You’re close, aren’t you?”

I gulped.

He captured my gaze; another wave crashed over me.

I pushed my thighs together and sucked in air. “I can do it back,” I threatened.

His lips hitched. “Go ahead.”

Knock, knock, knock.

“I may have to murder whoever that is,” said Damian.

His passion receded, but not by much. I tried to get myself together, but I couldn’t enact my shields. Something about Damian—about whatever
this
was between us—forbade me from closing the connection.

It was really a day of firsts for me.

Knock, knock, knock.

“Stay here,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

The kitchen doorway opened directly onto the foyer, so I could easily see Damian answer the front door, and the two people who came through it. They both stamped snow off their feet. The woman was blonde, and had a classic beauty. She was well dressed—though I thought it odd she wore no coat. She definitely had that air of wealth about her that I knew from my mother and her circle of friends. The gentleman with her was a tad more … well, blue collar. He wore a light jacket, jeans, and Nikes. His raven hair was shaggy, his eyes a gold-green, and his casual stance could not hide the raw power that swirled around him. He was dangerous, in the same way Damian was dangerous.

“Oh! You must be Kelsey.” The woman hurried past Damian, who flashed me a look of worried surprise. She settled on the end of the bench, and smiled. “You are quite lovely.” She extended her hand. “I’m Elizabeth Jones,” she said. “And this is my husband, Tez.”

“Hey,” said her husband. I noticed then he was holding a Louis Vuitton suitcase—one that cost six grand by my estimation. He put it down, then leaned over the table to shake my hand. “You’re the shrink.”

“Psychotherapist,” I corrected. “We do the same thing as shrinks, but we use smaller words and keep our egos in check.”

He laughed.

Neither he nor Damian chose to sit. Since I was connected to Damian, I could feel his need to protect, to stay alert even among friends. He was not the trustful sort. I couldn’t help but wonder about the events that occurred that caused his current emotional responses.

And here I thought I was gonna give up psychotherapy.

“We understand that you had to leave in rather a hurry. I hope you don’t mind, Kelsey, but I brought you some clothes.” She waved at the suitcase. “They may be a tad big,” she said, frowning. “But I think they’ll do until you can get a new wardrobe.”

I glanced at Damian, but he’d gone all stoic. He’d shuttered his emotions again, or at least tried to, but I could still feel wisps. He couldn’t hide from me—and I couldn’t hide from him, either. I felt a rush of warmth for the way he’d been caring for me. It felt nice to the recipient of someone’s concern. “You’re very kind,” I said. “Thank you.”

Elizabeth smiled. “It’s our pleasure.”

Scents were tickling my nose. Elizabeth’s perfume, yes, but underneath a sorta crispness, like dried leaves. And coming from Tez was a musk I associated with maleness, but something else, too—the closest example would be the dark, rich scent of wet earth. He was like Damian, but not. The scents I had associated with Damian did not match Tez’s.

Wait. I’d been associating scents with Damian?

Oh, my God. I really was turning into a werewolf. And it appeared that there was a whole world of beings that populated secret corners of the world. It was amazing and terrifying all at once.

“Forgive my rudeness,” I said. “But what are you?”

“I’m a vampire,” said Elizabeth. “And Tez is a were-jaguar.”

Dazed, I looked up at Tez, who grinned widely. The Cheshire cat, I thought, feeling a bubble of hysteria rise within me. Then I turned my gaze to Elizabeth. She’d brought me clothes, so I couldn’t help but think of her as the Hatter. “You drink blood.”

“Yes. But only Tez’s. It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it?” She reached over and patted my hands, which I had clasped on the table. “It will be dawn soon and you look tired. Get some rest. Things will look better this evening.”

“It feels as though the world has gone upside down,” I said.

“It has,” said Tez. “But it’s a much better viewpoint. C’mon, Ellie Bee. Damian’s girl looks as though she’s gonna fall over.” He stretched out his hand, and Elizabeth took it. Their connection blazed as bright as a golden rainbow—linked together in a way I’d never seen or felt, unbreakable and shining.

“Good night, Kelsey.” She laid a hand on Damian’s arm. “Good night, Damian.”

He gave them a short nod. “Elizabeth. Tez.”

Tez smacked Damian’s shoulder, his grin still wide, and a little knowing, and then he escorted his wife out of the house.

For a moment, Damian and I stared at each other, saying nothing, but feeling everything. Then he had to go and ruin the moment by saying something stupid.
Men.

“I shouldn’t have bitten you. I had no right, but I cannot take it back.”

I slid out from the bench, watched as his gaze dipped to my bare legs, and then how his jaw tightened. He was having a difficult time boxing away those emotions of his. “Can the effects be reversed?” I asked.

“Doubtful.”

“Can you nullify the mark? Remove its protections, or change its implications?”

He shook his head.

“So I will either be werewolf, or I will be dead.”

He looked at me, his gaze haunted. “Yes.”

“And I cannot change either of those outcomes.”