Shifter's Dance (4 page)

Relief tickled across her nerves as the ointment
seeped into the thin, tender skin. All the itching, burning
sensation that had crackled and roared quieted to a bare murmur.
She dabbed a tiny bit on the left eyelid.
One-fiftieth of one
inch.
Such a tiny amount of skin to protect the human eye.

The relief was so immediate, so unexpected, that
Romy shuddered in something like shock as the itching and burning
dimmed, letting other senses roar to life. And this relief came
without the stench she had become resigned to smelling. Oh, she
owed Sage big time. Smiling, Romy made her way back to the bed,
reaching for the simple dress she’d laid out upon it to wear to
dinner.

Stephen watched the door to the dining room
anxiously. That afternoon in the garden, he’d seen a part of Romy
he guessed few others had gotten to know. She had a gift for more
than dancing—the way she described the movement as they listened,
he was certain she could convey that to other dancers. She could
make a career for herself as a choreographer, he was sure of it.
Maybe it wouldn’t be easy. But few things ever were. As long as she
believed in herself, she could do it.

And there she was. When she stepped into the dining
room, his chest felt tight. She was exquisite. She’d tucked her
hair into a bun at the nape of her neck, and a drapey black dress
hugged her athletic figure.
Mine.
His body hummed with
satisfaction at the thought. When the male vampire he’d been eating
with the night before approached her, Stephen bit off a snarl and
made his way over to her.

As he approached, he heard Romy demur, “Thank you,
that’s so nice of you, but…”

“Go,” he ordered. The vamp took one look at him,
smirked, and said his goodbyes.

“You’re gorgeous. Have dinner with me?”

She laughed, then, her head thrown back. “Are you
going to scare away anyone else who asks?” she teased.

“I hope so. Besides, he’s not much of a dining
companion.” He grinned. “I’m sitting near where you sat last night.
Would you join me, please?”

“I’d love to.” She held out a hand, and he pressed a
swift kiss to the inside of her palm before tucking her hand into
the crook of his arm and guiding her to the table. Conscious to
never cross the line from helpful to pushy, he tucked her safely
into a chair before taking his own seat.

They made small talk over dinner, and he learned
that she was the oldest of three sisters.

“They were so sweet, after the…well, you know. But
they were stifling me, the whole family was. I had to get away.
Anyway, they would be glad to know I’m getting around okay
here.”

“You’re doing really well, from what I’ve observed.”
He watched her smile at the praise. “I have brothers. We all live
together. It’s rather horrifying actually.”

“Oh my. More like you? How many?”

“Just two. One older, one younger.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a computer programmer. Edouard, the oldest,
he’s a wildlife photographer, and Bruno, the youngest, is a
writer.” That was the cover, anyway.
We watch over the various
ways one could get to this rock from Canada and the Maine coast on
behalf of the Syndicate, and bring Cyrus and Rekkus information
when needed.

“So why’d you come here, all alone, to the Wiccan
Haus?”

“I do work for them sometimes.” So he didn’t
elaborate on what that work was, he was okay with her thinking it
was a programming project, at least for now. “What are you going to
do, now that you can’t perform anymore?”

“I don’t know. That’s part of why I came here, to
think about that. I went to a performing arts school, but then was
offered a position with the company, so I never finished my degree.
I could go back, but I haven’t learned to read braille yet. I have
to learn to read all over again, can you believe that?”

“Have you thought about choreography? The way you
described the dances you see in your head—it was beautiful.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know if I can go back to that
world and not resent it.”

He felt her sadness as if it were his own. He tried
to put himself in her shoes and all he could imagine was this
endless feeling of isolation. He looked down at her mostly-empty
plate.

“Do you want to get out of here?”

“And go where?”

Anywhere.
He’d go anywhere with her.

“Let’s take a walk. I won’t let anything happen to
you, and you must be going a little stir-crazy.”

“A little. Music helps, but since I was blinded, I
get a little claustrophobic. Like I’m stuck inside my own head, and
it’s dark and I can’t get out.”

“Let’s get you out.” He reached for her hand, placed
the handle of her cane in it and was rewarded by a brilliant smile.
So brilliant he didn’t notice the shadow that slipped out the door
behind them.

* * * *

Here she was, going off alone—again—with this huge
man she didn’t know. But after the last twenty-four hours, Stephen
didn’t feel like a stranger anymore, and Romy couldn’t get that
kiss out of her head. That afternoon, on the bench in the garden,
she’d never been more aware of another human being—and considering
how often she’d leapt into the arms of another dancer, trusting
them to be there for her, that was saying a lot.

But he hadn’t made a move to kiss her again.
Instead, he’d just been this steady, larger-than-life presence,
showing up wherever she happened to be. He held her hand and let
her practice with her cane as they walked, telling her stories
about Edouard and Bruno to make her laugh. Every step heightened
her awareness of him. When he let go of her hand, the darkness
washed over her. When he seized it again, a bit of light warmed
her.

She didn’t want to feel this connection to another
person; this wasn’t why she had come to the Wiccan Haus. She came
for her independence, to find her own way, not to be swept into an
eddy of lust over the first man to show her kindness.

He’s not the first to show you kindness,
the
little voice in her head reminded her.
Just the first who made
you feel whole again.

But why should he—the last thing she needed was a
man to feel whole. Frustrated, she let go of his hand and stepped a
few paces away from him, sweeping across the ground in front of her
with the cane.

“Romy?” His voice was hesitant and apologetic.
“Sweetheart, are you okay?”

“I’m not your sweetheart.” She called back over her
shoulder. This dance they were doing was too dangerous, too much.
She couldn’t handle it right now. “I need to be alone.”

“Okay, I don’t know what it is I said, and I swear,
I will leave you alone when we get back to the hotel, but Romy, I
can’t leave you alone out here on the grounds. Let me keep you
safe.”

The more rational his words sounded, the more
irrational she felt. She felt the rage boiling over, bubbling up in
her, and she couldn’t even run to get away from it, so she let it
over take her, and she swung around toward his voice, the anger
inside her finally—after eight weeks of “dealing with it like a
professional”—
finally
breaking free.

“Dammit, Stephen, I didn’t come here to be coddled.
I told you yesterday, I don’t need anyone to take care of me!” She
flung her cane in his direction, heard it crash into a bush.

“Romy, please. I’m not coddling you. There are
things you don’t know about, things you couldn’t know about, and
damn the Rowans for letting someone like you be exposed to them.
Honey, I don’t want to take care of you because I think you’re
weak. I think you’re amazing, and I think I’m not the only one to
see that. I wish I could, but I can’t explain it—I just need you to
be safe. I need it more than I need anything right now.”

“I don’t care what kind of hero complex you’re
sporting, big guy, but I didn’t come here to fulfill it for you.”
She turned back away from the path, and with her hands out in front
of her, she started to move away from him, panic welling up.

“Romy, please don’t!” he shouted after her.

She sped up, running straight into an unyielding
bulk that didn’t feel anything like Stephen.

“Well, hello, lovely.” The arms that came around her
were cold and the voice colder still.

“Who are you?” She pushed against the cold chest,
struggling to break away.

“You smell nice.” The grip around her arms
tightened, and her skin crawled. The man who had been trying to get
her to have dinner with him, the one who had been pushy when she’d
said no. This man was not here to help her.

“Leave her alone.”

She could have wept with relief when she realized
Stephen had followed her. The cold arms loosened slightly, not
enough for her to break free.

“You don’t have to go with him.” A cold voice, a
gentle caress at her ear. “Stay with me. I’ll see you safely home
for dessert.”

“Let her go.”

“Please. Stephen and I were just arguing. I’m
perfectly safe with him.” This time, when she pushed away from the
cold chest, the man let her go. She spun around, straight into
Stephen’s waiting arms. She didn’t want to feel the rush of relief,
but she did.

“Who was that?” she asked as he half-carried,
half-dragged her back toward the path.

“Not anyone you want to know.” He pushed the cane
into her hand. “I’m sorry Romy. I don’t know what I did, what I
said, that made you feel threatened, or coddled, or whatever. But
please, don’t run off like that alone. Not ever.”

What was this?
Just minutes before she’d felt
panicked, needing to get away, and now she was so relieved she
wanted to climb up him like a cat up a tree. Why did she need him
like this?

“Kiss me,” she demanded. “Please, I don’t know
what’s going on, but I feel crazy. I have to know why you make me
feel this way.” Her hands tightened in the front of his shirt and
the cane fell to the ground. She heard him growl, a rough
exhalation before he hauled her body tight to him.

“I didn’t want to—”

“I don’t care. Kiss me, Stephen.”

His lips crushed down over hers, igniting fires
she’d been trying to keep banked.
Yes!
Her body tightened in
response as his big hands ran down her back from shoulders to waist
and tugged her tight against him. His sweet tongue swept through
her mouth, his beard soft against her chin. A delicious tingling
tightened her breasts and her spine seemed to dissolve into pure
heat as she arched into his body.

Dragging her lips from his, Romy clung to his chest,
burying her face into that tender warm spot where his shoulder and
neck came together. She remembered how sweet it had tasted
yesterday, couldn’t help but let her tongue steal out for another
taste. At the contact, they both groaned.

“Why, Stephen? Why do you make me feel this way?”
Her voice broke.

“Do you believe in soul mates, Romy?” His breath was
ragged. She shook her head, but didn’t drag her face away from the
comfort of his shoulder.

“No,” she answered.

“If you did, this would be easier.”

She felt him chuckle, lifted her head to lick at his
chin. “What, getting in my pants?”

“No, getting in your heart. Let’s go back to the
hotel, okay? We can talk more there.”

But talking didn’t seem to be on the menu. He was
silent in the elevator, though she could feel him, smell him, taste
him. She didn’t know if he was right next to her or all the way to
the other side of the box. In her mind, he filled the space the way
he filled her thoughts and his presence kept her body humming and
vibrating to the larger than life fantasy he became when he stepped
away from her. He was under her skin and he wasn’t going
anywhere.

She felt his hand on hers and suddenly she was in
his arms and this was okay—better than okay—because as soon as he
touched her she felt anchored, present in a way that no yoga or
meditation had made possible.

“Kiss me.” His command carried a rough edge, urging
her up to her toes. Even in tennis shoes, her feet were strong
enough to propel her all the way up,
en pointe,
to the very
tips of her still-bruised toes, and she pressed her lips to
his.

Cymbals clashed and strings swelled and she didn’t
care that the orchestra only played in her head as one leg wrapped
around his waist.

His hands slid down and dragged her up his body,
holding her exactly where he wanted her as she tasted him, buried
hands in his hair, and felt him crowding his way into her heart.
The roughness of his breathing told her he was as affected as she
was.

A bell chime and a rush of air and the elevator
opened and he was pushing her against the door to her room as she
fumbled in her pocket for a key.

“Now, now,
now,”
she pleaded.

He crossed the room to her bed in four sure, strong
steps, flinging her cane aside as he dropped her down on the
mattress.

“Romy.” A breathy whisper as he lay down beside her.
“Slow down, love.”

“Need you—can’t get enough.”

It wasn’t hyperbole.

Desperate for the taste of him, the texture of his
skin on hers, she tugged at his shirt, trying to get at the heated
skin beneath. A low growl rolled from his chest as he snatched her
hands away and pinned them to the bed.

“Romy Lewis. I swear by all that is holy you will
get every inch of me you want, but if you don’t want me to come
before I’m halfway inside, I need you to stop touching me for a
moment, okay?”

Startled, she did as he said, relaxing against the
bed and letting the tension seep out of her body.

“Every inch?” she teased, her lips tilting up at the
corners.

“Every inch.” He growled back, letting go of her
hands in order to tug her clothes from her body. She let him
undress her, all the urgency that had been stirring her a moment
ago giving way to a deep languidness as he stroked down her limbs,
caressing the strong ropes of muscle that had propelled her across
a stage countless times.