Tormented by Darkness (3 page)

He glanced at her, his expression far away, as if he hadn’t quite heard her question. But as she made to repeat herself, a humorless chuckle escaped his lips. “Not really in the mood.”

As she’d thought. Oh, damn, why couldn’t she have had the good sense to ask Dáire to deliver these arrangements? Her brother wouldn’t be tempted to try and heal the wound Mick wore so obviously.

“You should eat something. You’ve got people coming soon.”

Mick shrugged. His gaze drifted to the adjoining formal dining room and the long table bedecked with a white tablecloth and cutlery. “The caterer will be here shortly. I’ll eat later. I’m sure I’ll have leftovers.”

Rhiannon pursed her lips. “You need food. Where’s your kitchen?” She didn’t wait for him to answer and strode into the dining room. His footfalls sounded on the wooden floor behind her as she peeked through an arched entryway, searching for signs of a kitchen.

“Left,” Mick mumbled.

Flashing him a quick smile, she turned as instructed, pushed open a swinging, white-painted door, and let herself into a kitchen that hadn’t made it out of the 1970s. Floral carpet, faded and threadbare in patches, spanned wall-to-wall in shades of avocado and burnt orange. The harvest gold appliances and yellow paint made her want to cringe. But despite the throwback in decades, the room held a touch of valuable life. The sense of love, the unity of what had once made this empty house a home. She thoughtfully ran her hand over the scarred, Formica countertop. Energy met her fingertips, proof that at one time this room had acted as a heart stone.

“Mom used the kitchen. Steve didn’t have much use for it except for the microwave,” Mick offered apologetically.

Dismissing his remark, Rhiannon waved him toward the round table against the far wall. “You sit. I’ll cook.”

He dropped into a vinyl-backed chair, unmistakable relief passing across his face before he once again pushed a hand through his unruly hair. “This isn’t really necessary you know. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.”

At the moment, Rhiannon could think of nothing more important. The need to mend ran deep within her soul, almost as deep as the dark blood her father cursed her with. That healing gift came from her mother, as well as the intimate knowledge of plants that Rhiannon used as a means of keeping her busy throughout the centuries. And right now, employing the craft she knew so well, topped her list of priorities.

Ignoring Mick’s attempts to dissuade her, she opened the fridge, half-afraid she’d find it empty. To her surprise, the shelves were stacked with casserole dishes, no doubt brought by those who hoped to make Mick’s life a little easier during this trying time. She plucked out a covered dish of broccoli and rice and a plastic container of brisket.

“You haven’t eaten, yet you’ve got enough food in here to feed an army.” She grinned over her shoulder as she set the dishes on the countertop. “Plates?”

Mick pointed at a stack of paper plates and plastic cups tucked into the corner by the sink.

She couldn’t resist another teasing grin. “Really, Mick. It can’t get much easier.”

The faintest hint of true humor wafted on his soft chuckle. “I’ve been preoccupied with getting the house ready. Going through closets, the basement, the attic.” Chair legs grated across the floor as he pushed away from the table and stretched his legs. “You’d be surprised what forty years can put in a house.”

Rhiannon stifled a laugh as she tore open the sack of paper plates. More like he’d be surprised to discover what over two thousand years could put in a house. “I can only imagine.”

“I swear, Mom and Steve saved every scrap of newspaper they ever encountered.”

She nodded, sensing his need to talk.

“I don’t know what to do with it all. Part of me feels like I should keep it. The other part knows it’s not practical.”

“So you’re not selling the house then?”

“No. Not yet, at least. I’ll move in here, fix it up, and then see what the market’s like. I’ve got a little house across town—it should sell pretty easy.”

The thought of someone forsaking this heartwarming kitchen sent an unexplainable pang of regret through Rhiannon. It seemed like betrayal. Like a dishonor to the loving hands that had once taken so much pride in this golden room. She shook off misplaced feeling, and tried to block the energy that radiated off the inanimate objects around her. What Mick did with this house didn’t involve her. It wasn’t her kitchen, wasn’t her family. If he wanted to sell the place, that was his call.

“Did you grow up here?”

“Yeah. Well…yes and no.”

Glancing over her shoulder as she filled the plate, Rhiannon cocked an eyebrow. “Yes and no?”

“Mom and I didn’t really have a place to call ours until she met Steve. We lived with friends of hers after my father left her buried in debt. I was eleven when Steve bought this place for her—for us. So yeah, I grew up here, but I was already half grown.”

The peek into Mick’s personal life gave Rhiannon an oddly pleasant feeling. Somehow, she doubted the women he rotated in and out of his life had ever heard such an in-depth glimpse of his childhood. How could they when they never lasted more than a week?

She set his plate down in front of him. “There’s soda, orange juice and water in the fridge.”

“Really, you don’t need to wait on me.” He straightened, coming half out of his chair.

“Sit down and eat.” Rhiannon set her hand on his forearm and gave the hard muscles there a reassuring squeeze. “I don’t mind.” Before he could fully rise, she let go and plucked a cup off the stack.

When she’d filled it with cola and set it back in front of him, gratitude shone in his dark eyes. “Thanks, Rhiannon.” He gestured at the chair beside him. “Join me?”

“I think, while you eat, I’m going to do something with that box of brownie mix over there.”

He let out a low, pleasured groan. “Brownies are my weakness.”

“Well, then, you’ll have to indulge. Tell me more about Steve. How did your mom meet him? I’m guessing you two were close?”

Quietly, Mick answered, “He was the only father I ever had.”

Chapter Three

It surprised Mick how easy it was to talk to Rhiannon. While she bustled at the counter, mixing the brownie batter and encouraging him with that devastating smile, memories spilled forth, the pain they had brought only hours earlier now balmed.

More surprising, however, was the unsettling ache that hollowed out his gut when she turned that smile on him and the tattoos across the bridge of her nose and cheekbones danced to life. That intricate artwork fascinated him. It always had, just like the woman. And as he found himself laughing at the memories of childhood, he also found himself caught in the same battle between desire and logic that waged each time he entered her store. He wanted her, yet knew he didn’t dare go down that path.

Beyond the numerous other reasons he shouldn’t consider how easily his hands would fit around her tiny waist, or how soft her mouth would feel beneath his, he was too tainted for her gentle spirit.

Too immersed in darkness.

She shut the oven on the batter, smoothed her hands down the sides of her thighs, and cerulean blue eyes met his. Air rushed from his lungs. His ribs cinched together like iron belts. Holy heaven, she could cow whole armies with one simple look.

In that instant, all the reasons he should stay clear of Rhiannon McLaine sank into the recesses of his mind. All he knew was that she was vibrant, alive, and warm. Nothing like the cold nothingness that filled this house. Or the void that had opened inside him at his stepfather’s death. He needed that life. Needed to bask in it, submerse himself in it before he suffocated in the chasm of death surrounding him.

Mick caught her hand as she neared the table. Holding her fingers gently, his gaze remained locked with hers as he rose to his feet. His free hand moved of its own accord, lifting to run his knuckles across her silken cheek. Her gaze flickered. Blue eyes darkened for a fraction of a heartbeat before her full lips parted and her breath caught audibly.

Driven by too many months of longing, he took a half step closer and dipped his head. She didn’t look away. Merely swallowed as understanding registered in her mesmerizing eyes. Long, thick, strawberry lashes fluttered, clung to her high cheekbones, then lifted with effort.

Yeah. He needed this. More than he’d ever needed something from a woman before.

Yielding to the irrationality of it all, Mick closed his eyes and feathered his mouth over hers. Soft and warm, her lips clasped his gently. The tightness in his chest let go at her faint encouragement, and the need to possess everything she was engulfed him. He slid his hand to the base of her thick auburn braid, twining his fingers in the loose hair there. Holding her where he wanted her, he nudged her lips apart and tangled his tongue with hers.

Rhiannon’s response was instantaneous. Her hands fisted into his shirt, short nails grazing his pectorals through the lightweight cotton. She held on as if she might topple over, despite the way her body swayed so close they connected from waist to toes.

Mick reveled in her rich flavor, a heady combination of sweet gentility spiced with just a touch of something darker, more erotic. Something that screamed sin and pleasure in ways he had never imagined. In all the countless women that had strolled through his life, not once had he tasted such intoxicating splendor. And he wanted more. Far more than he suspected Rhiannon was willing to give.

As all the things he’d like to do to her pummeled into his awareness, desire coursed through his veins with an avalanche’s fury. Where they touched, his skin burned. The taunting press of her hips against his swelling cock stripped him senseless. She hadn’t moved, but he desperately needed her to do so. Needed to feel the grind of her body, the silent permission to indulge until he couldn’t remember his stepfather’s passing, or all the senseless death that had become so much a part of his life.

When that saving roll of her hips didn’t come, Mick dropped his hand to the small of her back and pressed her against the hard evidence of his arousal. Shock coursed through him, ripples of pleasure that threatened to squelch his already short breath. Even more shocking was the low, satisfied murmur that bubbled in the back of her throat. That simple little sound devastated him. He took a step sideways, turning her back to the table, and nudged her backward until the tops of her thighs met the thick oaken edge. When she could go no further, he slipped a hand beneath the short hem of her sweater, traced his thumb along the silky skin just above the waistband of her jeans, and trailed his lips across her cheek, along the dainty line of her jaw, to the delicate shell of her ear. “I’ve wanted you, Rhiannon,” he whispered hoarsely. “So goddamn long.”

She tipped her head back, giving him access to her throat. Her hands slid around his waist, then lower, her fingertips tucking into his back pockets. She gave his buttocks a squeeze that drew his body closer to hers and brought his straining erection against the juncture of her thighs.

A shudder surged down Mick’s spine. Invitation—he should step away now. Nothing good could come of this. Nothing that wouldn’t tarnish all the goodness that drew him to her with the unrelenting power of a siren’s call.

Instead, he grazed the thick vein along the side of her neck with his teeth. “You’re so alive. I need that, need you.” He flicked the tip of his tongue against the hollow of her throat, traced it with a lazy circle. “Tell me you want me too.”

“I do,” she murmured huskily.

A throaty groan tore from Mick’s throat. Sweet heaven…

He captured her face in his hands and claimed her mouth once more. She was his to enjoy to the fullest. His to become lost in. His to escape with.

In thirty-two years, he had never wanted anything more.

****

Rhiannon struggled against the demonic pull of her divided soul that demanded she surrender to the tidal wave of desire building within her. Mick’s kiss scalded parts of her she hadn’t known existed. The seeking thrust of his hips, the way his big hard body enveloped her with promises of unbridled pleasure made it near impossible to resist. She longed to lean back on the table, draw him into her arms, and give over to arousal.

Yet if she did, she’d never come back. She’d fall so deeply into him her heart wouldn’t stand a chance at resisting his charm, his devastating good looks. And giving her heart to Mick was the biggest wrong she could commit. Her father’s curse already hungered for death. She fought the dark call daily. But that ever-present restlessness was nothing compared to the inescapable damnation that came with love.

Love meant killing Mick.

As the reality of circumstance punched through her momentary bliss, she slipped her hands to his shoulders and gently pushed him away. His mouth left hers reluctantly, lips clinging for a drawn-out heartbeat before he let go and lifted his head. Confusion passed behind his onyx gaze.

“I do want you, but not like this.” Not until she could share Cian’s mortality and escape her sire’s evil curse. But Mick would never understand that reasoning. As it was, the frown that crinkled his brow said he was having a difficult enough time understanding her sudden refusal.

She caught his hands, brought them together, and lifted them to her lips. Her eyes held his as she kissed each one. “You need to rest, Mick, not exhaust yourself further.”

“I’m old enough to know what I need, thank you.” As annoyance flicked over his handsome face, he turned away. A sigh tumbled free, heavy like the sudden tension in the room. “Sorry. You’re right. This is a bad idea.”

Rhiannon flinched. Not so much a bad idea. Just a bad idea
now.
If she were mortal, if she’d found another portion of her mother’s spell book so she could lift the curse, she’d rush headlong down this path, regardless of consequence.

Mick swiveled to face her, a wistful smile playing on his lips, regret shadowing his dark eyes. He cupped the side of her face in one hand. His thumb stroked her cheek. “You’re so sweet. So good.”

If you only knew.