From Ashes Page 12

  About a thousand pounds lighter, she turned her focus to Mason.

  She could feel him outside.

  She’d never wanted someone as much as she wanted him, never even had more than a passing quiver at any man.

  The parade of boyfriends her mother had managed to collect—dark, unsavory characters who’d as soon take advantage of her as a child or a grown woman—had silenced those urges.

  Which was also part of the problem.

  Gabby was a virgin.

  A twenty-seven-year-old who’d only kissed one man willingly.

  The forced embraces of her mother’s men didn’t count. Because if she wasn’t going to feel shame for her mother’s sins, then she certainly wasn’t going to shoulder those that belonged squarely to those men.

  It was funny—odd funny, not ha-ha funny—that she could so easily shed the shame for the sexual abuse she’d endured, that it had never been so voracious or all-encompassing as that associated with her mother.

  Perhaps because it had never gone further than a few forced kisses and several gropes of her breasts and bottom.

  All awful. All completely and totally unacceptable. But she hadn’t been raped, nor even touched beneath her clothes.

  Maybe she didn’t possess shame because that invisible line in her mind had never been crossed. Perhaps she hadn’t been capable of feeling shame because she’d been so damn numb after seeing her mother murder her father right in front of her.

  Or maybe it had always seemed black and white because those acts were wrong. Whereas the circumstances with her mother were a tangle of maternal love and hate.

  Regardless of all she’d endured, her body was very open to getting to know Mason in ways she’d never experienced before.

  But . . . she was clueless.

  Okay, not completely clueless. She’d read romance novels and women’s magazines in the last six months—loads of them. Heck, she’d seen Cody and Daughtry indulge in very public, non-PG make-out sessions when they’d thought no one was looking.

  But she hadn’t done any of that.

  The two kisses from Mason had been incredible. And also more than she’d willingly experienced with any other man.

  Her lips curved with rueful amusement. The first man that she was interested in and he had more than two hundred years of experience under his belt.

  She didn’t know if she should be horrified or glad.

  The memory of stubble on his cheeks beneath her fingers, the way he’d held her tight against his broad chest, the sleek darts of his tongue . . . they combined to have desire coursing through her. He smelled like a man, was strong and muscular and so much harder than her. Everywhere.

  She would have thought after all the times being cornered, after all the times she’d had to fight her way free from unwanted caresses, that she would never be comfortable with someone stronger than herself.

  The bond changed that.

  Even though it wasn’t fully formed, it still foreshadowed enough of Mason’s feelings and intentions that she never doubted him. He touched her because he liked her, because it made them both feel good . . . because he wanted her.

  And though his need surged inside him—was strong enough sometimes that when combined with her own desires, it seemed as though it would scorch her from the inside out—he didn’t take more than what was offered. He’d tucked her into the tent, kept his distance, was treading carefully.

  Which was why she sat up and unzipped the tent.

  Mase was sitting with his back propped against the log, his knees bent, and his arms folded behind his head as he stared at the sky above. The flames of the fire were lower though the clearing was pleasantly warm.

  When she popped her head out of the tent, he sat upright. “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said and fell silent, abruptly nervous.

  She hadn’t anticipated feeling awkward, but with his eyes on her, his high cheekbones and square jaw highlighted by the fire, she found that she did.

  “What is it, Sunshine?” He pushed to his feet, walked over to her, and knelt in front of the opening of the tent.

  “I—” She’d made her decision, why was she so tongue-tied now?

  “Mentally wrestling crocodiles again?”

  Her throat loosened. “Something like that.”

  He lifted a hand and traced a finger down her cheek. “What is it?”

  “I don’t want you to go to sleep.”

  “O . . . kay.” He stretched the word out, making it several syllables longer than normal. “Are you scared about being outside the shield? We can go back.” He frowned. “Or I won’t go to sleep?”

  “No.” She shook her head and flopped onto her back inside the tent, the little wink of the stars between the trees mocking her. “I’m sorry. I always do this!”

  A whisper of laughter threaded its way across their mental link. “Tell men they’re not allowed to sleep?”

  She sat up. “Oh, shut up. I’m trying to invite you to sleep in the tent with me but as usual I’ve bungled the whole thing.” Her eyes closed briefly in embarrassment. “I’m terrible in social situations.”

  A soft rustle of denim reached her ears and she peeled back her lids to find that he had crawled through the tent’s opening.

  “You were going to ask me to sleep with you?”

  The way he said it, the soft rumble of roughened velvet coated her skin and raised the hairs on the nape of her neck.

  She nodded.

  A grin erupted on his face, wide and sexy as hell, and a whole lot more dangerous than the voice that made her thighs quiver. Because the feelings it invoked in her . . . wow. He was a man who could possess her heart.

  Did she trust enough in the newness of their connection to hand it over?

  Maybe. Maybe not.

  But she did trust him enough to give herself the chance to find out.

  “Sleep, sleep,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Don’t get any ideas.”

  “I’m full of ideas,” he teased before his face went serious. “But you do know I won’t push you, right?”

  “I know.” She nodded, sensed his relief at the notion.

  When he paused to zip up the tent, she backed up, sliding inside the sleeping bag. It was LexTal-sized, which basically meant that it dwarfed her.

  With Mason sharing it, the space would be seriously reduced, but he was leaner than most of the other LexTals, so though the fit would be tight, she suspected they would manage.

  Plus, it was no hardship to cuddle against him.

  He closed the distance between them then waited, not moving until she lifted up the edge of the sleeping bag.

  “I’m okay,” she said. “Really.”

  After one more moment of hesitation, he slid in next to her.

  They shared a few awkward minutes of trying to find a comfortable position which was only resolved when he stilled her movements and wrapped her in his arms.

  She turned and buried her face into his throat, one of his biceps beneath her head, knowing she had never felt anything more wonderful than being enfolded in his warmth, covered by spicy scent.

  Her heart might never be the same again.

  And, shockingly, she was totally fine with that.

  Twenty

  Mason

  He swore to himself that he wouldn’t fall asleep.

  But a few hours in Gabby’s arms, being surrounded by her soft scent, her steady breathing, and his eyelids grew heavy. He was trained to go on very little sleep and by himself, it wouldn’t have even been an issue. But the comfort, the rightness of holding her in his arms made him complacent.

  He drifted off.

  And . . . his memories swarmed over him, a suffocating blanket of blackness that stole every bit of joy he’d gained from being in Gabby’s presence.

  He was back on that rain-soaked street. The pungent smells of vomit and feces burning his nose. But he hadn’t been concentrating on the scents around him. Instead, he’d been in pursui
t.

  Of the Dalshie.

  Of one Dalshie in particular who’d enjoyed cutting and dismembering his victims. They’d eventually eliminated Jack the Ripper—as the native London dwellers had referred to him.

  But the Rengalla had also suffered losses.

  Mason had received a piece of intel on that rainy-London night. A note with the description of a warehouse in a seedy neighborhood. A note whose authenticity had been verified by several who lived nearby and reported suspicious activity.

  He’d walked down the nearly deserted streets, ignoring the odd prostitute and shady figure that propositioned him as he moved by. He was practically in a daze, his mind so busy ferreting out a plan.

  The warehouse wasn’t secluded enough to completely shield their presence if a magical battle would take place, so he was trying to think through every possibility.

  Mortals couldn’t see their magic when the Rengalla and Dalshie used it, but they were able to see the effects of it.

  And collapsing ceilings and exploding walls tended to draw attention. Not to mention the ash that coated everything and choked everyone in the vicinity when a Dalshie was killed.

  Sever the head, plunge a knife into their black heart, and the Dalshie turned to dust.

  There would be a lot of ash to clean up.

  Of that, Mason had no doubt, but he’d still been considering strategies and wondering whether they could simply burn the evidence without risking the nearby buildings and their inhabitants when he’d arrived home. Dante and Francis would be waiting, but he had to see Victoria before he went to the warehouse. He needed to give her and Jacob a good night kiss.

  It was their evening ritual, that kiss. Something he did his best to never miss, no matter how many of the enemy he was chasing.

  Victoria would worry about the mission, she always did. And though Mason didn’t like her to fret unnecessarily, it was nice to have someone waiting for him, caring whether he returned safely.

  His love for his wife and son made him fight that much harder.

  But he was so deep in thought, in planning every detail that it wasn’t until he’d ascended the five steps leading up to his front door that he’d realized something was amiss.

  He didn’t have to turn the knob.

  The door was ajar.

  Utterly still silence filled the entry.

  His footsteps echoed as he crossed the marble floor. The sound of his knife sliding from the scabbard in his boot startlingly loud in the quiet space.

  He moved forward. Glanced into the small parlor at the front of the house.

  Empty.

  Then the dining room. Also empty.

  The study. Victoria’s private receiving rooms, the kitchen, the water closet.

  Every single room was devoid of life.

  But signs of his family were all around.

  The fires blazing behind the grates. The half-empty cup of tea. A plate of Jacob’s favorite biscuits.

  Dread burned a fiery pit in Mason’s stomach as he climbed the stairs to the second floor. The guest bedrooms and the nursery were as empty as the rooms on the first floor.

  His and Victoria’s rooms were not.

  They had a small space that adjoined their separate bedrooms—though they hardly slept apart—that Victoria had lovingly decorated. In the evenings they spent many an hour playing with Jacob before he went to bed and then reading to one another once they were alone.

  He hesitated with his hand on the knob, instinctively knowing he didn’t want to see what was in the room and yet understanding that he must look.

  The hinges creaked loudly.

  Crimson soaked into the pale beige carpeting. Two pairs of blue eyes stared unseeing at the ceiling.

  He woke on a gasp.

  His heart pounded, sweat had soaked through his T-shirt.

  Gabby stirred next to him and he knew he had to get it together or he’d risk waking her. Shifting carefully, he slid his arm from beneath her head then stroked her brow until she settled back into sleep. Once he was certain that she wouldn’t wake, he crept from the tent and escaped into the clearing. Maybe two hours had passed.

  The night air was heavy and damp, muffling the sounds of the nocturnal creatures, and he allowed the quiet stillness to settle his nerves. Now that the nightmare had come, it wouldn’t strike again that evening.

  The rest of his sleep, if he managed to grasp on to it, would be filled solely with peaceful blackness.

  “Mason?”

  He startled at Gabby’s voice, so off his game that he hadn’t even heard her or sensed she was wake.

  “Go back to sleep,” he whispered. “I’ll be there in a second.”

  But the damned woman didn’t oblige him.

  He almost smiled, might have if he didn’t have the disturbing memories circling his mind and snapping at his sanity.

  “Want to talk about it?”

  A laugh burst from him, all jagged glass and painful to even his own ears.

  “I’ll take that as a no. Here.” She grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the log by the fire. “Sit,” she ordered, pushing him to the ground and perching behind him on the makeshift bench. Her fingers dug into the straining muscles of his neck and shoulders, massaging deeply—and not quite comfortably.

  But the hard, unrelenting motions worked.

  Eventually the tightness of his muscles relaxed.

  As the sting of the memories began to fade, he opened his mouth to apologize.

  “Don’t,” she said, continuing to rub his nape.

  “I—”

  “Don’t,” she said again.

  He nodded, didn’t speak again.

  And when, long minutes later, she stopped her ministrations and led him back into the tent, he followed without argument.

  This time when sleep overtook him, his memories stayed locked within the deepest recesses of his mind.

  “Mason?” she asked.

  They were packing up their camp. Getting ready to depart for the Colony, to return to reality.

  He glanced up from where he was methodically folding up the tent. “Yeah?”

  “I was wondering . . .” Gabby trailed off and her cheeks went the slightest bit pink. “Daughtry told me about the waterfalls.”

  He felt his lips twitch at that blush. Despite everything she’d gone through, she was so damned sweet and innocent. Then he realized what she had said, and shock made him gape for a moment before he asked, “You want to go to a make out spot?”

  “W-what?” Her cheeks flared fire engine bright. “I just want to see the waterfalls. Dee said they were incredible.”

  “I’m sure she did,” he teased.

  “Oh, shut up,” she muttered then glanced up at him. “Is it really a make out spot?”

  He waggled his brows. “What do you think?”

  A sigh. “Why am I always the last one to know these things?”

  The final bit of darkness from the night before faded away. He chuckled, knowing he was grinning like an idiot but unable to stop. “I’m not sure I believe that you didn’t know. I think you like propositioning me. Share my tent. Come to the waterfalls.” He smirked. “You want me bad. Really bad.”

  Her hands plunked onto her hips. “First, you’re an idiot.” She huffed. “Second, yes I want you. Third, how was I supposed to know that asking to see the waterfalls was a proposition?”

  He laughed, though his cock had twitched at her admission that she wanted him. Still, he was striving for light that morning, not dark, and so he continued with the teasing. “It’s basically the Rengallan equivalent of ‘Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.’”

  “What?” She cried, hands covering those pink cheeks. “Tell me you’re kidding!”

  “I’m kidding,” he said immediately, and fought to get his smile under wraps.

  “Oh. My. God.” She closed her eyes. “Oh my freaking God. You’re not kidding. I’m going to kill Daughtry. And Suz, for that matter.”

  Standing,
he finished zipping the pack then slung it over his shoulder. “You’re right. I’m not kidding, but it doesn’t matter. Come on.” He pulled her hands from her face and chucked her under her chin. “Let’s go see those waterfalls.”

  Twenty-One

  Gabby

  She followed Mason down the trail, her cheeks still hot, embarrassment still coursing through her.

  She considered herself a strong, independent woman, but one smile, a little good-natured teasing, and she folded like a tower of playing cards. Her spine might as well be mush. But as they made their way along the winding dirt path, crossed under low hanging branches, crunched through needles and leaves alike—well, she moved noisily through the forest debris, he was silent—her discomfort faded.

  The outdoors had been her only source of pleasure from the time her father had been killed.

  When her mother was distracted—with a man, with magic—Gabby would take advantage and escape into the forest surrounding their little trailer, thankful for the acres of trees between her and the next closest neighbor.

  At the time, she had just been grateful for the chance to get lost, to be forgotten for a few hours to a few days.

  As an adult, she was more thankful that isolation had prevented her mother from having easy access to new victims. For whatever reason, her mother never moved them from the trailer that she’d purchased with Gabby’s father.

  Perhaps there had been an inkling of nostalgia buried deep under the black magic that coated her mother’s skin.

  She supposed she would never understand her mother’s motivations, and she supposed . . . it didn’t really matter.

  “What are you thinking?” Mason murmured, pausing in his forward motion to glance back over his shoulder. “All I can sense is a thunderstorm going on in there.” He leaned toward her and mock-whispered, “Please tell me that it’s something involving the two of us and a sleeping bag.”

  She snorted. “Hush, you.”

  He grinned. “I’m technically the quiet triplet.”