Tormented by Darkness (6 page)

Andrew gestured at her glass. “You want some more wine?” His megawatt grin left no doubt he knew she’d been watching Mick.

“No thanks.” She set the empty glass on an end table, and her stare drifted back to Mick. Better to keep her wits about her so she could control the dark yearnings of her soul. At some point tonight, she’d have to be alone with Mick. When that time came, she needed the strength to fight back the call of forbidden desire.

“Cake? Chips?” Andrew prodded as he exited their tight circle.

At that moment, Mick broke from the trio of senior women and strode from the room, his steps brusque, his shoulders rigid.

“Excuse me.” Rhiannon ducked around Brad, hurried across the room, and through the arched entryway that led into the hall. She glanced up and down the bright corridor, searching for a sign of Mick’s direction.

The clink of glass drifted over the dull murmur of conversation behind her. Brow furrowed, she approached a partly open door, nudged the slight crack open further, and peeked into the richly masculine room. Mick stood beside a mahogany table, a descanter of scotch in one hand. He tossed back a drink and poured another liberal shot into a crystal snifter.

Something deep down inside Rhiannon rolled over at the sight of Mick’s slumped shoulders, the way his jaw worked to contain unspent emotion. Tempering a rush of sympathy with a deep breath, she pushed the door open wide enough she could step inside, and entered, pulling it shut behind her.

“Hey, you,” she murmured. “Got one for me?”

Mick whipped around like a firecracker had gone off behind him. Startled eyes gave way to recognition as his gaze landed on her, and for a passing moment, Rhiannon would have sworn relief registered in his expression before pain once again pulled his features tight.

“Got half a bottle. How much do you want?”

She joined him at the table, picked up the matching snifter and filled it a third of the way full. Holding the glass in both hands, she sat on the edge of an overstuffed, leather armchair. Mick’s gaze flicked to her, then to the glass doors leading to an outside balcony. He turned slightly, barring her view of his handsome face. “It seems I’m not very good company tonight, after all.”

“You don’t have to be.” Rhiannon took a sip, swirled the oaken flavor around on her tongue, then swallowed. She savored the slow burn that spread through her stomach. Good scotch was a rare treat, and whoever had purchased this single malt knew his liquor.

Mick let out a heavy sigh and moved closer to the door. He stared out at something she couldn’t see, but he remained silent, offering no further insight to whatever thoughts plagued his mind.

After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, he flipped the latch on the door and rolled the heavy glass open. He wandered onto the deck where he braced his hands on the railing that overlooked a line of trees beyond the yard.

Rhiannon slipped quietly outside and leaned on the railing as well. She stared up at the twinkling stars overhead. “My mom died when I was five.” She let the statement hang between them as she took another drink, then set her glass on the thick wood. “I don’t really remember her, but I know how loss feels.”

In the corner of her peripheral vision, Mick’s posture relaxed. He finished off his drink, set the glass aside, then rested his forearms on the railing and leaned his weight into them. Rhiannon’s gaze traced the bright stars of the Summer Triangle. It lingered on Cygnus. In over two thousand years of existence, she had never told a mortal what she was about to reveal to Mick. But the need to connect with him, to express she understood his silent grief, drove deep. She swallowed, choosing her words carefully.

“She sent me away when I was born, to protect me from my father. My siblings and I were raised by a friend of the family. But my oldest brother, Cian, told me what Mother looked like. What her voice sounded like. How she’d comb her hair each night before she went to bed. And I wanted that. I wanted those memories. My father ripped them out of my hands.” She tightened one hand on the railing as old longing stirred. “He took my mother from me.”

Without looking at Mick, Rhiannon laid her hand over his corded forearm. “The ache’s still there. Not as sharp as it was in childhood, but it’s there. I don’t think it will ever go away, and I still hate my father as much as I always have, but that hole filled with other things. More important memories, stronger bonds.” Her fingers tightened a fraction as she lowered her voice to a whisper. “It gets easier, Mick.”

When he didn’t respond, she let her gaze creep sideways. Pain knifed through her as the moonlight caught the glimmer of a tear that rolled silently down his cheek. Closing her eyes, she drew on the energies surrounding her and called upon her ancient Selgovae ancestors. Her grandmother, her aunt…her mother, all high priestesses, all masters of the healing path.

Power flowed through her, ebbing out through her fingertips. As she stood silently at Mick’s side, she channeled everything she was, every miniscule fragment of nature she could grasp and hold, into lighting a mere kernel of comfort within his wounded soul. She couldn’t heal the gashes Steve’s death cut—only time could. But she could soothe in ways human beings couldn’t, and she wouldn’t leave this balcony without giving all her immortal gift to him.

****

As a homicide detective, Mick learned emotion was a weakness. He’d been schooled—on his own and through his mentors—to keep those weaknesses firmly under wraps. He’d trained himself so well that now, more often than not, even dead children could only produce a faint twinge in his heart. The anger covered the rest. Locked it up some place tight where it couldn’t hinder his duties, and where no one else could ever accuse him of being too soft for the job.

Cops didn’t cry. Least of all not in front of anyone. Certainly not in front of a woman he barely knew.

Yet at Rhiannon’s understanding whisper, all the years of hardness cracked, and that deadly emotion poured free, sending tears splashing down his cheeks. He refused to sniff. Refused to swipe them away—that would make his grieving more obvious. So he stared, unseeing, at the dying grass below, now a blurry landscape of greenish-brown.

He didn’t know how long they stood that way, her offering comfort through the light press of her fingertips, he trying to ignore the fact he couldn’t stop the salty flow. But after a while, a strange warmth invaded the cold spots Steve’s death left behind. Maybe it was that he’d finally expressed everything bottlenecked inside him. Maybe it was the light scent of her flowery perfume that lingered on the slight breeze and brought aromas of springtime. He didn’t know. Hell, he couldn’t explain half of anything that had happened to him since she’d shown up on his doorstep, flower arrangements weighing her down.

But something stitched itself up, and his eyes dried themselves out. What hit him next surprised him even further—the need to talk. To tell this woman who’d graciously agreed to keep him company, only to have him turn into a total mess, what weighed so heavily.

Mick lifted his head, reached across his body to cover her slender hand with his. “I hated him. He was the best damn thing that happened to me, and I hated him until I was an adult. Not just dislike. I
hated
that man.”

Rhiannon turned her hand over, lacing her fingers through his. The warmth of her palm felt so good against his, he tightened his grip, wanting to hold onto that incredible feeling forever. Savor it until it stayed with him even after she undoubtedly left and refused to ever see him again. He couldn’t blame her. He wasn’t doing too well in the best date department. At this rate, he’d be lucky if the next time he stopped in her shop total awkwardness didn’t engulf them.

“I was eleven. Mom worked nights, and often days. I had complete freedom. Then this guy shows up and I’ve got a leash around my neck. He didn’t like my friends; I couldn’t hang out with them. Not that they were the kind of friends you’d want to keep.”

Despite his black mood, a chuckle rumbled as he remembered that first summer with Steve. “He put me in baseball, for God’s sake. I didn’t even know what a base was. That whole summer I stood out in right field, wearing these stupid tight-ass pants, feeling like a fag. That was after he cut my hair. Buzz cut. Like I’d just enlisted in the damned military.”

At Rhiannon’s light laugh, Mick found a grin. He shook his head, bringing his gaze even with hers. “But I was at every damn game.” More quietly, he added, “So was he. Right there cheering me on, even as I swung at air and missed every pitch.”

He took a deep breath and focused on the way her thumb stroked the back of his hand to keep the encroaching melancholy at bay. “I hated him, Rhiannon. It was like that all the way through high school. I came home ten minutes late for curfew, I lost the car for a week. I came home drunk? Yeah well, we had a great fist fight over there.” Mick nodded at a tall oak tree, its withered leaves barely hanging on. He let out a low whistle. “That man kicked my ass. But I swear, it was heaven planting one in his face.”

Again she laughed, and the same lightheartedness swelled inside him. He turned to face her more fully, took a step closer. One leg brushed against hers, striking the sudden need to hold her close. Feel her body against his. Absorb all the goodness she possessed.

He pushed his free hand through his hair and looked away from the uncomfortable understanding in her clear blue eyes.

“When did it change?” she asked, perceptively.

Mick shook his head, unable to recall a precise time or place. “Sometime during my first year on the force. I was grown. I’d moved to Augusta. And coming here now and then to help with yard work Steve couldn’t do on his own anymore, just stopped being a chore. I saw what he’d tried to do, what he
did
do, though I fought him every waking day. He made me into something. If he hadn’t, I’d be the one facing down me in an interrogation room at the station.” He paused, emotion clogging him up. Looking over her shoulder, he swallowed it down, but his throat remained tight. “I never thanked him.”

Rhiannon lifted her free hand, gentle fingers settling on his cheek. “I’m sure he knew, Mick.”

Gritting his teeth against a wave of sadness, he nodded. Then, in an effort to escape the uncomfortable realization he’d bared his soul, he forced a tight laugh. “I’ve stared down loaded guns, and I’m more afraid of going back into that room.”

“Then don’t.” She shrugged her shoulders, her hand falling away.

“I have to. I’m the host. It’s a wake; I’m not supposed to be gloomy. I’m supposed to
celebrate
his death.”

“His life,” she corrected gently. “Are you Catholic?”

Mick shook his head. “Not anymore.”

“Then I say death is personal. Approach it how you’re comfortable. If that means skydiving at midnight, then go for it. If you want to stay out here, it’s your choice. Your guests will go out the same door they came in.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle. She had a point. Still, all the lessons he’d been taught throughout life about manners and etiquette demanded he attend to the roomful of mourners across the hall. Yet as he opened his mouth to point that out, the breeze stirred, shifting overhanging branches, and moonlight bathed across Rhiannon’s face. Like someone had sucker-punched him, his lungs seized. She wasn’t merely pretty. She was beautiful. The intricate tattoos that adorned her high cheekbones only added to that beauty, giving her a mystical allure. The slight upturn to her nose spoke of playful nature, a touch of devilishness that contrasted with all he knew her to be.

There was something about Rhiannon he couldn’t resist. Something he couldn’t name that drew him in until he’d swear he was drowning, and still he wanted more. She made him laugh when he least expected it. Made him unashamed to set aside the cop and become the man. One who felt far more than he should, and right now, that unacceptable feeling had a hell of a lot to do with her. Damn it all, he liked it too.

Too much.

“Don’t go tonight.” The whisper crept free before his mind could process the forming words.

Rhiannon’s gaze slipped sideways to the railing. “Mick, I—”

He tucked a wayward strand of auburn behind her ear and slipped his fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck. Taking one step closer, he closed the small distance between them and brushed his mouth over hers. Her lips parted beneath the gentle touch, and his breath caught as her tongue slid over his. As their kiss engulfed him, and what he had intended as a slow, savoring embrace became something hot and stifling, he told himself it was the house, that he couldn’t tolerate the idea of sleeping here alone. That she was full of warmth, and he wanted to forget by indulging in the physical.

Not that he’d been struck with the sudden, unequivocal need to cement this night into something of substance. Something durable and lasting, like the bonds that had been forged when Steve had turned Mick’s life upside down the first time.

Chapter Seven

Everything that was dark and dangerous roared to the surface as Rhiannon slid her arms around Mick’s neck and her body swayed into his. Her soul was hungry. Starved for death, life, for too many uncountable desires that she’d avoided for countless years. Visions of all the things she wanted to do to Mick, of all she wanted him to do to her, blasted to life behind her closed eyelids. His body sliding against hers, his mouth at her breasts, hers on his overwarm skin devouring him in shameful ways. One after one, they rose to the surface, her demonic nature threatening to overrule every last bit of lightness in her spirit in its quest to claim everything Mick was.

She fought through it, focusing on the warmth that stirred beneath the large hand sliding down her arm to her waist and the fingers that locked onto her hipbone. She clung to the simplicity of the kiss, despite its wild nature, and grabbed for sanity even as she gasped for air. By far, he wasn’t the first man she’d desired, but she couldn’t remember ever being this hungry. Ever feeling this completely powerless.