STEP (The Senses) (22 page)

He never wanted a child. Shit, he hated children and definitely squawking babies
who required attention. Still the horror had ripped through his insides like a Long Neck’s filthy nails. But somewhere inside there was this disappointment, this grief for the loss of a part of him. A part of both of them. Could he have cared about a child? Could he have . . . ? No.

He shook his head, jaw clenching.

Abby’s screams. Furious and yet mixed with confusion, then . . . then devastation. It didn’t last long until it changed to a desperate need for blood and sending her into a violent struggle to get free from the bonds.

He squeezed his eyes shut as if that would get rid of the images in his head. It didn’t.

Raw torment wreaked havoc with his mind.
Abby,
he screamed inside as he fought to remember some semblance of the woman he once knew.

He gripped his head in his hands, his stomach still tossing and turning, his mind swimming with mayhem. God, this was too much, even for him.

He struggled to hang on to his sanity, but he was losing the battle. He knew it. His body knew it and soon Abby would know it, when he left her here to die.

Cause he couldn’t do this.

A tear escaped and ran down the hard plane of his cheek, then dripped off his square jaw to land on his jeans. He couldn’t stop the emotional pain that racked his body any longer. It was too much. Watching. Being the one who could end her suffering by offering his blood, but unable to let her become something he detested more than anything in this world.

“Fuck
.” He tried to control the sobs but failed. “I can’t any longer. I can’t,” he muttered.

The floodgates opened after the horror of last night, the suffering, the desperation he’d seen in her eyes mixed with the evil that was trying to overtake her body.

“Please,” he begged to no one but himself.

The toll was too great and even he—the solid rock of emotions—finally crumbled.

Her screams haunted him. They had been deafening as she flailed against the chains, eyes blazing fire into him with hatred, pain and misery over the loss of her child. No, their child.

“Fuck,” he shouted as he got up, kicking the broken table across the twelve
-by-ten room and overturning the antique chest. “Jesus, let me breathe.” He wiped his tears with his arm and then slammed his fist into the drywall, leaving a gaping hole into the pantry.

Suffocating. His chest was so tight, it felt as if his lungs were collapsing. He had to get out of here. Leave. Jump into the lake and drown his wretchedness. It was as if he was the one putting her through this torture by denying what she wanted.

He paced back and forth across the worn-out hardwood floor.

He was letting her suffer, watching night after night as she screamed for one drop of blood to ease her thirst. He abruptly denied her then he was subjected to her hatred, which soon turned to begging then finally trepidation as she cried for his help. It repeated for hours like a broken record, over and over again until finally
, near dawn, she collapsed into an exhausted sleep.

Last night,
he recalled trying to hold her, to offer her some kind of comfort, unable to take her crying and screaming any longer. It’d been a mistake. She’d gone wild, tearing at his skin, desperate to reach beneath the surface, her need so great that the sweet Abby he’d known had disappeared behind glazed red eyes. He was afraid she was too far-gone, that their hope of riding it out was futile.

He’d never given in to anything in his life, but witnessing Abby’s torture any longer was beyond even his capability.

“God, Abby, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he said as he stared out the bay window onto the lake. The serene morning calm of the water was laughing at his riptide of emotions. In all his life, he’d never been so tortured as he was now. Rip his limbs apart, whip his back raw, waterboard him, anything but this. Because this . . . this was far worse. It was her pain. Her torture that was destroying his sanity. He had no control over it. He couldn’t stop it.

He hated that he wasn’t strong enough to withstand this. Most of all, he hated that he cared so much about her.

Cause he knew.

He knew one certainty in all this.

She had managed to touch a piece of his ice-cold heart. And it wasn’t letting him go.

He took out his cell. Pressed nine. Clos
ed his eyes and pressed call.

****

“Oh!” Rayne stumbled back a step as she faced the most glorious yet scariest man she’d ever laid eyes on. Eyes the color of the bluest water and sculpted cheeks and chin that any artist would beg to paint. Wow. This man was a statue of magnificence. “Sorry . . . I thought this was . . .” She glanced over her shoulder at the door sign. “Umm . . . I think you have the wrong—”

“You must be Rayne.” Waleron offered his hand.

Delara appeared from behind him. “Yeah, ah, well, this is . . . well, this is Waleron.”

“Oh.” The guy who paid for her therapy. She shook his hand and felt the magnitude that exu
ded from him. It tingled through her skin, and for one second she let her shield down and took in his emotions. She nearly stumbled back into the door and made a complete fool of herself when she felt the coldness seeping through his veins. It was as if he was a soulless being, an empty shell. Was it possible he could hide his emotions from her? Was that why she read him like a blank slate made of ice? “Umm, nice to meet you.” What else could she say? It was obvious Delara was uneasy in his presence.

He gave a subtle nod and she noticed the tattoo on his neck. She immediately thought of Kilter and his tattoos.
Stop thinking about him,
she berated herself. Maybe it was because she’d been discussing him in therapy today.

“Waleron was just leaving. Weren’t you?” Delara placed her hand on Waleron’s arm and Rayne noticed them both tense. Delara quickly let him go.

Suddenly Waleron turned to Delara, grabbed her around the waist and pulled her up against his chest in one fluid movement. Rayne heard her gasp, but it was smothered by the sudden fierce kiss he placed on her mouth. It was quick and over within seconds, but possessive, and he could be definitely be one of those jam guy’s.

Waleron let her go and Delara staggered back, her hand flying to her mouth. She looked shocked and d
ownright pissed.

A soft ringing sounded and Waleron took his cell from his side pocket, glancing at the number briefly and then saying, “Wear the dress
, Delara.” Waleron nodded to the silver gown, then answered his phone with an abrupt grunt and walked from the room without a backward glance.

“Wow,” Rayne said. “I hope I didn’t scare him away.” After the words were out of her mouth, she wanted to laugh. That guy couldn’t be scared by a hungry pride of lions breathing down his neck.

Delara was fuming as she paced the length of the changing room, shaking her head and muttering something unintelligible.

“Is he your boyfriend?”

“Ha,” Delara said. “He’s peanut butter. Forget the smooth though, he’s the crunchy kind.”

“Did he hit you?”

Delara huffed. “Nah. Not his style. He just saves your life, has sex with you and then tells you not to call.”

“Oh.” Okay, he was a bitter subject. Delara obviously had a history with this guy and was still hurting. No wonder, he just showed up in the girls
changing room dressed all in black. Then kissed Delara as if he’d eat her alive with his sexual prowess.

Delara muttered something unintelligible. “I’m giving you the wrong impression. Pez
—oh, that’s what I call him cause he’s addicted to—you know that Pez candy thing?” Rayne shrugged. “Well, it doesn’t matter. Pez is a good guy. I mean he can be when he wants and he’d protect you with his life. Never hits a woman. Never swears unless he’s really pissed. He’s just . . . indifferent to love. And, well, he is the leader of the Senses. Our Taldeburu. My boss.”

Well, that explained his incredible magnitude and why he’d made all the decisions regarding where she’d stay and her therapy. He looked like a leader, unfathomable strength and confidence the size of earth. Yeah, definitely a leader and he obviously had a thing for Delara. She wasn’t sure yet if that was good or bad.

Rayne hung the two dresses she’d picked out over the empty stall door next to them. Delara needed to talk. She’d never had a friend, but she assumed this was what they did. “You like him?”

“I loved him. Notice the past tense,” Delara said. “Like rip your heart out and put it on a silver platter kind of love.” She sighed. “He ate it and then spit it back in my face.”

Rayne didn’t know much about romantic love. She hadn’t loved anyone except her parents and Serafina. She loved the sun and the wind but it was far from feeling the emotions between a man and a woman. “I’m sorry. That must . . .”
Say what you mean,
Rebecca’s voice echoed. “That’s horrible! What an asshole.”

Delara smiled then laughed. “Wow, Rayne. I didn’t see that coming. I like this new you emerging. I liked the old one too, but I had a feeling you were holding back.”

Rayne smiled. It felt good to open up and say her thoughts without contemplating the consequences.

Delara
grabbed Rayne’s selections. “How about we watch movies and eat popcorn all night tonight. We’ll grab pillows and blankets and lay on the floor. A slumber party.” She threw the black gown over the door and held out the dark emerald dress. “Now this is what I’m talking about. Try it on. Then we’re having a girls’ night.”

She felt herself opening as though a tulip blooming. This was what living was about, the sharing, the laughter and experiences. She’d missed so many years stuck in a dark emotionless pit.

Strength. That was what was unfurling inside her. The strength to get better and be proud of who she was, regardless of what had happened in her past.

The dress was perfect according to Delara
. Rayne thought it fit too tight and the color was overly dramatic. She liked to walk in the shadows, and being the center of attention in any situation was not her cup of tea.

She bought the dress, despite her reservations
, and they walked to the Wine Rack on King Street. Delara called Danielle, who said she’d meet them in an hour with pink pajamas and two bottles of her Balen’s prized stash of red wine.

They put out pillows, duvets and sat in their pj’s amongst the mess on the living room floor watching
Enchanted.
Red wine flowed freely as did the giggling and the drooling over Patrick Dempsey’s sweet hot ass.

“Balen’s is way better,” Danielle said. “It was his eyes that captured me, but his butt that kept me.”

Delara gave a hoot of laughter. “Oh, please. Nothing can compare to Pez’s. Ultimate hard ASS. I swear that guy must work out twenty hours a day. You saw it today, Rayne. Whose is better, Balen’s or Waleron’s?”

She was feeling bolder with all the wine and blurted out. “Kilter’s.”

Delara nearly chocked on the wine she’d been swallowing. “Killer? Haven’t really looked at his ass, considering I’m always watching for his fists coming my way.”

Danielle proceeded to fill up her wineglass. “Off-Kilter actually threw me in the shower with my pajamas still on one time. But he helped me through a really rough time. He’s just a little—overwhelming.”

“A little?” Delara snorted. “The guy is a runaway train. And he’s crass and doesn’t trust us.”

“He was nice to me. Jam maybe. Not sure really. We never had enough time together. I don’t know, he just helped, I guess.”
Rayne was making a mess of explaining him. Maybe because every time she thought of him her emotions skyrocketed into bewilderment. The longer she was away from him, the more she missed him.

“So, it looks like we have a standoff for the best ass,” Danielle said
, raising her glass. “Cheers to great butts and jam men.”

They raised their glasses and repeated Danielle’s words. No one mentioned anything further about Kilter
, and she was glad the women understood her enough to not push the issue. He was a Senses and out of bounds. Period.

“Okay
, time for favorite movie of all time,” Delara said as she leapt up to put her DVD into the player.

Danielle and Delara both said in unison, “
The Notebook.
”

“Sounds boring,” Rayne said.

Delara and Danielle looked at each other and started laughing.

“Oh, it’s boring
, all right.” Delara pressed play.

“So boring.” Danielle nodded and winked.
“With the sweetest jam you’ve ever seen.”

Damien paced the worn
-out hardwood floor beside the bed. Every so often he looked over at the bed, thanking Jesus, God, Buddha and whatever other high-and-mighty spirits that she was sleeping.

She was so pale, her skin having lost its soft pinkish glow to a gray tinge. Any food he tried to get her to eat was either thrown up or uneaten. He was still able to wash her—a chore he detested more than anything—with a bowl and cloth
, and on good days taking the chance and putting her in the bath. She rarely reacted in daylight hours any longer.