Find Me in Darkness (4 page)

I don’t know how. I don’t know why. I only know that I lack the strength to stand. My knees buckle and I sag toward the ground, only to be captured before I fall in the arms of——oh, holy Christ, I can’t remember his name. But he is staring at me with an expression that seems to be fear mixed with concern mixed with tenderness.

“I—Do I know you?”

For a moment, he doesn’t move. Not a muscle. Not a breath.

And then, very slowly, he shakes his head. “No,” he says. “You don’t know me.”

I swallow. I’m not scared, though some part of me thinks that I should be. On the contrary, with his hand at my back I feel more safe than I have ever felt in my life.

But that evaporates in a heartbeat when I realize that not only are my clothes askew, but that Brayden is splayed out motionless on the asphalt. I jerk in shock, and when I do I catch a glimpse of what is behind the man who holds me. A body—and oh dear god help me—it’s headless.

Panic shoots through me. Ice and frost fill every part of me until I am frozen with fear, literally unable to move.

“Please.” I force the word out. “Please don’t hurt me.”

He flinches, as if my words are a slap. Then he very gently sets me on the ground.

I scramble to Brayden’s side, then exhale with relief when I see his chest rising and falling.

When he speaks, the man’s voice is soft. Almost a whisper. “No,” he says. “I’m not going to hurt you. Not this time.”

But I don’t believe him, because he is moving toward me with such an expression of desolation it rips my heart out.

Then he presses his fingertips to my forehead, and I slump to the ground, one word ringing in my ears.
Forget.

*

Mal’s entire body
ached, as if he’d fought a long, hard battle that had ended with someone taking a fist and pounding it hard into his gut.

Then again, isn’t that exactly what had happened?
He’d had her back.
For a few perfect, amazing moments, he’d had Christina back in his arms, perfect and beautiful. Long brown hair that fell in waves just past her shoulders. Deep brown eyes as innocent as a deer’s. And oh, god, she had the face of an angel.

She was always pretty—how could a woman with her core be anything but?—but this time she was so lovely it almost hurt. He’d craved her, mind and body.

Craved her, and for a few grand moments, he’d had her. He’d even gone so far as to allow himself to believe that everything was okay. That after all this time, she’d learned to control it. To battle it down.

To keep the power that was trapped within her safe and dormant and locked away tight.

How fucking wrong he’d been. And dammit, dammit, god-
fucking-
dammit, he knew damn well that he was the reason she’d lost her grip. That he was the one who had ripped the power loose. Who had sent it spiraling up almost to the point of explosion. And it had taken all of his control and strength to keep the whole fucking world from ending.

He’d almost failed.

God help him, he’d been so lost in the feel of her that he had almost been too late.

He’d won, though. In the end, he’d won, at least if you could call it a win. Mal really wasn’t sure anymore.

Maybe he’d saved the world by absorbing her energy, but she was lost to him once more.

No longer his mate, but his prey.

Not his lover, but the woman that he had been tasked to kill.

Goddammit all to hell.

A wave of nausea swept over him as he crouched to retrieve his fire sword. Without shifting his gaze from where Christina lay asleep on the ground, he extended the blade, oddly comforted by the familiar vibration of the weapon in his palm.

He lifted it, knowing what he had to do. Knowing that if he didn’t take action—if he didn’t destroy her yet again—that he was putting not only his race at risk, but this entire world.

One breath, then another.

It was easy. Hadn’t he done it a hundred times? A thousand? Just a contraction of his muscles. Just a few moments of heartbreak and then it would be over. He would be free for another decade, another century.

Free, and alone.

Free, and miserable.

He didn’t lunge. Didn’t bring the sword down and steal this life, this existence, from the woman he loved.

Instead, he deactivated the weapon, then slid it back into the pocket of his jeans.

He stood a moment longer, looking down at the woman and at the man who still slept beside her.

And then Mal, who had never once defied orders or ignored his mission, turned the opposite direction, and walked away.

‡

I
wake to
the sun streaming through the window, then stretch lazily in the huge bed that dominates the guest suite in Brayden’s massive apartment.

I’m naked, and the sensation of the cool sheets sliding over my heated skin is incredible, allowing me to fully enjoy the lingering remnants of a truly exceptional dream.

Sadly, in the way of dreams, I cannot grasp even the tiniest tendril of memory. I know only that the dream was deliciously sensual and starred a gray-eyed man whose face I cannot see no matter how hard I try. Nor can I conjure the sound of his voice. Just one word lingers—
Lover
.

The thought of it makes me shiver.

I am not prone to erotic dreams, and this morning I can’t help but think how unfortunate that is, because I have awakened wet and aroused, and I have to say that I like it.

Bray and I had returned to the apartment after our effort to snare Roger the cat had failed, despite having braved the dark shadows and hideous odors of one of New York City’s alleyways.

A full day of travel—punctuated by fainting spells and cheesecake—must have finally taken its toll, and I’m glad that we didn’t go for drinks. Considering my exhausted state last night, I can only imagine the kind of hangover I’d now be suffering.

Brayden’s parents divorced when he was six, after which Brayden and his newly single mom moved to my neighborhood. But Brayden is a Kline on his father’s side—as in the massive hotel chain that has pretty much taken over the Northern hemisphere—and that means that hospitality is in his blood. And
that
means that my room overflows with amenities. Right now, I’m especially appreciative of the fluffy white robe. I put it on, cinch the tie, and stumble from the guest suite into the state of the art kitchen.

I expect to find Brayden there, but of course I’ve forgotten that he has class. He’s left me a note, though, telling me that he’s going to stay at school all day to study, but to make myself at home and he’ll be there when I get back from rehearsal.

I glance at my watch. It’s not yet eleven, and rehearsal doesn’t start until three. Even when I factor in changing my clothes, grabbing a bite, and getting to Brooklyn, I have tons of time. What I should do is start scouring the internet for a day job—I’m thinking about fully embracing the starving actor cliche and waiting tables. Instead, I decide to go for a run.

I’m not one of those people who loves to run and craves the runner’s high, which I am convinced is only a myth. I do it for practical and vanity based reasons. Vanity, because it’s the best and fastest way to keep my butt and legs looking decent. And practical, because acting is hard work, and the cardio keeps me sharp.

This morning, I’m not thinking about either of those things, though. Instead, I just want to work off this weird energy. This antsy, almost sexual thrum that has been burning through me since I woke up.

That must have been one hell of a dream.

I think about the gray eyes again and wonder to whom they belong. Is he just a figment of my imagination, or am I having sex dreams about someone I met in passing and my subconscious latched onto?

When she was lucid, my mother would have said he was a lover from a past life. For that matter, she’d probably say the same when she wasn’t sane.

Either way, he is not real and he is not here, and I tell myself that is a good thing.

But as I make my way to the lobby and then start out down 59th Street at a slow jog, I can’t help but wonder if the man from my dream really does exist. And, if so, what I will do when I meet him.

*

“Tell me, daughter
Juliet, how stands your disposition to be married?”

I look across the stage to Angie, the woman who plays Lady Capulet, my mother. “It is an honor I dream not of.” I am holding the script in my hand, but I don’t have to look at the pages. This is a play that I have loved my entire life. There is something about the romance of it. The tragedy. The star-crossed lovers.

The story called to me the first time I read it in high school, and playing the role of Juliet now is like living in a dream.

Beside me, Juliet’s nurse, played by a boisterous woman named Marva, begins her lines. “An honor!” She makes a snorting sound and dives into one of the best deliveries of the rest of her line that I have ever heard. But I am only half-way paying attention. Instead, I am looking off stage, over the rows of seats, to a shadow in the distance.

There’s someone there
. I’m certain of it.

Someone standing in the shadows and watching me.

“Christina?”

I jerk my head up to face Eric, the director. “Sorry. What?”

“Are we keeping you from a pressing engagement?”

I stand up straighter and give him my full attention, the very epitome of contrition. Because the last thing I want to do is piss off or insult the very first New York director I’ve worked with. “No. No, of course not. I just—”

“What?”

“I was thinking about Juliet’s character,” I lie. “She’s so young, and of course we know she’s a virgin. But she’s still quite sophisticated sexually—I mean, if you don’t pick up on that before, it’s apparent during the balcony scene, right?”

“Wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied,” Eric recites, quoting Romeo’s line.

“Exactly.” I’m practically giddy that he bought my story. “And she flirts back, asking him what satisfaction he can have right then—I mean, she might as well say you can’t sleep with me now. I’m holding all the cards.” What I don’t mention is that this line really has been taunting me. Because after waking up so aroused, I’ve felt rather unsatisfied myself all day.

“Very true.” He nods, and I feel a surge of gratitude for my eleventh grade Honors English teacher who worked with me on my semester paper on the role of women in Shakespeare’s plays. Eric shifts his attention to Angie and Marva. “Anything to add, ladies? Other than that our newest member of the company has already proven herself worthy of being a Story Street alumnus?”

As both women sing my praises and comment on their own characters, I glance once again toward the back of the theater. I don’t actually expect to see anyone. For one thing, it’s highly likely there was no one there at all, and I was just conjuring up remnants from my dream. But even if he was real, he surely would have overheard the conversation and gotten the hell out of here.

So I am not at all prepared when I see the movement in the back row. And not just movement, but a person. A man.

He rises, and because the stage lights are on, I see him only in silhouette. Tall and lean, he stands with the with the kind of confident posture that suggests that he is exactly where he is supposed to be, the rest of the world be damned.