Immortal Essence Box Set: Aligned, Exiled, Beguiled (18 page)

Michael came over to her side and lifted Venus into his arms. She noticed he babied his left shoulder, but didn’t mention it.

“Is . . . anyone home?” she asked while he unlocked the front door. She didn’t want to meet his mother if she didn’t have to.

“No. It’s normally me and my mother, but she won’t be home until late tonight.”

“Oh.” Her arms had naturally gone around his neck. The feel of his warm skin under her hands ignited a quiver low in her belly.
By the Gods, what’s wrong with me?
These feelings were uncontrollable. It felt like they’d taken over.

Once inside, he went to the stairs and started up.

“Aren’t you tired?” she asked.

“You hardly weigh more than a football. You aren’t one of those anorexics, are you?” He looked concerned again.

Venus remembered that word. It had to do with when humans hardly ate. “No. In fact I had three pancakes for breakfast. They were yummy. But, you’ve got to put me down. I could get used to this. Become lazy.” She tried to smile through the pain.

“I doubt that. But we’re here. Ignore the mess.” He went through a door, into a light room and set her on a bed. It was in perfect order, the corners crisp. A green down comforter covered the bed. The room smelled like citrus.
And so clean.
Too clean.
He’d been joking. Everything had its own place. He propped up a bunch of pillows. “Scoot against them, if you can.”

She huffed. “I’m not an invalid. What about you—your arm?” He looked at her like he disagreed with her invalid comment and completely ignored her question about his arm, propping up more pillows under her sore calf. The spot where Tawny kicked her had turned carroty, a product of her blood. Had she been a real, human girl, it would’ve been blue and purple. A mound, like a fisted hand, covered the spot where Tawny’s foot had connected with her shin. Venus wasn’t even sure if this method of hot and cold compresses would take care of her wound. Where she was from, if they were badly hurt, before the age of sixteen, their shaman would heal it immediately. With a small wound such as this, their bodies healed quickly. She didn’t know how her body would respond to human methods of healing. Whatever Michael did, she didn’t think it mattered.

He sat beside her. Tentatively, he grabbed the VISITOR badge. Flicking it in his fingers, he said, in a funny voice, “Take me to your leader.”

“What?”

He searched her eyes and then laughed.

“Nothing.” He dropped it. 

Embarrassed, Venus said, “Thank you for helping me. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

He raised a brow, but didn’t say anything. He took her clothes and boots from her lap and set them on the end of the bed. “Relax. I’ll be right back.”

Venus decided humans were a lot more complicated than they’d been portrayed in Earth Studies.

In the downstairs bathroom Michael closed the door and flipped on the light. At the sink he turned a little watching his reflection in the mirror. The bullet had hit him in the shoulder, putting a hole in his t-shirt and leather letterman’s jacket. “Dammit.” He took the jacket off, hanging it on a hook screwed into the door behind him. Facing the mirror again, he stuck his finger through the hole in his t-shirt. When he touched his skin, he cringed. There was a lump. Gingerly, he took off his t-shirt and tossed it on the floor. His left shoulder sported a huge bruise. It was deep purple and dark blue. He pressed his fingers against it and let out a hissing sound, like a seething snake, at the pain the pressure caused.

With his right hand, he reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a bullet. Held it up in the bathroom light and wondered why it hadn’t broken his skin. Tucking it away, he rotated his shoulder. It stung, hurt
bad
, but no blood had been drawn.

“Someone shot me.
On my birthday, too.
Suck!” He peered at the coat and his shirt again, trying to figure out how the bullet only bruised him. “What the crap?” He didn’t know what to think. Hadn’t any sane ideas.

Right now he’d focus on Venus.

Later he’d debate whether he was bulletproof. 

Heading into the laundry room, he grabbed another white t-shirt, like the one he’d been wearing, pulled it on and then went into the kitchen to get what he needed to help Venus.

After he’d gone, Venus took the liberty of looking around. Trophy after first place trophy lined a tall, glass case directly across from the bed. His name etched in all of them. 

So, this is his room.
She worked to ignore a bubbly, giddiness building in her chest.
 

Blue ribbons hung from most of the trophies. To the left of the case stood a large window with a white desk underneath. A laptop sat on top and to its left were a bunch of books, perfectly organized from tallest to shortest and in alphabetical order.  

Billowy, light green curtains adorned the window, flowing all the way to the floor. On either side of the bed were white nightstands. Matching navy, green and white stripes stretched horizontally over the lampshades. One sat on each stand.

War and Peace
rested on the nightstand to her right. Its pages were worn, like an old friend. It called to her. Venus picked it up, casually turning the pages. She could smell him—glazed pears—in every turn. She closed her eyes and flipped the pages again, rapidly, like a fan, allowing his smell to float into the air.

“Is that how
your
kind read?” he asked.

“
Yeow
, you scared me.” She opened her eyes and dropped the book. “No, I was fanning myself.”

“Ah.” It didn’t look like he bought it, but he sat on the bed and started organizing his supplies. “First, we’re doing hot.” He placed a warmed cloth over the wound.

She sucked in at the pain, but didn’t say anything. He left his hand on the wet cloth. “We should leave this on for fifteen minutes before moving on to the cold.” As if to explain
himself
, he held up an ice pack.

“
Fabu
.” She clenched her teeth.

“So where are you from exactly?” he asked, his first finger gently making circles over her wound. His head was down, so she couldn’t read his expression. But, she could feel his touch, even through the cloth.
So soft.
Tender. A tingling stirred, starting at the center of the wound, and spreading throughout her body.
His fingers stoking the fire on her skin, melting her.
Venus watched her skin flame red as her face burned hot, her breathing getting faster and faster.

“Please,” she begged, finally. “Stop.”

He looked up. “Venus, what’s wrong?” He moved on the bed, claiming her face in both of his strong hands, making everything worse.
His touch, his airy, summer smell.
Warmth.

He’s killing me.

“Look at me, you’re burning up.” 

Apprehensively, she peered at him and knew, by the look on his face, he’d seen her desires. She’d never experienced these emotions. They were overwhelming. “Ice.  Please.” He held her captive a moment longer. Venus watched his face change. He didn’t understand what was happening anymore than she did. Yet he still didn’t let go. Searching. Her face locked in his hands and her eyes held captive his.

She decided, in that moment, that if she died on Earth, it’d be worth it, as long as he kissed her for real.  

He let go, stood, and said, “Of course.”

When he wasn’t touching her any more, her skin started to cool and her alien
heart beat
slower. She needed to get control of herself. He’d been carrying her for twenty minutes off and on.

Why was this happening now?

He removed the wet cloth and placed the ice pack over her wound. “Venus. I’m so sorry.” He put his hand on her forehead. At his touch, she felt his quickened pulse. 

Maybe that’s why she felt different. Venus was responding to his emotions, or she was exciting him.
It felt like both
.  Her face started to flush again, her breathing faster. His breathing came faster, too.

She had to wonder if he reacted of his own free will. Once a female kelarian received immortality, if she wanted a male, her body produced a scent. Beyond that, they could bend a male’s will, to an extent. There had to be a mutual understanding first. Yes, she’d been given the immortal gift, but her journey hadn’t been fulfilled.  

She searched his face again. Desire radiated off him as did another emotion, but she couldn’t decipher it. She ached with physical need and pain. Michael leaned in, his warm breath mingling with hers. For a moment, she breathed easier. Venus watched his eyes widen, surprised, when he sensed the difference. She could’ve explained that the carbon dioxide he breathed out allowed her to breathe easier.  He already believed she was different. Again, his memories entered her mind.
The Angel of Death
.
Did he still think she would kill him? She realized his kiss might destroy her.

“Venus,” he whispered her name, feather soft.

“Yes?” She hadn’t meant for her response to come out like a sigh, but her name on his lips . . . She’d never really liked her name. Her parents had named her after a planet within Earth’s solar system and a goddess created by humans.
A goddess of love, no less.

When Michael said her name, though, for the first time, she didn’t mind it so much. Thought she might cry. Again, Venus was stunned that this was the same boy who so recently despised her.

Venus closed her eyes. Her body commanded him closer, urged him to kiss her, but her mind begged him to stop. He had to fall
in
love with Cheverly. Her life depended on it.

Kiss me.
She lifted a hand to his face, finding the long, thin scar. Her fingers brushed against it, as though she’d felt it many times before.

He shivered. 

Leaning in, his lips brushed hers and for the briefest moment it was as if time, space and eternity stood still. Tenderness.
Perfectly soft lips.
His strong hands stroking her neck.

“Well, isn’t this sweet.” Sarcasm spread through the room so thick it separated her and Michael, a sharpened knife slicing butter.

“Mother, what are you doing home?” Michael jumped off the bed, placing himself between her and his mother. 

“Nothing as fun as you.” She pushed her way past him and dropped a white shirt she’d been holding on the nightstand. “Hello, dear. Oh my, you won’t last long. You aren’t his type. Hawke men go for women with a bit more on top. Trust me.”

She looked different than she had in Michael’s memories. At the moment, she was dressed in a pale pink cashmere sweater and dark gray pants with matching suede heels. Her hair looked clean, bouncy and she had on make-up. She held a glass of wine and a cigarette in one hand. That was the same.

“Hello, Catherine,” Venus said, unable to help herself.

“You told her my name. That’s new. Well, my dear, at least you have manners even if you’re a tramp.” She walked over and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Mother!”

“Shut it. I’m going to have a conversation with the . . . girl.” She assessed Venus as though checking out meat in the grocery story.

Cigarette smoke and a strong perfume entered Venus’s nose. She held her breath, refusing to cough.

“Get out of my room.” Menace tore through the air. It frightened Venus, yet she also saw the strength in him. And felt a power, which she didn’t think Michael knew he possessed. In that moment, he reminded her of a Formytian. Chiseled biceps.
Authority radiating from every pore.
The way he stood tall despite everything he’d been through. 

It occurred to her that the Gods, Ith and Aetha, had somehow known the potential in Michael. They were aware of him and had chosen him for a purpose. But why would they care? The reason had to be important. She’d have to mull over the possibilities later.  

Catherine said, “Oh Michael, control yourself. You’re a man whore, just like your father. This girl is using you and you’re using her, I’m sure.” She turned to Venus, patted her thigh and said, “You don’t really care,
do
you, dear?” 

Venus felt abruptly better.
How dare she?
Her anger and adrenaline rose making the pain in her leg subside. No one talked to her that way and got away with it. She swiveled her body, flinging her legs to the floor, barely missing Catherine’s smelly cigarette. Standing, she gave Michael a look, a swift apology, before she glared at his mother. “Catherine, I’m sorry your husband treated you the way he did. But, more than that I’m angry.”  Venus stopped, forcing in some poisonous air and then continued. “Furious, in fact, that you talk to your son the way you do. Beyond irate that you don’t love him the way you should. But, truthfully, that’s between the two of you. Michael has chosen to stay and take what you give. I don’t blame him, not really.”

Catherine tried to stand. Her mouth making sputtering sounds, like a defunct car. Disbelief plastered over her face. She appeared shocked that a so-called child would speak to her in such a way. Venus leaned in, pushing her back down onto the bed.