Forgotten Sea (13 page)

“Axton?” Iestyn’s tone was grim.

She couldn’t let him think that. “No. Simon
saved
me.”

“When?”

She tugged her towel from under his hip and wrapped it around her. “It doesn’t matter. A long time ago.”

He didn’t say what he must be thinking. That if it didn’t matter, there was no way she would have stopped him just now. “How long ago?” When she didn’t answer, he rephrased the question. “How old were you when you were . . . hurt?”

She stared at the ugly brown carpet between her naked feet, not wanting to see his expression change from warm sympathy to horror. To pity. “Nine.”

He swore.

She swallowed painfully. “Of course, that was only my physical age at incarnation. As an elemental, I’d lived many centuries before that.”

“Bull shit. You were a little girl.”

She cleared her throat. “Technically. As I said, I was newly Fallen, so—”

“Was it a demon?”

Demons hunted the Fallen, she had told him. “No. Just a sick, bad man.” That’s what she’d called him in her head during the two days of her captivity. The Bad Man.

“Give me his name. I’ll kill him.”

Okay, not pity. Fury. Typical male response. Useless to her, but warming all the same. “You’re too late,” she said. “He’s already dead.”

Silence, while he processed this new information.

“Axton?” he said again.

She nodded. Simon had swept through the seedy apartment like the wind of God, a tornado of destruction. The nephilim did not kill except in self-defense. Simon administered the Rule, he did not break it. Only that one time.

Only for her.

“So the son of a bitch did one good thing,” Iestyn said. “That explains why . . .”

She stiffened defensively. There was nothing improper between her and Simon. “Why what?”

“Why you trust him,” Iestyn said simply, disarming her.

She turned her head. He sprawled beside her, lanky and golden and still half-erect, his skin smooth satin over muscle.

For one moment, she all owed herself to yearn. To hope.

Maybe she hadn’t ruined everything. Maybe he could accept her past—accept her—and move on.

“You know, I have had sex since then,” she said, trying to sound matter-of-fact, like she’d had half a dozen sexual partners instead of only one.

“With the ponytail guy.”

“Who?”

“Blond guy in the car. Your boyfriend.”

“Gideon? He’s not my boyfriend.”

“So this other guy . . .”

Jacob.
“He’s perfect for you
,
”
  her roommate Bria had claimed.
“He’s steady. He’s in our cohort. And,”
her friend finished triumphantly, saving his best qualification for last, 
“I haven’t slept with him yet
.
”

“Which makes him unique,”
Lara had said dryly.

She almost smiled, remembering. Jacob had been . . .

Not perfect. But earnest and convenient and too wrapped up in his own reactions to worry much about Lara’s.

“He’d be the one who convinced you sex was no big deal.”

Heat crawled up her face. “Well, it wasn’t. He didn’t . . .And I couldn’t . . .”

She’d wanted to feel whole. Jacob had wanted to get laid. Achieving their goals had proven more awkward than painful. After the first few times, they’d improved beyond cautious acceptance on her side and a fumbling rush on his, but the sex was never great enough to inspire either of them to keep trying.

Jacob had been honest breaking up with her.
“I like you,
Lara
,
”
he’d said, his brown eyes sincere.
“As a friend. But .
. .”

“He said I had too much baggage,” she told Iestyn.

“Fuck,” Iestyn said. The laughter that usually lurked at the back of his eyes and the corners of his mouth was gone. “I’m sorry.”

She couldn’t tell  if he was expressing sympathy over Jacob’s rejection or apologizing because he basically agreed with him.

He got up—
Don’t leave me
, she thought—and flipped back the covers of the other bed.

Regret stung her eyes. “Me, too.”

Sorry she had wimped out earlier and missed her chance with him. Sorry . . . Not that she had told him, but that it so obviously made a difference.

“Are you going to be all right?” he asked quietly.

Lara sagged. Skies, she was tired. Down-to-the-bones exhausted and sick almost to death of being defined by something that had been done to her thirteen years ago.

She would not be a victim. She didn’t want him to see her as that scared, damaged child in need of comfort. So she straightened her spine and lifted her chin. “I’m fine,” she said, because it was important he believed that.

That she believe it.

* * *

Iestyn lay on his back in the ratty motel room, contemplating the stains on the ceiling tiles and listening to the soft  sounds of Lara in the other bed. The creak of the mattress. The rustle of sheets. The catch of her breath.

She had to be exhausted, but she was still sleepless, still restless, still making him crazy.

“I can’t do this,”
she’d said, a thread of panic in her voice.

So they wouldn’t.

But, God, he wished he could touch her.

Not for sex. Okay, yeah, partly for sex. Tough to pretend he didn’t want sex with his hard-on tenting the covers.

He’d never been big on cuddling. Foreplay, fine. Nonsexual contact, not so much. He had a feeling, dimmer than memory, deeper than instinct, that his ingrained dislike of casual touch was part of who he was. What he was. But he would have liked to comfort Lara. To hold her in his arms, rub her back, stroke her hair, and tell  her how amazing she was.

Except she didn’t want that.

“I’m fine
,
”
she’d said, with a tilt to her chin that meant,
Hands off, asshole
.

Given time and opportunity, he could probably change her mind. But putting the moves on her now, when she’d asked him to stop, when she was alone and vulnerable . . .

He couldn’t do it.

She was only with him because she wanted to help.

She’d stood up for him against Axton. Axton, who had saved her, who had done what Iestyn couldn’t do, destroyed the sick son of a bitch who’d hurt her. Yet Lara had turned her back on her hero, on her people, her family, because she thought it was the right thing to do. She believed in Iestyn even before he believed in himself.

The least he could do was try not to screw her over.

He glanced toward the other bed. She lay on her side, one arm tucked under her pillow, her knees drawn almost to her chest. The light creeping under the bathroom door outlined the angle of her shoulder, the curve of her hip. He studied her face. Dark, winged brows, long black lashes. Her mouth like a lily at night, cool, pale, closed. He imagined warming it with his, pictured her lips flushed and open, swollen and damp from his kisses. Recalled the mind-blowing softness of her breast in his hand, the delicate point of her nipple.

Her taste.

She shifted and sighed.

He shifted, too, reaching down to adjust himself in the dark, remembering the way she’d gasped and arched when he suckled her.

Her clear gray eyes opened, staring directly at him.

“Am I keeping you up?”

Busted.

He raised his knee so she couldn’t see his erection standing like a mast against the sheets. Not that she meant her question the way it sounded. “I’m good. Go to sleep.”

“I can’t.”

Did she have nightmares? Probably. The thought made his back teeth grind together. He unclenched his jaw, made his voice as gentle as possible. “You’ve had a stressful day.”

“It’s not that.” She flipped onto her back, making the mattress squeak. Her breasts moved in interesting ways under the T-shirt. “My hair’s wet.”

He forced his gaze back to her face. He didn’t know what to say. The Heart of Jersey wasn’t the kind of hotel that stocked hairdryers in the guest rooms.

“And now my pillow’s wet, too.”

The complaining edge to her voice made him grin. He didn’t dare hope she was as frustrated as he was, but at least she wasn’t lying there shattered, reliving her past.

 “You have two pillows,” he pointed out.

She flounced back onto her side and fixed him with those big gray eyes. Hopeful. Expectant.

Frustration and desire churned inside him. What did she want from him? Whatever it was, he would find a way to give it to her. But he needed a freaking clue. “You want one of mine?”

She was silent so long he wondered if maybe she’d fallen asleep after all. Then, “All right.”

He sat up, reaching behind his back for a pillow.

But he never had a chance.

Before he could toss it to her, she climbed out of bed, all smooth bare legs and braless breasts, and plucked the pillow from his hands.

“Thanks,” she said and slid into bed beside him.

Every muscle in Iestyn’s body tightened. “What are you doing?”

Dickhead. Like it wasn’t obvious.

Lara propped the pillow behind her and settled against the headboard, the bounce of her breasts momentarily robbing him of breath. “I thought if I slept with you, we could both get some rest.”

Rest.
Right.

The T-shirt was damp where he’d had his mouth on her.

He forced his gaze up to meet her eyes.

“You want to sleep with me,” he said. Like he needed her to draw him a diagram when his brain was already playing the movie in glorious 3D color and surround sound.

“Mm.” She tilted her head, gauging his reaction. Despite her casual tone, the pulse beneath her jaw beat like a caged bird. “That’s a euphemism.”

“It’s a mistake,” he said harshly.

She blinked. “Why?”

“Because . . .” His mind blanked as his blood abandoned his head and went south. “I can’t give you what you need.”

She glanced at his lap, still covered by the sheet. Raised her eyebrows. “Apparently you can.”

He strangled a laugh. “I mean . . . I can’t be who you need.”

Her brilliant gray eyes softened. “What if you’re what I want?”

His mouth dried. His pulse pounded.

“Damn it, I’m trying to do the right thing here,” he said.

“The right thing for you? Or for me?”

“For you. I’m probably screwing up—hell, I know I’m screwing up—but cut me some slack. I haven’t had a lot of practice thinking about other people.”

Her lips curved, but she didn’t look happy. “You know, I’m getting pretty tired of other people deciding what’s best for me.”

He sucked in his breath. That’s what she was running away from. Asshole Axton and his angel horde. He didn’t want to be like them, didn’t want control of her life or her choices. He didn’t want the responsibility. But . . .

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.

This time her smile reached her beautiful eyes. “I think you underestimate yourself.”

She reached out, her fingertips tracing the shape of his lips, the sensitive skin at the corner of his eyes. The tenderness of her touch clogged his throat.

“So, do you want to . . . sleep with me?” she asked. “Really sleep.”

The hesitation in her voice nearly did him in. Hell, yes, he wanted to sleep with her. He wanted to peel her out of that T-shirt and get his hands on what was under it. He wanted her on him and him inside her for whatever was left of the night. For however long they were together.

He looked into her eyes, shining with trust, and knew he couldn’t do it. She might say sex wasn’t that big a deal, but women often said that. In his experience, most of them felt differently in the morning.

He wasn’t taking advantage of her. He owed her too much, liked her too much, for that.

“Sleep would be good,” he said.

She nodded and scooted down on her pillow, making the mattress and everything under the T-shirt shift. He closed his eyes briefly. He must be out of his mind. He settled next to her, tucking her alongside him, her head under his chin, her arm across his chest, her smooth legs against his thigh.

Torture.

Her hair smelled fresh like rain and clean like soap. It was also, he discovered quickly, still damp.

Sleep was hopeless. He lay staring at the ceiling, trying not to disturb her, forcing himself to breathe slowly and steadily in and out. He could feel the faint vibration of their connection, the beat of her heart, the whisper of her breath.

In and out . . .

He dreamed again. Dreamed and remembered.

* * *

Three of them boarded the ship in the gray dawn light.

Four, if you counted the dog. Iestyn, his arms full of ninety pounds of wet, excited deerhound, definitely counted the dog. If not for the prince’s hound Madagh, they might all have Changed into seal form instead of leaving Sanctuary by boat.

Or maybe not. Iestyn boosted the shivering dog onto the swim platform at the back of the boat before hauling himself, dripping, from the cold sea.

How did you out swim the end of the world?

The dog’s claws scrabbled on the smooth deck. Roth set down the sea chest and turned to help.

At the ship’s rail, Kera stood, her gaze fixed on the rocky shore where the sea lord Conn stood with Griff, the castle warden, to see them off.

Kera’s face set in lines of mutinous distress. “I should stay.”

“The prince commanded us to leave,” Roth said.

Kera raised her chin. “I could help in Sanctuary’s defense. I am Gifted.”

“You’re a pain in the ass.”

Iestyn ignored their squabble. The three of them had been raised together since before the age of Change. The magic of the island that kept their elders from aging prevented the young selkies from reaching maturity for a very long time.

Once there had been enough of them to fill a classroom.

But he and Roth and Kera were the youngest.

The last.

Seabirds clamored around the southern cliff face, disturbed by the fretting wind or the tension in the air. Small waves slapped the rocks below the towers of Caer Subai.

Iestyn eyed them anxiously.

Miles away, outside the wards that protected the island, demons labored under the crust of earth to turn the sea itself against the children of the sea. When the ocean floor erupted, the quake would create a tidal wave, a roaring wall of displaced water that would crest and fall on Sanctuary.

Unless the sea lord stopped it. Somehow.

A white bird, its wings sharply angled as a kite, circled the mast like a portent.

Madagh caught sight of Conn on shore and whined, pressing against Iestyn’s thigh. Iestyn rubbed the dog’s bearded muzzle. He knew exactly how the dog felt.

Lucy might have stopped the destruction of Sanctuary.

In the brief time she had lived on the island, Lucy Hunter had channeled the flood of the wardens’ power and tapped a well of feeling in the cold, proud sea lord as deep as it was unexpected.

But Lucy was gone now.

When the demons threatened, she had turned her back on the prince and her selkie heritage to protect her human family in Maine, half a world away.

No one dared speak of her desertion to the prince. But among themselves, Iestyn and his friends could talk of little else.

“Traitor,” Kera denounced her.

But in the weeks Lucy had been on Sanctuary, she had been Iestyn’s friend. She stood with him back to back against the demons. She had healed his wounded arm.

Iestyn tightened his fingers in the rough fur of the dog’s back, his throat constricting. He would have gone with her, if she had asked. He would have followed her if he dared.

The cold wind whipped through Iestyn’s clothes and tugged at the rigging. On shore, Conn’s face was set like stone, his eyes like ice.

“You are our hope and our future,”
the prince had said that morning to the three young selkies before ordering them away.

Iestyn had wanted to argue. Lucy was the important one. He wished Prince Conn would go after her and find her before it was too late.

The earth rumbled. Iestyn’s heart pounded as he bent to secure the barking dog to the rail.

Unless it was already too late.

* * *

He woke suddenly, his heart drumming in his ears and in his chest. There was somewhere he had to go, something he had to do.
“You are our hope and our future . . .”

“Who’s Lucy?”

Lara’s voice. Lara’s face hovering over him, revealed in the crack of light from the bathroom. Her side pressed warm and soft against him, breast, hip, thigh. His body reared awake.

He cleared his throat. “Who?”

Her gray eyes narrowed. “You were dreaming about a woman. Lucy Something.”

“Lucy Hunter.” Memory engulfed him like a wave. He couldn’t breathe. “Lara . . .” He gripped her shoulders too hard, his fingers denting her smooth flesh. “What happened?”

She caught her full lower lip in her teeth. “I’m not sure. It’s this connection thing we’ve got going. Like I was in your dream, but watching it, you know? I could see you—you were younger in the dream—and I could sort of hear your thoughts, but I didn’t understand everything that was going on.”

Neither did he.

Seven frigging
years
. Gone. The realization was as sharp as a knife, the loss as new as yesterday.

And Sanctuary . . .

He shook his head to clear it. “What happened to Sanctuary?”

“That’s the island in your dream?”

He nodded.

 “I don’t know.”

“You’re telling me your lot wouldn’t notice if the demons sank an island into the sea?”

“This isn’t
Star Wars
,” she said with a flash of spirit. “It’s not like we feel a disturbance in the Force. Or maybe the masters would, but they wouldn’t tell  me about it. I’m only a novice Seeker.”

“Well, that’s just fucking great,” he said.

She looked at him with those big, clear, wounded eyes, which made him feel like an even bigger piece of shit for taking out his frustration on her. “Sorry. It’s not your fault. There’s nothing you can do.”

Nothing he could do. If Sanctuary was gone, everything was over, had been over for seven years. His skull throbbed.

The only difference was that now he knew. He felt gutted, hollowed, as if everything worthwhile had been stripped from him, leaving nothing but bones and skin.

Not even skin.

His seal pelt was gone, too.

He covered his eyes with his upraised arm. Swallowed the ache in his throat. Nothing had changed, he told himself. Nothing had really changed. He was still just a yacht bum, a drifter, without ties or responsibilities.

“Why would the demons destroy Sanctuary?” Lara asked.

She lay on her stomach beside him, her warm hip against his thigh, comforting. Distracting. “The merfolk have never sided with Heaven or humankind. What did the demons hope to gain?”

Reluctantly, he focused on her words. “We had something they wanted. Something our prince would never give up.”

“What?”

He lowered his arm, irritated by her persistence. “Lucy Hunter.”

He watched her turn over his answer in her mind. “I can understand them hating her because she’s human,” she said slowly. “But . . .”

“Half human, half selkie. Lucy’s mother was the sea witch Atargatis. There’s a prophecy that a daughter of her mother’s lineage would change the balance of power among the elementals.”

And if Sanctuary had fallen, the balance of power had shifted in ways Iestyn couldn’t begin to imagine. Didn’t want to think about.

Maybe the demons had initially attacked Lara because she was nephilim. But if they’d declared open season on his kind as well, she was in more danger than ever. He couldn’t be responsible for her safety.

“I’ll rent you a car in the morning,” he said. “You can go back.”

Lara rose to her knees, making the mattress and everything under the T-shirt bounce. “Wait a minute. I’m going with you. To help you find your people.”

He looked up, into her eyes. “My people are gone. You’ve got nothing to prove anymore. You can’t help me.”

She sat back on her heels, dragging half the covers with her. He made a grab for the sheet. Nudity didn’t bother his people, but he was exposed enough already.

“There must be other merfolk,” she said.

“Not many. Our power and our population have been declining for years. Centuries.”

“But you’re immortal.”

“In the sea,” he said patiently. “To live on land, to live in human form without aging, we need the magic of Sanctuary.”

Instead of arguing, she nodded. “So at least we know where we’re going now.”

Hadn’t she heard a word he’d said? “I’m not dragging you halfway across the world looking for Sanctuary.”

“We’re not going to find Sanctuary.”

“Good bet. Seeing as it probably doesn’t exist anymore.”

“We’re going to find Lucy Hunter.”

Her eyes were so fierce and bright, her voice so clear and determined, he didn’t have the heart to tell  her she was pinning her hopes and his future on a wild-goose chase. Or maybe he didn’t have the guts. He still felt oddly hollow inside. Empty. As if he wasn’t completely inhabiting his own body.

He was conscious of hers, though. The pressure of her knee against his hip. The quick rise and fall of her breasts. Her weight beside him pinning the sheet, anchoring him to the bed. With her beside him, he wasn’t drifting. Wasn’t lost.

His blood began to flow and pound in his chest, his head, his groin.

She was so damn beautiful, those dark winged brows setting off her incredible eyes, her straight, delicate nose, her full, pink, soft lips.

Their eyes met and clung. She must have registered the change in his expression, the charge in the air, because her long black lashes swept down. Even in the dark, he could see her blush. She had to see his reaction, too, standing up stubbornly under the sheet. But she didn’t back down or push away.

“Maine, right? Didn’t you say . . . In your dream, you thought about her family in Maine.”

She wouldn’t leave him alone.

He really liked that about her. But now his head hurt and he was tired of arguing.

When a beautiful, nearly naked woman was in your bed,  maybe it was better to go with the flow, to avoid confrontation. “Could we talk about this in the morning?”

“There’s nothing to discuss. We’re going to Maine.”

Maine. Why not? His own personal compass needle had been swinging north for a while.

So instead of telling her right this minute that there was no way in hell he was taking her with him, he said, “If we don’t get some sleep, we won’t be fit to go anywhere.”

She smiled, flushed and triumphant. His heart lurched.

She settled beside him, sliding under the sheet. He put his arm carefully around her, and she nestled against him, her breasts squashing the side of his chest, her clean hair tickling his chin.

She felt warm. Smooth. Solid. Gradually, the empty ache in his chest eased. The noise in his head faded away.

We flow as the sea flows.

But when he was with her, the turbulence calmed. He would be content to lie with her like this, motionless, for hours.