Winter's Wrath: Sacrifice (Winter's Saga #3) (32 page)

His weight was shifted to his back leg leaving his front leg loose and movable.  His strikes were exacting; not a movement wasted.  He attacked with calculating velocity and moved so fast he was a blur.   This method of martial arts wasn’t for the faint of heart.  Wing Chun was based on the idea that you wouldn’t bother blocking any offensive attacks from opponents.  Instead, all energies and focus were on your attack. 

Forget blocking, just strike.  Deflect and strike. 

Strike.  Strike.

Strike hard and fast and furious and don’t back down, ever. 

Strikes, speed, balance, footwork and timing—that was the core of Wing Chun.  It wasn’t for the faint of heart. 

Watching Creed move was awe inspiring.  He had the speed of a viper with the determination and power to back it up.  He was beautiful.

Beautiful and deadly.

Meg watched him for at least fifteen minutes before he stopped, breathing hard as he draped his arms across one of the wooden dummy’s “arms,” holding his forehead against the cool wood.

Unable to keep her silence, she blurted, “That was beautiful.”

Creed’s breathing paused, as though he held his breath at the sound of her voice, before resuming its controlled breaths.  He shifted his position so his blue eyes looked over his arm to watch her.  His gaze was so intense; she shifted from one foot to the other, feeling awkward as the sole object of his focus.  The way he watched her made her feel as though maybe he did remember more than he let on. 

“Wing Chun.  Do you study it?” he asked, breaking his intense observation of her.

Meg shook
her
head slowly and found her voice, “Not really.  Alik and Cole have gotten into it lately, but I haven’t...um…learned it yet.”

“Come here.”  The intensity of his gaze didn’t let up, if anything, it increased as he held perfectly still waiting for her to respond to his request.

“I don’t know if we have time for a lesson,”
s
he stammered nervously.  “Everyone’s back in the house trying to figure out a plan.”

“There’s always time for a lesson,” he assured
—b
lue eyes unrelenting in their gaze.

Meg watched him warily as she walked toward him, stopping two feet away.

His breathing had slowed to a more normal pace, though she could sense his heart beating powerfully in his wide chest.  She couldn’t stop herself from staring into his eyes.  Something about them had her locked, trapped, pinned and she had the strangest feeling that the whole building could blow up around them and not break her gaze
from
his eyes. 

He nodded once, respecting her courage to step forward and repositioned himself behind her.

His voice came at a low rumble in her ear when he spoke.  “I’m going to have to touch you to help position your body.  Is that okay?”

Not able to find her voice at first Meg cleared
her
throat.  “Yes.”  She tried to sound nonchalant.  Her voice quivered instead.

She felt his warm hands wrap around her waist from behind and settle on her hips.  She wanted so badly to step back into his warm arms, but forced herself to move where he nu
dged
.  “Wing Chun is said to have
originated
when a girl was being forced to marry a man she didn’t love.  A deal was offered by the girl’s father to her unwanted suitor.  If she could defeat him in hand-to-hand combat, she wouldn’t have to marry him.  He agreed. 

“She went away to learn from monks how to fight.  They designed a specific style for her.  It held all the power and effectiveness of the known methods, but was practiced with the heart of a warrior.  There is no backing down.  There is no defeat.  Deflect and strike with powerful, efficient movements.  That was the core of the style designed for her.” 

As he spoke he wrapped his body around her from behind, stretching his long arms along hers to hold her hands and move her like their limbs were tied at every joint.  She felt the heat pouring from him, the warmth of his breath on her cheek as he spoke.  It never even occurred to her to step out of his arms. 

He moved her hands and arms into the deflecting, striking positions and after a moment he stepped closer so Meg felt him against her backside, his legs pressed behind hers hinting at when she should move her hips, step and shift.   He started slowly, methodically moving Meg’s body against his, fighting the imaginary opponent that was the Wing Ch
u
n dummy, but after a moment, she caught on to the pattern of movements and together
they
increased the speed of
their
execution. 

She fought the overwhelming urge to lean back into the powerful man at her back as much as she fought the wooden opponent.   Her body memorized the pattern of the movement so she continued with closed eyes, allowing herself to reach out to Creed.  Meg felt his royal blue
signature
waves wash over her.  He loved her scent.  His body recognized her, even if his memory didn’t.  His heart knew her.  She gasped aloud as she dove deeper into his heart searching for the key to unlocking his memory. 

Abruptly, she stopped attacking the Wing Ch
u
n
dummy
and
spun
to face Creed whose arms were still wrapped around her.  Meg stood on tiptoe, reached up and wrapped her hands around his neck, pulling him down toward her.  He didn’t
resister
her, but moved with gentleness as she placed her forehead against his.  He held perfectly still—almost reverent—allowing her to do with him what she would.

Meg slipped into his mind easily and reveled in what she felt. 

He loved her. 

Creed still
loves me
. 

Meg’s throat hitched with a gasp of joy when she saw his heart.  He truly didn’t remember their time together, at least not the way she did, but his heart knew her.  His heart recognized her as his love and leaped for joy at her touch.  Creed didn’t completely understand why he felt so drawn to her, but he wasn’t fighting it either. 

Desperately, Meg reached deeper to ready her white blanket.  For Creed, she imagined it woven with the special iridescent threads of her love that glisten
ed
like mother-of-pearl in the light pouring from
her
wrists.  With a heartfelt prayer for strength, she tossed her blanket across the darkened sea of his mind and tried to catch the fog clouding his memory.  When she carefully pulled the four corners of her blanket together and surveyed her catch, it was clear she wasn’t able to affect his memory. 

Meg was at least thankful to have gathered a large chunk of his sadness.   Williams had created new traumas in her Creed during his lost months at the Facility. 

He needed her healing.  She hadn’t unlocked his memories, but at least she could give him some peace.  With a fervent prayer she pushed the bundle into the sky in her mind, releasing it to God.  Creed’s body shuddered under her touch, and she breathed a deep, cleansing breath.  When they opened their eyes he just stared at her in awe.

“What just happened?”  His voice was groggy with emotion—his wide blue eyes searching her face for understanding. 

Meg closed her eyes again gathering her strength after exerting
her
self.  “I used my gift for you.”

“I don’t know what that means.”  Creed gently held her face in his large, warm hands.  She knew he was desperate to understand.

“You don’t remember.  It’s very clear to me now.  My gift evolved from a heightened sensitivity to the feelings of others into becoming a full-on empath.  I can dive into your mind and feel what you feel.  I can even help heal emotional traumas.”  She blinked slowly.  “But there’s a caveat.  It takes a lot out of me when I pull the negative emotions away from others.”  She breathed deeply, trying to control the feelings of dizziness.  “Sometimes I get migraines.  Sometimes it’s nightmares.  And sometimes I just get…” Meg couldn’t speak anymore as the blackness closed in fast around her peripheral.
 

Chapter 3
4
  Modes of Self-Destruction

Creed watched the girl he saw as a bundle of strength and energy crumple in his arms.  Instinctively, he caught her, pressing her small frame against himself.  He watched as her eyes rolled back into her head.  Her long, dark curls hung like silken ringlets away from her beautiful face.

How could such a tiny creature be so powerful and so fragile at the same time?
  He thought as he swept her into his arms and cradled her like the treasure she was.  He slowly walked toward the nearest seat, holding her protectively in his arms.  He whispered in her ear encouraging her to wake—unable to stop himself from brushing his lips across her forehead and closed eyelids. 

“Please, Meg.  Come back to me.  Wake up.  Oh, please wake up.  I need to see your dark eyes.  Open your eyes.  I can’t do this without you.  I need you.  Please let me feel you hold me again.  I need to know you understand.  I need you, I don’t know why, but I do.  Come back to me.”

From the doorway of the barn Cole stood, green eyes fixed on the two metahumans.  He’d been watching Meg and Creed since the “lesson” at the wooden dummy began.  He was going to bring attention to himself several times, but stopped.  He watched his Meg with Creed and was heartbroken by what he saw. 

She was drawn to him. 

He watched as she used her gift on Creed; saw him shudder with relief at the peace she left in her empath’s wake.  She knew what she was doing.  She chose to use her gift on him knowing it would cause her to weaken, if not pass out from exertion, just as it had every time before.

Cole felt the churning of acid in his stomach
.
  Now he wanted to vomit as he watched Creed hold the girl he loved, nuzzling her with kisses and murmuring in her ear. 

He stayed until he saw her regain consciousness, telling himself he just needed to be sure she was all right before he left. 

When she stirred awake, the first thing she did was wrap her arms around Creed and curl into his arms. 

Crushed, Cole turned and walked silently back to the house.  His mind was clouded with anguish. 

Meg and Creed. 

There was always something he couldn’t compete with there.  Something Creed had that drew her in. 

Cole brushed the moisture from his eyes, stepped into the house, crammed his hands deeply into the pockets of his jeans, and made a beeline for his father’s study.  His mind was racing with what he’d just seen and all he could think to do was try to stop the images of Meg in Creed’s arms.  The ache in his chest hurt so badly, he felt like his heart was being removed with
a
rusted, dull knife. 

The world seemed to tip on its axis by the time he made it across the threshold into the study.  A piece of furniture sat innocently in the corner of the room.  It was a beautiful piece; even Cole appreciated the woodwork.  Shaped like a globe—old world, and intricate in its scrolling art—it opened to reveal a hidden bar his dad kept fully stocked.

He nuzzled her neck.

He had seen his father unlatch the hidden lid before and now his hand reached of its own volition to the latch.  He lifted the lid.  There sat a gently sloshing assortment of alcoholic decadence.  Cole reached in and chose a small bottle, knowing he would have to hide it in his pocket for the next part of his plan to work.  Having no experience with liquor, he didn’t even realize what he grabbed, but after twisting the cap off and taking a whiff
,
he was morbidly satisfied that it smelled strong enough to make him want to cough
.  Perfect,
he thought.

The sunlight
glistened off the dust floating in the air ar
ound them as he held her in his arms.

He heard the voices from the living room, but his mind couldn’t register what they were saying—something about a delivery truck and the Facility.  Cole didn’t care.  All he cared about was the keys to the SUV that had been carelessly tossed onto the tray on the kitchen counter beside his dad’s wallet, loose change
and
a couple cell phones.  The only thing Cole wanted was the keys.  Without missing a step,
he
grabbed them and quietly slipped out the back door. 

His arms were wrapped around her.  His body pressed against her.

Once behind the wheel, he started the ignition and listened to the hum of the engine roar to life.  The radio was tuned to the local Christian station.  His hand jabbed at the pre-set keys, searching for anything else.  Once he pulled off the long private gravel driveway and onto the first country road, he leaned forward and reached behind to
his
waistband, yanking the bottle of alcohol into his shaking hands.

Her small hands slid up his chest and wrapped themselves around his thick neck.

He didn’t register the tears as they slipped down his anguished face.  All he wanted was what existed inside the bottle.  He growled with desperation as his shaking hands fumbled with the bottle’s cap.