Tormented by Darkness (7 page)

And part of her thrilled on the total inability to do anything but stand here and absorb the subtle demand in the press of his body, the rapid thump of his heart against her breast.

The hand that had tangled in her hair loosened, and his touch filled with surprising tenderness as his fingertips fanned alongside her neck. His thumb stroked the sensitive skin beneath her chin, the rhythm slow and sensual, matching the velvety slide of his tongue. Beneath his caresses, her womb hollowed out with an ache that refused to be denied.

Mick eased the kiss to a close, leaving her trembling.

“Stay,” he murmured against her cheek.

Disoriented by the staggering sensations coursing through her, Rhiannon nodded. It was foolishness, rash impulse in its worst form, but before logic could pull her away from the heady pleasure, she turned her face, her lips clasping his once more. He gave his mouth freely, along with control of the kiss. Though passion demanded she claim what he offered with greedy abandon, she drank Mick in as she had her scotch, savoring the same oaken flavor that lingered on his tongue. Letting that richness burn through her veins.

When steadiness returned to her legs, she braced her hands on his shoulders and stepped back. His gaze glowed hot, dark eyes warning she wasn’t the only one dangerously affected by the desire that flowed between them. She pulled in an unsteady breath. “I’m going to tell the priest to bring this to a close. They’ve had a few hours.”

A grimace tightened the corners of his mouth. “I’ll go with you.”

Rhiannon ran her hands down his lapels, smoothing them. “No. You stay here. I’ll handle it.” Before he could protest, she gave him a soft smile and slipped out of his arms, crossing through the masculine office and out the door.

In the hall, she took a minute to gather her composure, certain everyone in the room would take one look at her and know what she really was. That they’d see the despicable parts of her nature threatening to break through her carefully composed surface. That they would recognize the demonic half of her soul.

When she felt more in control of herself, and the darkness steadied to a listless churn, she braved the living room and the gathered mourners. The priest lingered near the hearth, hands folded at his waist, Bible clasped in his long fingers. At the sight of his piousness, all the bits her father contributed to her gene pool recoiled. A snarl threatened, and she pursed her lips. Damn Drandar for this life. Damn him for making everything so vile.

She cleared her throat, wove through the people, and grasped the priest’s elbow. A light tug brought the elderly man’s ear closer to her mouth. “Father, Mick isn’t feeling up to hosting much more. Can you…?”

Nodding, the priest gave her hand an understanding pat. “Of course.”

Before Rhiannon turned around, she sensed Mick’s restlessness, the scourge of conflicting emotion that roiled inside of him. She found him in the doorway, jacket unbuttoned, one hand in his pocket, the other shoveling through his hair. His smile was grim, the tightness having returned to his expression once more. But as his gaze scanned the crowd and landed on her, the tension at his mouth eased.

He met her in the center of the living room and clasped her hand tightly in his.

“Mick, you didn’t have to come back in here.”

He shook his head. “Yes, I did. It’s my responsibility.” With a displaced chuckle, he leaned in to brush his lips against the shell of her ear. His breath whispered through her hair. “Just stay close.”

She couldn’t think of any place she’d rather be than shadowed by his powerful frame and soaking up the warmth in his palm. She gave his fingers a squeeze. “You got it.”

****

As Rhiannon bid the last of his visitors goodbye at the front door, a strange sense of anticipation settled over Mick. Women came easily and strolled through his life never leaving an impact. Pleasure became commonplace, sex just another outlet to experience a bit of life, a foregone conclusion to the end of a date. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d really looked forward to time alone with someone, or the last time nervousness swirled around in his gut.

But Rhiannon brought back all the mixed up, jubilant, hesitant nerves that hadn’t plagued him since he’d been a teen. And damn if it didn’t feel good. This was how things were supposed to be—how men and women were intended to come together. Not with the silent understanding orgasms that came with the quiet of a house. But with the questions of what if she refused, would she find him lacking, and the underlying anxiousness of what secrets Rhiannon McLaine harbored beneath that alluring little black dress.

From his place in the hall, he watched as she waved to the elderly couple, filling another role Mick hadn’t realized he could ever find attractive. That of hostess.
His
hostess. A woman who fit into this house with the same grace and gentility his mother had possessed.

That observation tightened his gut uncomfortably, and he shook it off with a shake of his head. He was not planning long-term, no matter how mixed up and confused he felt right now. This was an after-effect of grief, a byproduct of transferred emotion.

Rhiannon closed his front door and turned to face him. A hesitant smile danced on her lips, telling him she felt the same nervous anxiety that thrummed through his veins. He stretched out a hand, beckoning her to him. Her smile broadened. She approached, her fingers sliding a little too neatly into his. He dismissed the rightness of her touch, wrapped his other arm around her narrow waist, and pulled her in close.

“I need to call my twin. He’ll worry if I don’t.”

Twin? Mick blinked. She’d mentioned she had an older brother earlier, but for some reason the idea of Rhiannon having a twin surprised him. “Twin?”

“Yeah.” Laughing softly, she snuggled into his arms and rested her head on his shoulder. “There’s eight of us. Dáire and I aren’t really
twins
, but we might as well be.”

Eight siblings. He took a minute to process the size of her family, to imagine just for a second, what it would be like to have those sorts of bonds. It had always been him. Him and the stepsister who was five years older than he. He rarely saw Allison as a kid, and hadn’t encountered her since. Thankfully, she hadn’t shown up here tonight.

Savoring the feel of Rhiannon’s soft curves meshed against the length of his body, he stroked her long hair. “Are you the youngest?”

“Second to. Taran is the youngest, but no one sees him much. You probably wouldn’t get along with him well at all.”

“No?” He drew back, tipping his head to lift his eyebrows at her.

“Um. No. You’re a cop. He’s…well…not.” Her mouth quirked with amusement. “Not by any means.”

Mick chuckled. “Gotcha.” His hand dipped, and he gave her bottom a playful squeeze. “Maybe we’ll save those introductions.”

“Probably best.” Pushing away, she slid from his grasp. “Do you have a phone? I don’t own a cell.”

Didn’t own a cell—now that was a tidbit that nearly knocked him sideways. Who didn’t own a cell in this day and age? The woman was simply full of surprises.

He pulled his from his lapel pocket and passed it to her with a nod at the office they’d inhabited earlier. “I’ll be in the living room.” Where the fire burned and the priest had thankfully taken away the urn. Though he looked forward to peeling off that enticing dress, he wouldn’t rush this. There were other things he wanted to discover, and the mention of her family filled him with curiosity.

Not to mention, that little exchange brought back what she’d said about her father. He’d killed her mother? Mick frowned as the door to his office closed. Had the bastard been put away? Or, like too many others, was he still walking around, dodging the law, hiding from justice?

He’d just discovered another reason to get close to Rhiannon. Only this one made him question things better left untouched. It painted her in a different light, threatening his perception of her inherent goodness. She wasn’t unspoiled. She’d experienced firsthand the very same type of death that surrounded him. Maybe she could understand his constant need to seek out life through engaging the physical.

No, he argued with himself. If anything, she’d never comprehend how he could be so unaffected by the loss of life, so emotionally disconnected to the victims and their families. And she’d certainly never understand how, at times, his sexual tastes skirted what many women found appropriate. Besides, he wasn’t considering long term. Tonight was only about the pleasure. A brief foray out of the darkness with a woman who made him feel more alive than he could ever remember being.

He moved to the hearth and stoked the logs, flaring the fire. Rhiannon was the kind of woman a man kept. One who demanded marriage, commitment, and all the homey ideas of family he couldn’t embrace. So what the hell was he doing toying with her?

What the hell was
she
doing with him?

****

“Rhiannon, you’ve got to get back here. You have to read this,” Dáire insisted, his voice just short of impatient. “We have to talk about this. With your birthday tomorrow, this chapter of our mother’s spell book discovered, you’re not safe. Our sire is looking for this, and whether you intend to go through with it, won’t matter to Drandar. He won’t suffer another injury willingly.”

“No.” She shook her head in emphasis. “I know what it says. I know what it is. I know the risks.” She could picture her brother, pacing their living room floor, gripping his cell phone with white knuckles. The ties they shared created the picture, the emotion he felt as clear as any first-hand visual account. And she hated to worry him, hated the strain that came with detaching herself from Dáire and pursuing something she alone wanted. They’d been a pair for centuries. Half of the same whole, and for the first time, someone else took precedence. Mick needed her. More than Dáire, more than she needed her safety.

“Rhi, if anything happens to you—”

“I’ll be fine.” She kept her voice steady, willing that reality into existence. She’d sensed no sign of their sire’s dark presence. If Drandar knew about the chapter, he would have been here by now. “Don’t tell the family, Dáire. Taran and Brigid can’t know. They’ll tell Drandar.”

A heavy, exasperated sigh drifted through the receiver. Long seconds of silence followed. Then, what Rhiannon had anticipated since she’d tossed the journal on the coffee table filled Dáire’s quiet question. “Are you going to go through with it?”

Even before Cian discovered the first chapter of their mother’s hidden rituals, they’d always talked about becoming mortal together. When they realized their mother had broken the spell that would eradicate Drandar into eight portions, conversation revolved around waiting for the other. Performing their ceremonies on the same Sabot, so that they would never risk the possibility of one existing indefinitely while the other faced mortal limitations.

Now, Dáire’s voice carried hesitancy. He’d never deny her the escape from the torment of their demonic half. But if she chose to go through with the ritual tomorrow night, it would cut him deeply.

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “Wounded hearts—I know two. Taran and Mick. Neither of them are an option.”

“Mick?” A touch of disbelief laced Dáire’s voice.

“Yeah.”

Understanding slammed into her, restless energy that came from the product of being the opposite half of Dáire. He’d made the connection, knew the one man Rhiannon couldn’t purge from her system could help her heal. And he understood what asking her to wait for him would cost. Rhiannon grimaced against the force of her brother’s powerful reaction.

Then, as sorrow reigned above all else, Dáire’s voice rang flat. “Bring him to the house after the funeral tomorrow. The ritual only specifies it must be performed facing north under the stars. Bring him here before you do something you can’t undo.”

At his unmistakable reference to the rising bloodlust of her dark spirit, she closed her eyes on threatening tears. “I don’t know if I can fight this, Dáire. It’s so strong.”

“Bring him here, Rhi. Now.”

Shaking her head again, she swallowed hard. “No. I’m not in love with him. He’s safe tonight. I don’t know how long that will last.”

Her brother let out a low, threatening growl. “If you don’t get his ass here tomorrow, I will.”

Chapter Eight

She wasn’t going to fight it, Rhiannon realized as she closed Mick’s cell phone. Not that she had a very good chance at winning anyway, but she wasn’t going to combat everything she was and deny herself the one thing she craved beyond all reason. She could yield to desire, surrender to passion, and that didn’t have a damn thing to do with her curse. So long as she didn’t fall in love with Mick, the urge to claim his life would remain no different than the restlessness that haunted her daily. She’d learned to keep the demon at bay. Satisfy it with other measures.

Like the one she was about to embark on now.

She stepped into the living room to find it surprisingly comfortable. Mick had picked up the plastic plates and cups the visitors left behind, and the lights were down. The fire illuminated the room, and if it weren’t for the fragrant aroma of a multitude of flowers, she could almost pretend his stepfather’s death hadn’t brought her here. That Mick wasn’t seeking merely comfort, but that he truly wanted her.

In the back of her mind, she acknowledged, if he did, she would have been here long before tonight.

No, she was a means to an end, and she was well versed in that game as well. So tonight, she would take what she wanted, as he took what he needed.

She seated herself on the rug by the fire, tucking her legs to the side beneath her. Mick stretched out on one side, his head propped in his hand, jacket and tie discarded. He reached between them and laced his fingers through hers. Dark eyes lifted to her face. “I’m sorry I broke down on you.”

Rhiannon shook her head. “It’s understandable. It’s not like anyone ever gives us a chance to practice losing our parents.”

“Yeah, that.” He lifted her hand, touched the pads of his fingertips to hers, then slipped those strong fingers between hers once more and squeezed gently. “Did I understand you right? Did your father…murder…your mother?”