Flamebound (6 page)

For long, endless seconds there is nothing but Declan and me and the soul-searing ecstasy we bring each other. And though I know better, though life has taught me better, I can't help thinking that I want it to be like this between us forever.

F
or long moments, I just lie there on top of Declan, too drained to move. Usually when we make love it energizes me, makes me feel like I can take on the world. But tonight I don't want to move, don't want to think, don't want to do anything but lie here and pretend the whole world away. I want, just for a little while, for it to be only Declan and me.

No ACW. No Shelby. No worries about being soulbound. Just two people who like and respect each other—two people who just happen to catch fire the moment they touch.

Yet even as the wish flits through my head, I know it's not to be. It's been seven years since our first kiss, but only two weeks since we met again, even less than that since we've become an actual couple, and there is so much I don't know about him. So much I don't want to know. So many questions I'm afraid to ask.

But that's on me, not on him. As are these overwhelming, all-encompassing feelings for him that well up inside me when I least expect them to. I can't help the way I feel, though. I can't help the hold he has over me any more than he can help the one I have over him. And it's not just the soulbound thing. It's the way he looks at me. The way he touches me, as if I'm fragile, important,
precious
. It's the way he respects my strength and my right to do things on my own, but is always there to pick up the pieces when I hit the wall. And I've hit that wall a lot since my powers have kicked in. I can't forget that Declan's been there, every time, to put me back together.

Part of me knows it's dangerous to feel so much for him, especially when things are so uncertain between us, when it would be easier for him to kill me than to live with this tie between us. Oh, deep inside, where logic has no place, I know he'll never hurt me. I know he would rather die than let anything bad happen to me. After all, he's saved me from death twice in the last two weeks. If he'd wanted me dead, it would have been easy enough to just walk away when I needed him most.

He didn't do that, though.

And still, I'm afraid. Not of him so much as the forces that surround us and make my feelings for him so improbable, so impossible. There's a darkness in him that I can't touch, and though he keeps it under wraps, I know it's there. I can feel it in him as surely as I can feel his skin hot and slick against mine.

And still I cling to these moments of peace with bloody, battered fingertips. Declan's right about one thing—I do feel fragile right now, as if I'll crack if one more rug is pulled out from under me.

Declan sighs, his hand tangling in my short, razor-cut hair. I can feel his need to speak just as I can feel his hesitation. Maybe, like me, he is unwilling to shatter the quiet between us. Maybe, like me, he knows just how much we need it.

The minutes tick away as I listen to the steady thump of his heart beneath my ear. I should get up, take a shower, let him breathe. But he's still inside me, still hard, and I find myself unable to break this most tangible connection between us.

Eventually, though, he says, “Tell me about Shelby.”

I don't ask how he knows her name—sometimes I think he knows everything. Or at least is powerful enough to get whatever information he wants or needs with a flick of his metaphorical magic wand.

“I don't know much,” I answer, lifting my head to look at him.

“Tell me what you do know.” He presses my head back to his chest and wraps his other arm around my waist so that I'm anchored to him. So that I can't move away. Not that I have any plans to try.

I tell him what Nate told me and what Lily's tarot cards said. He listens in silence, interrupting only to ask pertinent questions—many of which I don't know the answers to. When I've finished relating what I know, he doesn't speak for the longest time.

I do squirm away now, the anxious feeling building inside me again as I think about Shelby, scared and alone. I can feel my mind drifting, can feel it trying to connect back to her again. It's the first time I've ever had a conscious awareness of my magic taking control—usually it just grabs me by the throat and drags me wherever it wants me to go—and I wonder if I'm finally getting a grip on it. Or if the control is simply because I'm so close to Declan, whose command of Heka is no less than terrifying.

Whatever it is, I'm grateful. I know that I can't leave Shelby there alone, suffering, if there's any way that I can help her.

Declan doesn't protest when I scramble off him, just follows my progress across the room with watchful eyes. I grab my sleep shirt and tug it over my head, then go into the bathroom to clean up. If I'm going to try to connect with Shelby, or whatever the hell I did earlier, I'm not going to do it all sex-mussed and naked.

When I come back into the bedroom a couple of minutes later, Declan is sitting, cross-legged and nude, in the middle of my bed. For a second I can't do anything but stare. He's so damn gorgeous that it freezes me in place, and even though I'm completely satiated, I feel a familiar heat start low in my abdomen.

He smiles at me and raises an eyebrow in a wicked invitation I have absolutely no intention of accepting. And just to make that clear—to Declan and myself—I grab a pair of old and very unattractive sweatpants out of my oh-so-comfortable-but-never-to-be-worn-in-public drawer. Only after I've yanked them up my legs and into place do I dare to settle myself on the bed.

Amusement flashes into Declan's eyes—making him look a million times younger—but it disappears so quickly that I barely have a chance to process it. Unfortunately, it's not the only thing to disappear. Seconds later, I watch in astonishment as my pants melt right off my legs and into nothingness.

“Are you freaking kidding me?” I yelp.

He just shrugs. “I like your legs.” Then he leans over, trails a finger up my calf, over my knee and around to my upper thigh. He plays with me for a second, rubbing up and down my sex before circling my clit a few times.

I press into his hand despite my best intentions, let my knees fall wide. He smiles in delight and now that he's proven his point—that he can make me want him with almost no effort at all—I think he'll take his hand away. But he doesn't. Instead he increases the pressure until I'm gasping, stroking and circling until he sends me straight over the edge into another orgasm.

I'm still trembling when he pulls me into his arms, brushes soft kisses over my hair and forehead. “Was that strictly necessary?” I ask when I can find my voice again.

“I'm sorry. Making you climax is rapidly becoming an addiction.” He strokes a hand down my arm, holds me close until I finally recover.

“You don't sound all that sorry.”

I feel him grin against my hair. “Maybe sorry is the wrong word for it.”

“You think?” I grab a pillow and smack him with it.

The next thing I know, I'm flat on my back and he's looming over me, his eyes laughing as he finds a ticklish spot on my ribs. “No!” I gasp, wiggling and writhing as I try to escape. I almost make it when my breast brushes against his palm and distracts him, but seconds later he intensifies his attack, refusing to stop even when I'm a giggling, squirming mess.

In self-defense, I try to tickle him back, but it turns out there's not a single ticklish spot on him. So then I try to roll him over, but he's so much stronger than I am that he's not budging unless he wants to. Finally I decide to fight dirty—since he obviously has no problem doing so—and I deliberately wiggle so that my breasts are pressed against his chest and my legs are tangled with his.

I can tell the moment he registers what I've done, because the laughter leaves his eyes. Is replaced by the intensity I know so well. And then he's inside me once more.

This time is slow and sweet and gentle, him easing me to completion rather than hurtling me there. And when it's over, when he slips out of me before pulling the covers over my nearly comatose body, it occurs to me that I never tried to connect with Shelby.

Forcing my impossibly heavy eyelids open, I plan on telling Declan what I want to do as soon as I can muster enough energy to lift my head from the pillow. And find him watching me with wary, worried eyes. Too tired to do more than brush a comforting hand down his cheek, I snuggle against him and decide that we can talk later.

It's not until I'm drifting off to sleep that the truth occurs to me. That Declan deliberately distracted me with sex and tickling and that strong, beautiful body of his for the express purpose of keeping me from using my powers.

For the express purpose of keeping me from trying to find Shelby.

One more thought flits through my brain before exhaustion takes me over. What does he know that I don't?

*   *   *

It's dark.

I'm scared.

Cold.

Hungry.

Please, mister. Please don't turn the lights off. Please don't put me in the dark again. I promise I won't do it again. Please. I don't like the dark.

The voice in my head is young and feminine and scared. So scared. I try to figure out who it is, where it's coming from, but nothing is making sense. I was with Declan, at my house—

Please!
The little girl is crying now, and in pain. I try to pinpoint the pain, to see what's causing it, but there's so much of it. Everything hurts. Everything burns, aches, throbs.

It's okay.
I try to speak to her.
Honey, it's okay. Stop crying now. It's okay.

She doesn't hear me.

Sweetie, please.
I make my voice louder, more forceful.
Tell me where you are. Tell me how I can help you.

She still doesn't answer.

The pain is getting worse—hers, mine, I can't tell. Everything's all muddled and I'm having a terrible time thinking straight. I know something is wrong, with the girl, with me, but I can't figure out what it is.

Sweetie.
I try again.
Where are you? Tell me where you are and I'll come get you.

She doesn't stop crying, but I hear her inhale sharply and I know that my voice has finally gotten through.

Who are you?
she asks.

My name is Xandra. What's your name?

She sniffles a little and I get the impression that she's wiping her face.
I'm Shelby.

The name strikes a chord in me. I wrack my brain, try to figure out how I know it—how I know her—but nothing comes. It's like everything before this moment is a totally blank slate.

I know I should be concerned by that, but for some reason I'm not.
It's nice to meet you, Shelby,
I say after a few moments of trying to get a handle on what's going on.

It's nice to meet you, too
. She sniffles some more, but at least she's not crying anymore.

Can you tell me what's wrong? Maybe I can help.

I want my mommy.

Of course you do, sweetheart. Can you tell me where she is? I can get her for you?

She's at home.

Where's home?

Two-four-seven-one Sycamore Street.
Her singsongy words are the musical recitation of a small child who has just memorized her address for the first time.

And where are you? Are you near Sycamore Street?

Fear.

Confusion.

Tears.

She's crying in earnest now, harsh, heartbreaking sounds that rip at me with each shaky inhalation she takes. I feel terrible, don't want to push her, but I need any help she can give me.

I don't know. I don't know where I am. It's dark. I'm scared. Please get my mommy. Please, Xandra.

Her confusion becomes mine, her fear tearing at me like the sharpest claws.

Oh no!

What's wrong?
I snap out, responding to the increased urgency in her voice.

He's coming back.

Who's coming back?

She doesn't answer.
Shelby! Shelby! Are you okay? Who's coming back?

No, no, no!
She's wild now, hysterical. Pain drips from every syllable.

Shelby!
I try to reach for her, but there's a wall between us, one I can't get through no matter how hard I batter at it.
Shelby!
I call again, but there's still no answer. Terror swamps me, threatens to pull me under. I fight it, but it's nearly impossible—especially when the pain starts. Deep, agonizing, a razor-sharp blade raking across my upper thigh.

Blood wells. Gushes from the cut—thick, red, viscous.

More screams. More pleading.

Rough hands on my back, rolling me over. Rolling
her
over. I struggle to remain apart, not to get sucked into Shelby's tiny body. I can't help her then. But it's hard, impossible. Because I can feel him touching her, touching me. His hands positioning me on my side on the edge of the bed.

A whole new horror swamps me, but he doesn't touch her again, except to pull her leg forward and over. There's a drip, drip, drip sound as the blood hits something metal. The bed frame. No. A container. A chalice.

Oh goddess. Oh goddess. Oh goddess. No. No. No!
It's me screaming now, not Shelby. She just feels the pain. She doesn't know what this is, doesn't know how much worse it's going to get. But I do. I do.

Shelby!
I scream her name
. Answer me! Shelby, are you there?

There's no answer. Just a low, ceremonial chant that registers only on the edges of my consciousness. I strain to hear the words, but they're soft and muffled, nearly indistinguishable. I know the rhythm, though. Have heard it before, though I don't know where or when or why. This kind of magic is far blacker than anything I have ever experienced.

Xandra! Xandra, help me!

But I can't help her, can't do anything but lie here as—