North of Need (Hearts of the Anemoi, #1) (6 page)

He stepped to her. His hands rose of their own volition to rub her arms. “I can just stick with what you’ve already given me. It’s okay.”

Her gaze flashed up to his. She shrugged. Looked away again. “Nobody’s using them. You might as well.”

His heart clenched at her eyes’ glassiness. “Thank you.”

She waved him off. “Well, I’m gonna grab a shower.”

“Take your time.”

She collected some clothes and disappeared into the bathroom.

He turned to the closet. All the pants would be too short, so he grabbed the first thing his hands landed on, a pair of black flannel-lined snow pants. He would be hot in them, but he decided to keep up appearances. For now. Soon he was dressed and out the front door.

Cold air blasted him when he stepped onto the porch. He held his arms out, tilted his head back, and sucked the winter wind into his lungs, one deep breath after another. It smelled like home, fortified his body with its frostiness. Made all these layers bearable.

He grabbed the shovel from its perch against the front of the cabin and cleared the drifted snow from the porch and steps. Hesitating, Owen looked over his shoulder. He had to be sure. He jogged up the steps, poked his head through the door, and listened. The whine of the plumbing told him she was still in the shower. He might be able to get away with this after all.

He set the shovel aside.

Standing on the bottom step, he reached out and touched the snow. On his command, a gust of white powder erupted, lifting itself from the stone path and scattering over the surrounding drifts.

The entire front walkway cleared before his eyes.

Chapter Eight

“Humanity agrees with you,” came a deep voice.

Owen’s eyes flared as he whirled toward the sound of the voice. “Boreas.” He dropped to one knee, bowed his head before the Supreme God of Winter, the same god who had been the closest thing to a father he’d ever known.

A gust of wind ruffled his hair. “Rise, Owen.”

Owen rose to his full height. Boreas hovered over the snow before him, agitation rolling off him in little wispy snowdevils.

Unease and confusion clenched in Owen’s gut. He’d been with Megan less than a day, so why… “What brings you, my Lord?”

“I wanted to see how you fared with the female.” Being the oldest of the four cardinal Anemoi showed in the white hair and beard that swirled against the robe of skins Boreas wore.

Owen crossed his arms. “Well enough, I think.”

Boreas’s silver eyes flashed and good humor momentarily shaped his face. “Good to hear.” He frowned again. His enormous height seemed to float over the snow’s surface until he paused next to the remains of Megan’s snow woman. He heaved a sigh. “Chione has left Ular.”

Owen grimaced at the mention of his long-ago fiancée, and mashed his lips together to keep from asking why he was supposed to care. Chione was Boreas’ daughter, after all, and Owen owed the god his respect and civility. Still, he couldn’t restrain the words, “For whom?”

Boreas’ chuckle was without humor. The Supreme God’s metallic gaze cut to him. “You know her well. Yes?” He turned away. “For Koli.”

“Gods,” Owen bit out. He had no love for the Norse snow god Ular, not after he’d warmed Chione’s bed knowing that privilege should have been Owen’s alone, but Ular didn’t need another reason to feud with Koliada, the Russian solstice god. Their eons-old animosity was the stuff of legend. Few even knew the origins of it. “Well, I’d say Ular just met karma.”

“Hmm. Indeed.”

Now Owen was more confused than he’d been when Boreas first appeared. Did his once future father-in-law think he’d care about the machinations of his daughter after everything she’d put Owen through? He asked even though he really didn’t want to know. “Why do you tell me this?”

Boreas skimmed over the snow toward Owen, his silver eyes flaring with an anger Owen didn’t understand. The younger man wasn’t used to feeling small, but between Boreas’ immense physicality and barely harnessed powers, it could hardly be avoided. “You do not have much time,” he growled.

“What?” Owen frowned, held out his arms, gesturing to the blanket of snow that spread as far as the eye could see. “How can that be? This snow will last for weeks—”

“It should have. It was a good snow. But Zephyros ran into Hy at the solstice celebration, and that set him off. Again. This time, he’s unleashed a powerful West Wind, one that will drive a warm front through before week’s end. This is why I’ve come. To warn you.”

The news lanced through Owen. Week’s end. It was already Monday morning. Not enough time. He couldn’t expect Megan’s feelings to bloom for him so quickly. Gods. “Can you stall it?”

“I will try. But you know of my brother’s growing power,” Boreas groused. Every year Zeph tried to bring the warmth and green of spring sooner. It was a power struggle the gods of winter had been steadily losing a bit at a time for the last half century. And Zephyros’ generations-long foul mood made it impossible to reason with him. But this was something else. Nothing enraged the Supreme God of Spring into unleashing savage weather like a run-in with his ex-lover.

Owen tugged at his hair. Damn Zeph. Greedy son of a goddess. In any other circumstances, Owen would’ve been sympathetic. If anyone understood the kind of betrayal Owen had suffered, it was Zephyros. Several times over. So Owen usually empathized with rather than resented those moments when he let loose bursts of his enormous power to vent his turmoil. But, this time, Owen’s chance at happiness had gotten caught in the crossfire. “Can Chrysander help?”

Boreas flashed a wry grin. The Supreme God of the Summer was the youngest and most jovial of the Anemoi and had a knack for disarming feuds between them. “It is summer in Rio, Owen.”

“Right.” Boreas’ brevity on the subject was shorthand for ‘Chrys is enjoying his fill of Brazil’s nude sun worshippers, which you should know.’ Owen rolled his eyes and looked away. Well, there went his last hope. Gods knew Eurus, Boreas’ final brother, was off the table as an ally. Owen couldn’t recall the last civil conversation that had taken place between Eurus and the rest of his brothers.

So be it. All it meant was he had no time to stand around complaining about the games of gods. He needed to concentrate on Megan, on making her fall in love with him. He bowed to his god. “Thank you.” Owen waited for Boreas to dismiss him before standing straight. He gasped when he felt Boreas’s hand on his head, a true, rare honor. “My Lord?”

“I did you a great disservice, Owen.”

Owen stilled. For the life of him, he couldn’t think of a response to such an unexpected admission.

Boreas continued, “I should have warned you about Chione. Instead, I helped her make you think you were her first suitor, her first pairing. There were others. Before you. She’d kept them secret.” He sighed, a tired sound full of regret. “When you have a child, you cannot help but give her the benefit of the doubt. Protect and safeguard her. But Chione has proven herself incapable of commitment. Her heart is ice. She was different with you, though, and your powers were so strong. You held your own against her, met her as an equal. So I gave in to her pleas to hide her past after I’d learned of it.”

Eyes still downcast, Owen seethed. A cutting wind whipped around the house. Whiteout conditions surrounded the pair of gods. Owen’s rage. Betrayed. Again. By the god he’d served with faith and loyalty, to whom he’d devoted his existence, considered as a father. His fists clenched.

“I was in the wrong. But you are better off. Here. Now. With this female. If John Snow’s memories are any guide, she is worthy of you. It is why I summoned you back to answer John’s appeal. If anyone could understand the pain of loneliness, it is the two of you.”

Owen’s gaze flashed to Boreas’ face. For a moment the older god appeared haggard, deep creases carved into his timeless countenance. It took the sharpest edges off Owen’s outrage.

Now he understood why Boreas called him back from his long self-exile when John begged for assistance. Now Boreas’ care and interest made sense. It truly was atonement. Not just for Chione. But for himself, for his own role in Owen’s betrayal and subsequent long absence from the Realm of Gods. And he’d admitted wrongdoing. The major gods rarely deigned to do so.

“Thank you for your honesty,” Owen managed.

“It was long overdue. I want you to have this chance, Owen, which is why I’d like to give my brother a good thrashing right now.”

Owen nodded once, let his black hair cover his eyes. The competitive posturing between the Anemoi often struck him as entertaining good sport, but not today. Not at his expense.

“Go to her. Win her heart. I will help you as I can. But you must not delay.”

“Yes,” he said, waiting. He could not turn his back on Boreas, or dismiss himself from the god’s presence.

All at once, the wind and snow calmed. The sun-kissed sky returned, clear and bright. Boreas had sucked the energy out of Owen’s storm upon his silent departure.

Owen paced the length of the stone walk, covered over again from the whirlwind he’d whipped up.

Boreas’ revelations resurrected memories better left forgotten. Owen rolled his neck, seeking calm, wanting to return to the excitement he’d felt before over Megan. The golden curls, the pink cheeks, the uplifting sound of her too-rare laughter. He wanted to concentrate on her, think of her. Not the past. He’d wasted too much time wallowing there already.

What should’ve been weeks of time courting Megan, winning her affection—
earning
it—was now four days. Four days.

Disappointment and longing squeezed in Owen’s chest. Megan could make him happy. No, she
did
make him happy. Already, her companionship, her warmth and kindness, eased him. Her own pain called to the protector in him, gave him purpose—easing
her
. He could make her happy in return.

But, unlike Megan, Owen had the advantage of time and forethought. John’s memories of her were now his own. In the days before he’d become corporeal, as he’d prepared the snow that made his presence here possible, he’d observed her, learned for himself what a beautiful, intriguing creature she was. Now, having met her, touched her, held her in his arms, he knew. He wanted her
for her
, not just for the possibility of happiness and companionship she’d represented as he’d stood before the panel of gods and agreed to help John Snow.

Four days, then. There was still a chance. And that was more than he’d had in a very long time.

Resolve grew in Owen’s gut. The need to see her, to be in her presence again, panged against his heart. He released a long, calming breath.

With a wave of his hand, he swept the thin, trampled covering of snow from the stone walkway. The crystals swirled and shimmered in the morning sunlight. He was ready. He’d give her the world today, his world.

Chapter Nine

“What did you do?”

Owen whirled at the sound of Megan’s voice. “Hey. Uh, I’m done.”

“I see that.” She took slow, halting steps across the porch, down the steps. She tugged her zipper up in almost slow motion as she gaped at the sidewalk.

He breathed in her vanilla scent as she scooted around him. He thought of ice cream and bit back a groan. The sun illuminated her golden waves, secured back from her face with a rectangular gold clip. Stray curls framed her face, blew across her cheeks. Her eyes were bright, skin still pinked from the heat of the shower. She could’ve been the famed Snow Maiden, brought to life once again. The stress of Boreas’ revelations ebbed in her presence.

“But how did you get so much cleared already?”

“Told you I liked to shovel.”

“Uh huh.” She looked back and forth, once, twice, her eyes wide. “But, how did you get it
so
clear?”

Damn. From steps to driveway, there wasn’t more than a dusting of snow left. Hadn’t given that enough thought. Clearly. He tugged a hand through his hair. “It’s all in the wrist.”

She eyed him, her gaze skeptical and amused. “You’re so full of shit. You even did in front of the garage doors. How the hell long was I in the shower?”

He leaned around her. Apparently, he’d put a little too much force into his command. “I, uh, I don’t know.” He kicked at the edged wall of snow along the sidewalk. A clump stuck to the toe of his boot.

“Well, thank you.” The expression on her face flooded his chest with warmth. He adored her smiling. “Hey.” She stepped closer. “Your eyes.”

He looked down and his hair fell over his forehead, covered one eye. “Oh. Yeah.” He wouldn’t say anything more. She’d put it together for herself in her own time. That was the most likely way to obtain her belief, acceptance.

She brushed his hair back and studied him, wonder playing around her pink lips. “They’re different colors. I didn’t realize it ’til now.”

The heat from her body radiated over him, she stood so close. Despite the gloves she wore, her touch blazed through his skin. He held himself still lest he reach out and collect her to him, like his body screamed for him to do.

“One brown, one blue,” she mused. “So cool.”

He remained still, not wanting to discourage her continued touch. So close. All he would have to do is lean down…

All at once, she dropped her hand.

Disappointment and need tore through him as she put a little distance between them. He turned his gaze away and looked out over the pristine landscape. “Beautiful country,” he murmured.

“Mmm. Been coming up here since college. Actually met my husband at Wisp. The ski resort.” She hugged herself.

His arms ached to embrace her, but he wanted her to share her story. Even though he knew a lot of it.

Megan stared off into the distance. “He died. Two years ago.” Her gaze cut to him. “But then, you knew that, right?”

Owen’s heart rate ticked up. He hesitated for only a moment, nodded.

Her baby blues held him in place. “Did you know it was my fault?”

The words struck him like a kick to the gut. Never. She could never be responsible for someone’s death. And John’s memories showed nothing of the sort. “No—”

“Well, it was.” The iciness of her voice was so wrong, so unlike her.

“Megan—”

“It was Christmas night. I’d forgotten the eggnog. I acted like I wasn’t disappointed, but John could read me so well. So he ran to the store for me. Three blocks from our house, a drunk driver ran a red light and broadsided him. He never had a chance.” Her gaze swept back out over the snow. “He died, at the age of thirty-one. Because I wanted eggnog.” One tear stole down over her injured cheek.

Between her words and her tears, Owen couldn’t hold back. Grabbing the sleeve of her jacket, he tugged her into his arms. She held herself rigid for a long moment, then her body melted against his chest. At first she restrained the tears, but they finally broke through, soaking his turtleneck and from there, through to his bare skin.

He moaned and hugged her tighter, the life force of her tears jolting through him, seizing his heart, igniting a primal urge to protect her, defend her. Even from herself. “You listen to me, Megan,” he said into her silky blonde waves, his voice gruff. “You wanting eggnog did
not
kill John.” She shook her head, but didn’t voice her protest. “No. John died because some other person made poor choices and demonstrated a lack of judgment. Got into a car he had no business driving in such an impaired state. That had nothing to do with you.”

“He…wouldn’t have…been there…if I hadn’t asked him to go,” she wailed. Her hands tugged at his shirt.

He sucked in a deep breath. “Trust me when I say this. Are you listening?”

She nodded against him.

“There is nothing,
nothing
that man wouldn’t have done for you. You couldn’t have stopped him from trying to make you happy. Am I right?”

“Yes.”

“He doesn’t blame you, Megan. He would never blame you.”

Her shoulders shook within his arms’ embrace. Her arms went around his back, held tight. She literally clung to him. He would’ve gloried in the sensation if her anguish hadn’t been pouring into him through her tears.

“Sshh, angel. I’ve got you.” He kissed her hair. His lips begged for more, for him to keep going, keep kissing, but he held back.

“How…how do you know?”

“Know what?”

“That he doesn’t blame me. How can you know that?” She lifted her head and searched his eyes with her plaintive gaze.

“I know things.”

She closed her red-rimmed, watery eyes and shook her head. “Mutual friend.”

“Mutual friend.” He offered a small smile when she peered up at him again.

“Master of the vague.”

“At your service.”

She smiled, even as her breathing still hitched, and it felt like the most handsome reward.

§

“I’m sorry.” Megan halfheartedly wiped at the moisture and makeup on his white shirt.

She tried to pull back from his embrace, but he held tight. “I’m here for you. You don’t have to hide your grief. I want to help.”

“You did. Truly.” In fact, though the tears hadn’t yet dried on her face, her chest felt lighter, freer, than it had in a long, long while.

Because of Owen.

How many times had her mother, her sister, Kate—hell, even a therapist—tried to get her to open up, tried to reassure her John’s death didn’t lay at her feet? She hadn’t been able to accept what happened, move on from it. But Owen’s words resounded with a sincerity she couldn’t deny. He knew things he shouldn’t be able to know. She had proof of it. Could he really know, with the impassioned certainty he’d voiced, that John didn’t blame her?

She heard Owen’s voice again.
He could never blame you
. She sucked in a breath, covered her mouth with a shaking hand. Oh, God. The truth of it exploded in her head and heart.

Big hands cupped Megan’s trembling face. Owen thumbed away her tears. “Shhh, now.”

She inhaled a calming breath and dropped her hand to his chest. “What you said. Thank you.” As the revelation flowed through her, Megan’s muscles tensed and relaxed. Shuddered. The guilt and despair she’d shouldered these past two years fractured. Pieces flew off, away from her, like snowflakes in the wind.

Owen nodded and his eyes flared, an odd light that lasted only a moment.

It passed so quickly Megan knew she’d imagined it. God, his eyes. So beautiful. So unusual. The blue was nearly navy it was so dark. As if he wasn’t mysterious enough before.

She frowned. The strongest sensation of déjà vu flooded over her.

“Hey. I’ve got an idea,” he said, pulling her from her thoughts. His hands dropped to her shoulders and squeezed.

Relieved for the distraction, she took a deep, cleansing breath. “Oh, yeah? Let’s hear it.”

“I’m gonna build you a house.”

“Uh…” She smiled and pointed to the big wooden cabin beside them. “Think we got that covered.”

The right side of his mouth lifted. “No. An igloo.”

“Really?”

“Yep. And you’re going to help me.”

Why not?
“Okay. I’m in. But, do you have any experience with igloo construction?”

His eyes flared again, that crooked grin turned into a smirk at the challenge. “Do I have any experience with igloo construction?” he murmured. He held out his arms, called out to the snowy field, “She wants to know if I have experience with igloos!” The laughter that spilled out of him was pure as bells and so joyous. She was enraptured watching him. “Yeah, I know a thing or two.”

She adored how he drew her out, made her feel safe to be silly. Sometimes the label of “widow” weighed a thousand pounds with all the things you felt you shouldn’t do. “All righty, then. You lead, I’ll follow.” There was no frickin’ way they were going to actually build an igloo, but it would be fun trying. “What do we do?”

“I need a long, sharp knife, some cardboard and a handsaw. Got any of that lying around?”

“A knife, yes. The rest, probably. Let me go look in the garage.”

“Okay. I’ll clear a path out into the yard.” Owen retrieved the shovel and dug right in, carving out a path from the sidewalk into the front yard. He didn’t go all the way down to the grass, but instead left maybe a foot of snow as a pathway. Every so often he’d stomp it down to pack it tight.

Megan left to search for the saw. When she returned, empty box, saw, and knife in hand, Owen had shoveled a good fifteen feet and now worked on clearing a circle. The snow was deeper out in the yard, the wind having pushed it in drifts as it curled around the cabin and blew out over the flat plain of the great field in front.

“Come on out,” he called.

She crunched across his path to the big circle. Her first step into it, she sank to mid-calf.

“That’s what we need the cardboard for. We gotta pack this down real tight. Toss it here,” he said, pointing to the box.

Megan laid the saw on top of the snow and chucked the box to him. He unfolded and tore it in two, then handed a big, long piece to her.

“Like this,” he said. He laid the strip of cardboard down and jumped all across its surface. His obvious pleasure brought out the boyishness in his face. “Easy.” When he’d gone back and forth a few times, he moved the box piece a foot or two and repeated the process.

She could handle that. Cardboard underfoot, Megan began to jump. She felt ridiculous. Her hair flew around her face and her cheeks started to ache from smiling. But it was fun. So much fun. God, she needed that. She glanced up to Owen.

He’d stripped out of his coat. Every time he jumped, the bottom hem of his turtleneck rose up, exposing a sliver of ridged abdomen.

She stared a long moment, had to tear her gaze away. “Aren’t you cold?” she asked as she continued to jump.

“No. I’m perfect.”

Well, she couldn’t disagree with that.

She jumped and jumped on the cardboard, worked up a sweat that almost had her considering shedding her coat, too. But it was damn cold out here. In the twenties at best. The sun was bright and high in the late-morning sky, but did little to abate the temperature. The air was crisp, biting even. She didn’t know how Owen could stand it.

“Did you grow up where it snowed a lot?” she asked.

“Yep.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Moved around a lot, but I’ve lived in Alaska, Canada, even Russia for a while.”

Megan stopped jumping. “Russia. Wow. Why did you live there? For how long?”

“When I was younger. With my family.”

“Do you speak Russian?”

Having made it across to her side of the circle, Owen stopped right in front of her. And launched into a totally incomprehensible Slavic-sounding monologue. She gaped at him. She had no idea what he was saying, but, damn, the way it rolled off his tongue. His eyes smoldered, upping the heat inside her already-warm layers.

She swallowed hard. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

He nodded. “It’s a yes.”

“Speak any others?”

“A few. I’m pretty good with languages.”

“Good with languages,” she murmured. With everything she learned about him, he got more and more interesting. Or more mysterious, depending on how you looked at it. “So, good with languages, shovels, and igloos. Anything else?”

The smug look he tossed at her was so wicked it shivered right down her spine. Walked right into that, hadn’t she. She shook her head and, looking away to hide her blush, moved her cardboard forward one spot. Without doubt, he would be good at…other stuff. Jesus.

They resumed jumping together, like little kids, until they’d covered the entire circumference of the circle.

Breathing hard, Megan leaned forward and braced her palms on her knees. The exertion reminded her of building the snowmen the other day. She looked up. Pouted. “Aw, my snowmen.” Only the crown of the snow kid peeked out through a drift. The woman still stood, though she was buried up to her waist, her scarf and gloved arms long lost. The snowman, though, was totally gone. Not a single trace remained. Maybe the wind had blown him over, the drifts covering his parts. His absence from the little family squeezed her heart. “My snowman must’ve fallen over.” She glanced to Owen, who watched her with a strange look on his face, like he was waiting for something. “Was the snowman still standing when you borrowed his shirt?”