Tempestuous Miracles (3 page)

It seemed to take forever for him to reach his destination, and the trek only became harder when he was on the beach itself, and thus exposed to the elements. Nonetheless, Mirian persevered, and he was rewarded for his determination when he was finally kneeling next to the fallen figure.

Gently, Mirian turned the stranger on his back, thus making sure sure the man's—as it had become more than a little clear that the would-be drown victim was male—airways were clear. He was clearly breathing, his chest rising steadily, but that didn't mean he wasn't still in danger.

Mirian's heart was already hammering, but when he caught sight of the stranger's face, it almost failed him. God, the man was gorgeous, impossibly so. Mirian's body responded in a way he hadn't expected or ever experienced. Despite the awful storm, he felt hot all over. 

With a huff, Mirian berated himself for thinking such trivial thoughts when the man was clearly wounded. He brushed his fingers over the stranger's temple, where he could see slight traces of blood, now being washed away.

He had enough time to wonder why there were no actual wounds visible, and then the stranger's eyes shot open. The world flipped, and suddenly, Mirian was on his back, with the man he'd thought he'd rescue covering him with his larger form.

"Are you an angel?" the stranger asked, his voice husky and raw.

It would have been very much like something out of one of the fairytales in Mirian's books—if the man hadn't been pinning him to the wet sands. A secret part of Mirian enjoyed it, reveled in it. He couldn't help but wonder how the man's fingers would feel as they slid through his hair, or better yet, over his skin.

But a memory and a thought slashed over his wishes like the chill wind of the tempest. He heard his father's voice clearly, as if the older man was actually here, squeezing his shoulders and meeting his gaze.

"Mirian, we can't leave the island. People out there will want to hurt you, hold you down and use you. I can't allow that."

Holding him down. Using him. People from outside—like the stranger on the beach, the handsome stranger whom Mirian had deemed an innocent victim of the storm, but who could so clearly overpower him.

He didn't realize he'd started trembling and whimpering until the weight of the man was suddenly off him. Mirian wrapped his arms around himself, trying to calm his racing heart and cursing his own recklessness.

He looked up at his attacker, only to see him standing a few feet away. "I'm sorry," the stranger said, lifting his hands as if to point out he was harmless. "I didn't mean to scare you."

Mirian didn't immediately reply. He didn't know why, but his heart told him the man was being honest. Then again, the last thing the damn organ had suggested was to come down to the beach in the middle of a thunderstorm—and look what he'd gotten for his trouble.

"You have a funny way of showing it," he said, feeling proud when his voice only shook slightly. "Do you always pounce on people who are trying to save your life?"

The man winced. "Only on occasion," he said with a weak laugh. "I really do apologize. Please, I meant no offense."

Mirian got up, nodding jerkily. He would think on the stranger's apology and worry about it later. "We should get some shelter. It looks like the storm is still going strong. Come with me."

Without another word, Mirian turned on his heel and headed back the way he'd come. He felt the stranger's gaze on his back and told himself the shiver that coursed over his spine was caused by either apprehension or the cold temperature. He wasn't sure who he was trying to fool.

****

If Frey had been trying to win the prize for the worst first impression made on one's mate, he'd have definitely blown the competition out of the water. As he walked, he was torn between elation and despair. His wolf was thrilled that he'd found his other half, but he also sensed that he'd bungled things up quite fantastically.

Not only had he been rejected, but he'd also managed to terrify his beautiful mate within a minute of their first meeting. That had to be some sort of record.

He didn't even know why he'd reacted the way he had. It was just that his mate's touch had electrified senses to the point that for a moment there, he hadn't really been thinking straight. For whatever reason, his human hadn't run away screaming when Frey had let him go, and Frey counted his blessings for that. He hadn't accepted the apology either, but at least he still seemed willing to help Frey and keep him safe from the storm.

In all honesty, Frey was more concerned about his mate's security than his own. He could weather the angry rain well enough, just like he had with the sea, but his mate was human, much frailer. He looked so delicate, his slender beauty making Frey feel doubly guilty for manhandling him the way he had. He'd been in the rain for quite some time so his wet clothes clung to the lines of his body, leaving very little to the imagination, but also providing scant protection from the elements.

Frey was incredibly relieved when his mate finally got them to their destination, which turned out to be a cave dug into the abrupt cliff side. It wasn't very large, but it would suffice for them to take shelter from the storm.

His mate slid inside first, and Frey followed, letting out a sigh of relief. He might not find the storm an immediate danger, but neither did he like it.

"That's better. Thank you."

"Don't mention it," his mate replied absently. He knelt on the ground and started rummaging through his bag. He wasn't all that successful, given that his hands were trembling quite badly.

Frey wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch him, but after the earlier debacle, he suspected it wouldn't be appreciated. Nonetheless, he needed to try. If he didn't say something, he would simply explode.

"Can I help?"

The beautiful human looked up at him and arched a brow. "With opening my bag?"

"With anything you need," Frey blurted out. His mate scowled, looking suspicious, and Frey quickly backtracked. "Look, you helped me on the beach. If it wasn't for me, I bet you'd be somewhere safe and warm now. I know you have no reason to trust me, but I don't mean you any harm."

His mate bit his lower lip, and Frey's gaze was drawn to the unconsciously sensual gesture. Fortunately, the human didn't seem to realize what he was doing to Frey's libido. "All right," he said at last. "Let's start with the beginning. I'm Mirian."

Frey's inner wolf did a happy dance at the progress. "Freydolph," he introduced himself, "but my friends call me Frey."

Mirian—and what a beautiful name it was, as lovely as its owner—finally gave up on the bag, and Frey took this as his cue to approach. He knelt next to Mirian, and was relieved when his mate didn't shy away.

Gently, giving Mirian time to change his mind, he took Mirian's hands in his own and blew hot air over his frozen fingers. He had never been more grateful for the fact that his shifter blood ran just a bit hotter, because Mirian practically melted against him. "Oh," he said a little breathlessly. "You're so warm."

It should have been illegal for an innocent conversation about temperature to sound so sexy, but Frey endured. He simply smiled, and set about to trying to provide as much comfort to his sweet mate as possible. Yes, he was harder than he'd been in his life, but that was irrelevant. His mate could get sick, damn it.

He kept his touch carefully platonic, insofar as he could at least. At first, Mirian was a little tense, but once he realized Frey had no intention of hurting him, he removed his shirt of his own accord. He obviously knew that wet clothing wasn't exactly conducive to good health, but given their earlier exchange, Frey still valued the vote of confidence. As such, he monitored Mirian's reactions for any sign of discomfort or fear.

When Mirian stopped trembling, he reached for the bag again and this time managed to open it without any trouble. He retrieved a notepad from inside. Miraculously, it seemed to have survived the storm without getting too wet. He let out a sigh of relief. "Thank God."

Frey took a wild guess and used the opportunity to break the silence that had settled between them. "You're an artist?"

"Nothing quite so... serious." Mirian laughed, and the sound was like the twinkling of bells, clear and beautiful and free. "Mostly, I sketch. It calms me. There's not much else I can do around here."

The words held a trace of bitterness, which inflamed Frey's protective side even more. "You live on the island?" How was that possible? There was nothing here. The island wasn't even on the map. Was someone keeping Mirian captive?

Mirian tensed and pulled away so abruptly Frey felt his absence like a physical blow. Even so, he met Frey's gaze head on, without flinching. "I do."

Mirian's tone held a warning, but Frey's instincts were blaring and he simply had to ask. "Are you a prisoner here?"

Mirian sighed. "Not exactly, not in the way you think." He busied himself with wrapping the notepad in the quilt that seemed to have protected it from the rain when it had been inside the bag. "Look... All my life, I've been told that people from the outside will hurt me and use me. If I'm a captive, it's not because of the island or of the people who brought me here." He faced Frey again. "Do you understand?"

Oh. Oh.

Frey felt so stupid. He remembered what Roman had told him, what he'd been thinking about before the storm. Mirian was his mate. Mirian was a Bearer.

If Frey was reading the situation right, someone—likely a member of Mirian's family—had brought him here to keep him safe from a world that couldn't understand his legacy. That person had likely taken great pains to ensure this secrecy, since they must have paid quite a lot of money to eliminate all traces of the island from any map. That sort of undertaking wasn't easy, especially now, in the digital age, with satellites watching everything.

Damn it, this was even worse than he'd thought. If Mirian had been given such warnings due to his legacy, what must he have felt when Frey had pounced him? And how could Frey even begin to explain what bond existed between them?

It was nearly impossible, and maybe Frey should have kept silent about what he knew and how he felt. But if he did, wouldn't he make it worse? Would Mirian feel Frey had deceived him?

Torn, Frey instinctively leaned in closer to Mirian. Something flashed in Mirian's eyes, and that was when Frey felt it, when he saw it.

He didn't know how he'd missed it before. It must have been because of his own apprehension over his foolish actions, and his awareness of Mirian's fear. But there was attraction there, emanating from Mirian's every pore. Mirian felt the pull too, of course he did.

He was human, so he probably didn't understand it. For all Frey knew, he might even fear it. But it was a starting point, and it gave Frey hope.

"I'm going to be honest with you, Mirian," he said softly. "I'm a shape-shifter, a werewolf. I don't know how much you've been told about us, but as a rule, we don't get very involved with the affairs of pure-blooded humans. We haven't really thought about what it means to be a Bearer."

Mirian gasped and shot to his feet, his eyes wide with fear. "H-How did you know?"

"I guessed," Frey replied. He'd expected this, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt. "It's a bit of a long story. Will you give me a chance to explain? I swear to you, I'd rather give up my wolf than hurt you."

Mirian watched him in silence, and then took one tentative step forward, followed by another. He reminded Frey a little of a skittish woodland creature, wide-eyed and innocent, and yet, still somehow daring to trust. Beautiful. Mirian. A little miracle.

"Tell me," Mirian said at last.

Frey made no attempt to touch Mirian. Instead, he spoke. He spoke of what little he'd known of Bearers and what most shifters believed of them. He told Mirian about Roman and Julian, and their attempt to change the laws. A brief spark of hope ignited in Mirian's eyes, and Frey loved it, but he still had one more thing to say.

"Julian is Roman's mate. That is like... a werewolf's other half."

"Okay... I think I've read some stories about that. But how does that concern me?"

"It concerns you because... Well, how should I put this? Roman believes that every Bearer is a shifter's mate. And well... You're mine. You're my mate."

Chapter Three

Frey was a... singular sort of man. That was Mirian's excuse for being so fascinated with him, as well as completely and utterly incapable of staying away from him.

A pretext, and a shaky one at best. It was a little hard to hide behind it too when Frey was looking at him with such hopeful eyes and talking about things like soul mates.

Mirian was many things, but he was not stupid. He could clearly see two possible options looming in front of him.

The first and most natural reaction would be to run away screaming—as soon as the storm allowed it at least. He didn't even know this man. They'd shared a brief conversation, and the first thing Frey had done hadn't made him look as particularly trustworthy. By all accounts, Mirian shouldn't even be talking to him, let alone listening to what he was saying and daring to believe him.

The second path was the sketchier, idiotic one, which told him to take yet another leap of faith. Mirian had been doing that ever since he'd turned toward the beach and seen the werewolf's fallen form. Thus far, it hadn't gone too badly, and he couldn't say he regretted it.

Mirian clenched his fists and tried to be reasonable about this. Mates. Okay, so it wasn't completely out of the realm of possibility. He had to admit that there was a significant attraction between them. He could have discarded it as just that, attraction—and sexual frustration on Mirian's part. He didn't think he could have been blamed for it since Frey was the only man to cross his path since he'd come of age—other than, of course, his father and his physician who didn't really count. 

But at the same time, something was bothering him. When he looked at Frey's face, a strange worm of uncertainty niggled at the back of his consciousness.