Capturing Today (TimeShifters Book 2) (19 page)

One of his hands cradles the back of my head. So gently. “You’ve been through the wringer.”

“You’re not mad?”

“I’m not mad.” He trails his fingers against my scalp, sending tingles all the way down into my stomach. “I know you. I get you. And I appreciate all of you—even the fiery parts. I hope you understand that.”

I hold my breath for the duration of Michael’s speech. My head starts to spin. It’s the same sensation I feel after riding the swiveling teacups at the county fair—a lightheaded dizziness that rivals the symptoms of influenza.

Space. I need space.

I slip away from Michael. “What now?” I rest my hip against the edge of the bed and cross my arms. “I’ve never been through this—losing someone—before. How do we ever go back to normal?”

“We don’t.” He frowns. “Not after someone dies. You find a new normal, but it’s never the same as before.”

Right, Michael saw his Pairing die and then his father. There’s also a good chance he’s been through this before with another Shifter. He knows grief intimately.

“But before finding the new normal.” The day’s events weigh on me, making my legs feel unsteady. I sit on the bed, letting my feet dangle a few inches above the floor. “How do we get through today?”

“You won’t like my answer.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“For me?” He runs his hand over the twirly designs on my bedspread. “Distraction. It’s the only thing that works.”

“Then come here.” I pat the spot beside me. “Pretend I just got back to the room, and the last half hour never happened. We’ll talk, but not about today. Or we’ll not talk. Whatever is easier.”

A smile lights his features for the first time today. He climbs onto the bed, and then we both scoot so we’re leaning against the wall. Shoulders and feet touching. Michael lays his hand—palm up—on my thigh, silently asking to hold mine. I lace my fingers with his.

I try to think of something clever to say, but all I can focus on is the fact that Michael is next to me, and he’s so attractive and possesses all the qualities I never realized I wanted in a man. It feels like there’s an electrical charge zapping back and forth between us. Static electricity? I swallow hard. Something more makes my emotions churn in confusion whenever I’m near this man. I’ve been fighting it, but the part of me that thought about him every day for the past eight months has known all along.

I feel more than friendship for Michael. Far more.

“What do you want to talk about?” He angles his head against the wall, and I turn mine to face him. There’s less than a foot between our noses. I lick my lips. We’re too close.

“I don’t know.” I look away. “Tell me some interesting historical fact.”

“Okay.” He runs his thumb over the top of the hand he holds. “If you ever shift to ancient Rome, don’t drink the wine.”

“Because?”

“Because they used lead powder to sweeten it.”

“But lead is poisonous.”

“Precisely.” Suddenly, he lifts our joined hands in order to drape his arm over my shoulders. Wiggling a bit, it only takes us a moment to find the spot in each other’s side where we fit perfectly. “My turn.” He smiles. “If you could shift to any time in history, what would it be?”

“The Oregon Trail.” I want to slap my hand over my mouth. Where did that come from?

“Out of every event in the world’s history, you pick Westward Expansion?”

“I might have read through
Little House on the Prairie
while I was home.” And watched some—okay, a lot—of the reruns of the overly cheesy show. I lift my chin in an attempt to salvage my pride. “I was trying to immerse myself in all things historical during my break.” There, that sounded responsible. Like a serious Shifter.

“You’re cute.” He winks and tugs me toward him.

Cute? I fight an eye roll. Cute is a word that should be reserved for blurry-eyed, newborn kittens and little girls wearing Easter bonnets—not a woman looking into the soft mocha eyes of a man she wishes found her half as appealing as she finds him.

I shrug out from under his arm, pull my legs to cross Indian style, and turn to face him. My knees touch the side of his leg as he’s leaning against the wall. “Swords. How did I not know about the swords?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “It never came up.”

“But you’re some sort of se—” A rush of sadness clogs my throat. Lark will never watch his reaction to being called
sensei
. “Sort of sword master,” I finish lamely.

“Not unlike your secret love for the Oregon Trail.” He smiles wickedly—I’ll never live that down. “I had a thing for the medieval time period when I was younger. Specifically King Arthur. There. Now you know. I was a geek.”

“Fear not.” I pat his knee. “Your closet geekdom is safe with me.”

“My dad channeled it into combat preparation. He started me on swords really young. I was trained on all of them by the time I first shifted.”

Michael was eleven when he first shifted.

A sword master.

At eleven.

“When I first came here, to Keleusma—you didn’t train me on them.” Lark did. But I avoid her name. Michael knows.

Missing contact, I grab his hand and turn it over in my own so his palm faces the ceiling. With my pointer finger, I slowly trace over the lines on his hand.

He inhales abruptly and then shakes his head like he’s trying to shoo away an unwanted bug.

“Most Shifters, when they first get here …” He stares down at our hands so I stop in the middle of following his life line and press my palm to his. Michael’s fingers curl around mine. Then he meets my gaze again. “Basically they’ve been in training their whole lives. Their parents have been preparing them, but with you …”

“My dad didn’t.”

“We all thought it would be best if you trained with someone who would be a little less … intense … for lack of a better word, when it comes to swords.”

“Wait. Don’t tell me. You go full Hulk when someone busts out a sword, don’t you?”

“Something like that.” He chuckles.

Out of everything, it’s his soft laugh that finally does me in. I want to hear it every day for the rest of my life. I want to be the reason behind the smile tugging on his lips.

But that’s not possible, is it? We’re Shifters. Our option is Pairing or nothing.

No. Not right now.

Michael’s here, and in this safe haven, he’s mine.

“No. Don’t. Don’t do it. Don’t go.”

Michael’s voice, loud and close by, jars me awake. He sits up quickly, panting. His movement forces me to pancake myself along the wall and sends my arm—which used to be draped across him—flying for a second.

Is he still asleep?

He braces one hand on the wall above me. His head bows as if he’s praying. “Don’t go,” he pleads with so much anguish it makes my heart twist.

Another nightmare.

I squint against the ceiling light. As the hours wore on and the talking became sparse, we must have nodded off. Michael’s wearing his shoes, and we’re on top of the bedspread.

Eyes still closed, Michael groans and scrubs his hand down his face. His knee comes up and he rests his forehead on top of it. My hand shaking, I reach for his back. All his muscles are coiling, as if he’s ready to be on his feet, fighting at a moment’s notice.

“Michael?” I whisper.

How did Darnell tell me to deal with shell shock? I should have paid better attention. Think harder. Get him to do something normal. No, that won’t work now. Not after the past twenty-four hours. The tense set of his shoulders, the lines around his eyes, and the way he’s yanking on his hair—Michael needs to be held. Plain and simple. To be told he’s not responsible for carrying the entire weight of the world. That he’s not alone and never will be again if I can help it.

Little by little, I inch my hand up his back and slowly get into a sitting position. With the heel of my palm, I rub back and forth against his shoulder blades. Relishing the feel of the soft shirt stretched taut across his strong figure. His back rises and falls with huge lungfuls of air, but he keeps his head on his knee.

Okay, he’s starting to freak me out. He’s awake, right?

With one arm snaked around his side and the other over the top of his shoulder, I splay my hands across his chest, finding his steady heartbeat. Then I tug his back against my body and drop my head so my lips are near his ear. His hair smells glorious, like standing deep in the woods at night after a light rain.

“You’re okay. It was just a nightmare.”

“It felt real.”

Lifting his head, he turns to look at me, but I am already so close. For a heartbeat, my nose grazes the soft cocoa stubble lining his cheek, and a part of me—a big part of me if I’m being honest—wants to lean in, weave my fingers into his hair, and discover if his lips would yield to mine. Instead I rest my chin on his shoulder, bringing my forehead to about his jaw line. Acting on anything with us both half asleep is a bad idea even on a good day, but on one like this? Worst idea ever.

Get a grip.

Michael is my friend. My best friend. Our emotions have been wrung, causing my senses to go a little haywire. We’re tired, and besides the few days on our mission, we’ve been apart for a long time. A longing to be around each other is understandable. And that’s all this is.

I’m positive.

Well. Like thirty percent positive. Which means the other seventy is screaming for more of Michael. But the thirty percent should win. That’s not mathematically logical. But, hey, I’ve never pretended to be a math whiz. Far from it. I have no clue how I skipped a grade. Then again, it’s not like they were quizzing me with huge life decisions broken into percentages when I was seven.

My head is so muddled, having volleyed between grief and anger and desire over the past few hours. Emotions have turned me into a puppet, playing out their whims. Which is highly aggravating. I’d rather stuff them in a box and duct tape it shut and hide it in the far corner of my mind. Evidently that’s beyond me today. I don’t have the reserves left to rein myself in.

But I must.

Untangling myself, I scoot away from him and pull my legs under me. I miss Michael’s warmth immediately. “Maybe we should take you to Darnell?”

He pulls a face. “Why?”

“The ... nightmares.” I speak slowly, exaggerating the word in case Michael’s still in the half awake, half asleep state of being.

He swivels around to fully face me. Definitely wide awake. His chin juts out, and his brows dive. “You still think I have shell shock?”

“Don’t you?”

Sleep has mussed his dark hair with adorable results. Tufts stick out at odd angles, and some falls limp on his forehead. It could be my muddled head, but the hair mixed with his serious look suddenly gives Michael an irresistible quality. Don’t get me wrong, Michael’s always been attractive, but right now it’s undeniable. Of all the times to be without a camera or a smartphone.  

“I never had shell shock. Not even that first night. Trust me.” He rakes his fingers through his hair. Seriously, the man’s intentionally trying to kill me. Here lies Gabby Creed. Cause of death? Devilishly handsome man.

My mouth goes dry. I fake a small cough. “How do you know you don’t have it? Have you always had nightmares?”

“Not like these.” Clearly he isn’t going to tell me details. And tonight’s not the time to press. Not after Lark.

Still. “When did they start?”

“Recently.” Someone present the man with a prize. He’s a true master in the fine art of evasion. Give him a suit and a mustache and he can double as a secret agent.

“So recently would be.” I roll my hand, trying to get him to talk. But he doesn’t. “Oh … about when it would have logically happened when we were at war. But you’re certain about not having shell shock because …?”

Feet on the ground, he paces away from the bed. “The nightmare I’m having has nothing to do with the war. Nothing to do with shell shock.” He turns back toward me. “I promise.”

Nightmare
not
nightmares
?

“But—”

“Listen. I shouldn’t be here.” Michael hooks both his hands behind his neck. “With you. Like this.” His arms fall to his sides, and then he taps the couch’s arm rest. “It makes sense when we’re shifting, but I have my own room here. My own bed.”

A cord wraps around my insides, pulling tighter and tighter as he speaks. On my own, I’ll fall apart. I’ll stay huddled under the covers for days. Reliving Lark’s rasping gasps for air, the fear reaching out from her eyes, and her final words. I’ll see her blood again. My fingers burn to claw at my neck—just to take a full breath—because it feels like my chest wants to cave in.

“Please.” I push off the bed. “I don’t want to be alone.” Skirting away from the concern that flashes across Michael’s features, I fiddle with the bottom of my shirt. “After … I can’t … I’ll see it all again.”

Is this what death does—turns the people left living into total wrecks? Forever?

It happened to my father. But foolishly, I used to pride myself on being strong. Fall to pieces like Dad? Never. Not me. People only have that sort of a hold on your heart if you allow them to. I dedicated so much effort into placing locks and thorns and traps around my heart, like some pirate bent on keeping a treasure hidden. Keeping away people who might make me care.