FALL (The Senses) (11 page)

When he
found Delara, and he had no doubt he would, she’d go to Spain—temporarily. They
were right. She’d be safer away from him until he killed Tarek. But if they
thought he’d let her reside with another Talde permanently, they’d have to do
more than threaten his Taldeburu.

 New
Orleans

Tarek
Rises in 48 hours

A
trickle of blood slid down her naked thigh. It pooled in the cleft of her knee
then dripped onto the porcelain tub. Delara leaned forward, turned on the taps,
and stepped into the cold spray, hissing as the water hit the fresh wound. It
was a familiar and comforting pain, as if a squeeze from a mother’s
hand—consoling and reassuring. This was her control, protection against her raw
emotions.

Cutting
was her weakness and she hated it, but trying to stop was trying to give up an
addiction. It had a hold on her so tight that she was afraid if she let it go
she would shatter into a thousand pieces. It got worse when she’d lost her
child, Waleron’s and hers from their one night years ago. She’d run, hidden the
pregnancy from him. Then the child was born dead. That had put numerous cuts on
her body. As did, twenty years later, finding out their daughter Rayne was
alive and had been tortured for years by the hands of a cruel guardian, who also
became Rayne’s husband. And the Lilac Jasmine had been behind it all.

Thankfully,
their daughter was with Kilter now and expecting their first child. But when
Waleron found out last year about her pregnancy, it had been catastrophic.

He’d
banished her from his Talde, saying cruel things she feared he meant and vowing
to never forgive her secrecy. Eventually he retracted his words, but the damage
was already done. Had been done for years as he kept denying her, denying them,
repeatedly.

Delara
had fallen into the gutter time and again. A place she found herself in so
often that she wondered if it was somehow intentional. Did she seek out
emotional pain? Or was fate so cruel to have her love a man so deeply only to
lose him and never recover from the loss?

Waleron.

She took
a deep breath at the thought of him. Her savior, ruin, and strength. He was all
three. Sometimes she was jealous of his emotionless, stoic face and cold,
detached demeanor. As if...as if nothing affected him. Nothing placed a grip on
his heart and soul.

Ironic
that it was he who initiated this habit. The cutting.

She
picked up her Talwar knife again, the hilt cradling in her palm as though part
of her. She shivered as the dampness clinging to her skin cooled and she ran
her hands up and down her upper arms. Only two more days, she thought, causing
another shiver to course through her body for a different reason. Two days and
then she had to go back.

Hurt
yourself, the addicted voice said. Cut again. Deeper. Harder. Make it last for
days this time. Just once more to end the pain that sat like a lead weight
around her neck pulling her under the earth, suffocating and at the same
time...welcoming.

She
lowered the tip of the blade to her thigh, needing the sweet release from the
debilitating emotions that were awakening inside her again. Just the thought of
going back and facing Waleron made her return to this destructive habit. She
hadn’t seen him since that day in the gallery when he recanted her banishment
from his Talde. He thought she was running again. And she had run to Europe for
a few weeks, like she always did when she needed to forget him. But then she’d
spent months with Kilter and Rayne in St. Thomas until finally coming here. Her
place of solitude. Where no one could find her. Where she could cut and try and
drive her pain into the depths before she went back.

Closing
her eyes, she held her breath as the sharp tip sunk into her flesh like butter.

Deeper.
It had to be deeper this time. More pain to end the pain.

Her grip
tightened on the hilt.

“Don’t!”

Her
breath hitched and her eyes darted to the tall, dark shadow on the other side
of the shower curtain. The knife fell from her grasp making a loud clang as it
landed in the tub.

A
tattooed hand shoved the curtain aside, the force unleashing two of the hooks
from the steel bar overhead.

Delara
nearly fell to her knees at the sight of him and placed her hand on the wall
for support. Waleron.

How did
she fail to notice his scent? His footsteps? How could she make such a slip up?
Because she’d been concentrating on her own pathetic tribulations and never
expected him to find her here.

For
months, her shack had been her haven where none could locate her—even those
with extraordinary capabilities. Even Rayne didn’t know where she was, although
Delara called her once a week. Rayne understood why Delara needed to be alone
and when she left the island, Rayne had told her to take her time, as long as
Delara was back before the baby was born.

Obviously,
Delara had underestimated Waleron.

He
grabbed her knife from the tub and slid it into the nylon sheaf attached to his
belt on his black cargo pants. He positioned himself like a great big boulder
in front of the door, his weight leaning back against it in a casual stance.
She knew better. There was nothing casual about him. Ever.

She
finally found her voice. “What are you doing here?” She watched his impassive
face, wishing he’d give some indication as to what he was thinking.

He
grabbed a plush, white towel from the rack and tossed it to her.

She
caught it, but didn’t bother wrapping it around her nude form even though she
was dying to hide herself from his view. Instead, she threw the towel back,
hitting him in the head. It fell to his feet ignored. He never moved a muscle.
The only change was his ice-blue eyes darkening. She knew what that meant.
Pissed.

“What do
you want, Pez?” She’d decided a long time ago that using the nickname made her
feel less close to him—kept them more impersonal, more casual. At least this is
what she kept telling herself. What she wanted to do was shout at him for
barging into her private hell. Instead, she raised her brows quizzically,
pretending his presence was of no concern.

His eyes
remained focused on her, unblinking and narrowed, making his stark, handsome
features look like some sort of Greek God statue. He kept his hair brutally
short, illuminating the bold-black snake tattoo of his Scar that sat below his
left ear and on his shoulder.

Delara
stepped out of the tub as gracefully as she could manage in her state of
agitation. Droplets of water and blood slipped off her skin as she placed her
hands on her hips in order to appear formidable—although inside she felt like
Jello—as she addressed him with unadulterated coolness.

“So?
Speak or get the fuck out.” Swearing usually managed a flinch out of him since
Waleron detested crude language. He once told her that it had something to do
with his late mother.

“I
didn’t know,” he said, gaze shifting to her self-inflicted leg wounds. Several
scars lined her shins and calves, more on her thighs, and some her arms,
although the faint lines were barely visible to the naked eye. “I assumed they
were from...Tarek.”

She
noticed him struggle to say Tarek’s name. “Yeah well, you don’t know a lot of
things about me. Your choice, remember?” She yanked a towel from above the
toilet and wrapped it around her head to form a turban.

“Why?”
He was never was one for long, drawn-out sentences, at least not since he came
back and started taking the pills.

Delara shrugged.
Opening herself up to him again would be the same as slicing her Talwar across
her throat and dying. She may cut, but it had nothing to do with wanting to
die.

“Why
Delara?” he asked in that familiar deep, husky voice that made her legs feel
like marshmallows.

Telling
you would be like ripping out my soul and setting it on fire. “None of your
damn business.”

His
causal stance gone, Waleron straightened. “You are my business, Maitagarri.”

The
Basque endearment, meaning
beloved
, slipped over his tongue like liquid
fire and unleashed the final hold on her temper. “Mr. Protector of the Senses.
Always has to butt into everyone’s business. Oh, I forgot—he also has to fuck
them.” Okay maybe the last was an exaggeration, but the cut on her leg was
doing shit for taking her mind off the emotional turmoil swimming through her
brain.

He
reached her in a millisecond, his arm wrapping around her waist, while his
other hand came between them and grabbed her chin, forcing her to meet his
narrowed eyes.

“You,”
he growled. “I was with you. Never have I been with others as I have with you.”

But he
still fucked that witch bitch Trinity in exchange for her visions. Delara had
never slept with another man until he did that. It was the driving force, the
catalyst proving that what he and Delara once had was over. She jerked her head
to the side and, despite his harsh grip, managed to dislodge it. “Yeah
whatever, I don’t give a shit anymore.”

“Look at
me,” he demanded.

She avoided
his magnetic eyes until she figured his patience would trump her own. As soon
as their gazes met, she felt the tears well. Fuck that. She slid her hand over
her hip to her thigh and pressed against the open wound, just enough so that
she grit her teeth in pain.

His
expression darkened, “Don’t do it again.”

“Or
what? You’ll put me in Rest?” That would be a relief. Sweet, coma-like state
for a few years sounded like heaven right about now. Well, except for reliving
the most painful part of your existence repeatedly like a scratched record.
Kilter had experienced it last year when he’d attacked Waleron and the Talde.
He said it was worse than soaking in a pool of acid. That rather summed it up.

The
pressure of his hand on her lower back increased and she felt the sensual, soft
traces of his fingers against her naked skin. His thumb on his right hand had a
slight roughness to it from a scar he’d received before she’d met him. She had
asked him about it once while they were sitting together one morning, his thumb
casually tracing patterns on the back of her hand. He’d told her that it was
from a vamp’s fang. That was it. No elaboration. No gory details. She should
have known then that he’d never let her in.

Time to
put an end to this before she succumbed to his touch and melted into his arms
like some weak-minded teenager, instead of a Senses Tracker who could scent
like a bloodhound and kill with the flick of her wrist.

She slid
her forearm between them, pushed down on the crook in his arm locked around her
waist and jerked away. She strode over to the bed and grabbed her jeans.

The
smell of him lingered everywhere and she wondered just how long he’d been
waiting in her shack before barging in the bathroom to find her slicing her
thigh. Nice one, she scolded herself while tugging on her jeans over wet skin
and raw wounds.
Let your Taldeburu see you at your weakest.
Not her most
glorious moment. Ah well, just add it to her list of screw ups.

She
yanked the towel from her head and threw it onto the bed. Her wet walnut hair
fell in tangled strands to her shoulders. She straightened her back and jutted
her chin forward as she met his stare, fully aware that her upper body remained
naked to his perusal. “So, guess I don’t have to ask why you’re here.” She
attempted to strengthen her voice, but instead it went up an octave and quaked.
“I`m coming home in a couple days, so you`ve wasted your time.”

“You
failed to answer a single email or text.”

She
gestured to the shack. “You see any computer? Any phone? This is...
was
my place where I could be alone. Don’t take it personally,” she lied, because
it was strictly personal. “I’m coming back to face him, Pez.” She held up her
hand when he went to speak and the snake tattoo on the side of his neck
quivered, its black eyes changing to red for a split second. But Waleron
remained silent despite his Scar. “I will not run from him, Pez.”

“He will
kill you this time,” Waleron stated in a cool, matter-of-fact tone.

She
shrugged, then leaned over the bed, picked up the damp towel and unthinkingly
began folding it. “Maybe.” Last time she’d seen Tarek, she’d been weak and
unprepared. She was different now. “Besides, Rest can change a person.”

Waleron
mumbled something with the word bastard.

“And
I’ve changed too. I’m not hiding, Pez.”

“Have
you?” He stood like a statue, eyes glancing with deliberate blatancy to her
thigh where her wound was now covered by her jeans. “Changed?”

“God
damn you,” she swore, towel dropping from her hands to the floor as she swung
around to face him. “Don’t you dare use this against me!” Him witnessing her
cutting had been the worst possible scenario.

“I want
to know why,” he prodded again.

“You
don’t have the right to know. I’ve never asked you what that Lilac did to you,
so get off my case.” Suddenly feeling vulnerable under his gaze, she snatched
her black-laced bra from the dresser and quickly snapped it in place then threw
on her rumpled, black long-sleeved shirt.