Dirk And Steele: The Wild Road Part 21

Lannes did not want that. Not at all. "Who is she?"

"Her real name is Alice," Koni said heavily, "and she's the grand-niece of the woman who tortured you and your brothers."

Chapter Fifteen.

Lethe was in the shower when she felt a tremor run down her link to Lannes. She had hardly been able to sense it until that moment, but the connection suddenly burned so bright in her head that she felt it as a thread made of liquid fire, shimmering hot and fine.

She almost went down on her knees, but instead she turned the water off and staggered from the stall, grasping blindly for a robe. The pain started to ease by the time she left the bathroom, but not enough to keep her from seeking Lannes out. No one was in the parlor. She heard voices in the other bedroom. She thought about grabbing a steak knife from the dinner tray, just in case, but kept her hands in the pockets of the robe.

Lethe opened the door. Lannes stood in front of it, his back to her. Just beyond him were Rictor and Koni. Both men had shadows in their eyes, but it was only Lannes who concerned her. She began to reach out, to touch him, but he stepped away from her at the last moment, turning to face her.

His gaze was terrible-so raw, so torn, staring at him felt the same as being punched in the face. She staggered back a step, feet aching, heart wrapped so tight in the link between them, she was afraid it might stop beating if she was cut off from him.

"What happened?" she whispered.

"Nothing," he rasped, and pushed past her. Moments later, a door slammed.

Lethe turned on the men. "What did you say to him?"

"Truth," Rictor replied. "Nothing but."

Koni would not look her in the eyes. "He'll be fine."

Then you're blind, she thought at him, still blistered by the look in Lannes' eyes.

Lethe limped quickly through the parlor, back into her room. She upended the bags of new clothes, pulling on soft black yoga pants, a tight hooded sweatshirt, a pair of thick socks and white tennis shoes. Her hair was wet, but she ran her fingers through it once. Grabbed a room key. And left.

She did not think, just followed her instincts. Breadcrumbs inside her heart. She ignored the elevator in favor of the stairs, hobbling down them as quickly as she could until she hit the first floor. From there she went outside, crossing the cobblestone drive for the garden.

Lethe found Lannes standing in the shadows of trees, near an old stone bridge. His back was turned against her. He cut a lonely figure, large and solid as an oak. It was easy to imagine wings.

She did not immediately approach him; she could not bring herself to. Lethe felt as though she was in the presence of something hurt and wild, and all she could offer was s.p.a.ce and time and gentleness. So she sat on the gra.s.s, hugging her knees to her chest, wondering if this was what it felt like to be a little girl, lost and alone.

She waited a long time. She waited so long, she wondered if Lannes was aware of her presence, but then the link would pulse, and she knew he had a bead on her heart, just as she had a bead on his. Until finally, as the sun began falling into dusk, he stirred from under the trees and came to her.

Lethe did not stand as he approached. All she could do was watch him move-like a dancer, unspeakably graceful, with a lean coiled strength that was also, somehow, not nearly as attractive as his kindness.

She did not move, not even when he finally stood above her, big as the world. She wondered rather absurdly if invisible wings still cast shadows.

"Are you all right?" he whispered. "You've been sitting there a long time."

"I'm fine," she said. "You?"

Lannes glanced away from her, staring at the dome. "Better."

And then he reached down, grabbed her wrist and pulled her up hard against him. His arms snaked around her waist, and it felt so good to be held by him, she wanted to cry. A horrible weakness, but she could suffer it. Just as she could suffer the realization that losing him-in any form-was quite possibly the worst thing she could imagine happening to her.

"I was afraid," she confessed, craning her neck to peer into his eyes.

"I know. I felt it." Lannes hefted her higher in his arms, so that her feet dangled. "I had to figure something out."

"They gave you bad news."

"Depends." He searched her face, the edge of his mind pressing against her own. "Depends on a lot of things."

"And?"

"And nothing," he said roughly, and pressed his lips against her own.

She was not expecting to be kissed, but his mouth was hard, even desperate-and if he was gentle in some ways, his kiss was not. It stole her breath, every thought in her head, and it was good he was holding her because if she had been forced to stand, her legs might very well have betrayed her.

Lannes did not let go. He sank to his knees on the gra.s.s, taking her with him. They were kneeling together, tangled, her body draped in something heavy and warm that she could not see but that felt like leather or silk.

My wings, he murmured in her mind, and his kiss deepened to such an intensity that she lost herself, forgot everything. But only for a moment. Lannes pulled away, eyes shut, breathing hard. She was little better. Her heart was hammering, not an ounce of strength left in her body.

Afraid. Totally, desperately, afraid.

Don't let me remember my old life. Please, don't, she prayed desperately. Not if it meant giving up this new existence, no matter how twisted and dangerous it had become. What she had now was better. It had to be.

It is, whispered her instincts. Run from the rest. Run from them.

Lannes opened his eyes. "Them."

Lethe wished he could not read her mind so easily. "The mysterious 'them.'"

Your family? Lannes thought, but the words were so fleeting, so rushed, she sensed he had not meant her to hear them. Nor had he expected her to see, like a flash of lightning, a rush of images: a woman with long brown hair shrouding her eyes, and a lush sultry pout; a knife, a flash of green light, blood soaking into white sand. Pain crept beneath her skin, as though her veins were kissing fire, and it was so sudden, so shocking, all she could do was suck in a hard fast breath.

Lannes grabbed her arms, steadying her. "No, don't look."

I can't help myself, she whispered, and his conflict was immediate, a tumbling force in his heart that made her mouth taste bitter and her body feel cold. She leaned back from him, rubbing her tingling face with her palm. Lannes' hands trailed away, as did the warmth of his invisible wings.

"They told you something about me," she said, full of dread. "Something bad."

"Nothing bad about you," he said quietly.

She shook her head, scooting backward on the gra.s.s. "I don't want to know."

Lannes said nothing, not with his voice, though his eyes were dark, his mouth set in a hard line. He stood and held out his hand.

"You're not alone," he rumbled. "No matter what happens."

Lethe closed her eyes. Strong fingers curled around her wrist, drawing her slowly up on her aching feet. She was afraid of seeing more from his mind, but her thoughts remained blissfully quiet.

"Look at me," he said.

Lethe did not. She turned and started limping back to the hotel. Her life felt perilous, built on air and matchsticks. There were no memories to fall back on, only whatever she had on hand: grit, stubbornness, a blind determination to stick one foot in front of the other. Nothing that could be stolen.

But tainted, maybe. Cut.

I won't cut you, said Lannes, and it surprised her that she could hear him without them touching. I won't hurt you.

Not now.

But later. Later was the problem.

She did not trust herself.

Lethe did not see Rictor or Koni when she returned to the room, and all the doors stood open. There was no place to hide. She walked into her bedroom and shut herself in. Evening had fallen, full and heavy; there was no light outside except for some lamps in the garden below her window. She crawled under the covers and curled into a tight ball. She heard Lannes enter the suite's parlor, but he did not knock on her door or try to come in. He left her alone. Much as she had done for him.

Something bad, she thought. Something in my past.

Something inside her head, someone else trying to kill her.

Your family, she remembered him thinking, but pushed away the memory of the images that had fallen from his mind. Too disturbing. Filling her with dread. She did not want to think about the brunette or the b.l.o.o.d.y sand even for a moment.

Lethe sighed, punching her pillow, and tried to sleep. But every time she closed her eyes she saw other terrible visions. The dead men from the hotel in Chicago. Or Orwell Price's head crushed by a dumbbell. She saw Etta dying in her arms and a man with a gun flung through the window of a car. She saw, once again, her hands covered in blood.

Her eyes snapped open and she stared at the ceiling, then the wall. These were solid, firm objects. But the darkness crept in on her, and turning on a lamp almost made it worse. Too many shadows. So she switched off the light and huddled under the covers, battling memory, struggling against her need for the balm to that memory.

Lannes.

You should be stronger, she told herself. More stalwart than indulging some sniveling desire to have someone at her side-an anchor, a constant-as if to be near another would keep her from losing her mind all over again.

Yet, she could not help it. Solitude frightened her. Almost as much as the knowledge that at any moment she could turn into a robot made to kill. And there was the paradox: keeping anyone close was the same as putting them in danger.

Lannes, in danger. No matter who or what he might be.

She finally sat up. And after several minutes, she rolled out of bed and opened the door.

Lannes was in the parlor. The couch had been shoved back toward the wall, and he lay stretched on the floor with a blanket and pillow. There was no sign of Koni and Rictor, though the other bedroom door still stood open.

Lannes sat up. His shirt-that same blue shirt-looked perfectly clean and pressed. His hair fell around his craggy face. Lethe was tired of seeing the illusion. It seemed fake. Everything seemed fake but his eyes.

"I can't sleep," she said.

"It's the hotel," he said. "You're in a hotel again."

"No," she told him. "It's because I'm alone."

Lannes regarded her for a long moment, then carefully stood. He gathered up his blanket and pillow, and when Lethe backed into the bedroom, he followed and shut the door. Darkness swallowed her, but she kept moving until the backs of her knees. .h.i.t the bed and she sat down.

Lannes was nothing but a dark ma.s.s. She heard him toss his blanket on the floor, but before he could settle down, her hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. She kept silent but tugged, falling into the heat of his skin and, past that, his mind. Touching him made everything feel more real.

I'm no anchor, he whispered in her thoughts. I can hardly take care of myself.

Bulls.h.i.t, she replied, feeling that word drift like a dandelion seed, slow and wild. I wouldn't be alive without you.

You'd be alive, Lannes told her, and finally settled on the bed. He pulled back the covers. Lethe scooted under, and after a moment, he joined her. The mattress groaned, sinking under his weight, and she curled into a ball as he wrapped himself around her body. He was so much larger than her, his arms heavy and strong. His chest, rising and falling slowly against her back, felt hard as stone and hot as a furnace.

You'd be alive, he said again in her mind, almost like a prayer. I know you would.

He wanted to believe it-she could feel that much-but underneath his thoughts, she felt his doubt, and the lie. Lethe let him say the words, though. She needed to hear them.

His arms tightened, drawing her closer, and his lips brushed the back of her neck. "Wasn't a lie. I just happened to remember all those bullets."

"Right," she said. "I could have easily survived that."

Lannes sighed. Lethe tried to turn in his arms, but it took too much effort. "Do you still hurt?"

Be more specific, came the instant response, accompanied by a deep embarra.s.sment that cut right into her heart. It forced her to take a moment, remembering again that this was a man-a creature and a man-who had lived a full life, and that unlike her, had the memories to go with it. And not all of them, she knew, were good.

"My wounds are almost gone," he said quietly, his warm breath ruffling her hair. "Like I told you, my kind heals fast."

"You don't feel much different from human. Except for your back."

"We're like you, for the most part. Humanoid. Bigger, stronger. Our...faces are alien, I suppose. We were mistaken for demons, long ago. Dragons, even. You can't imagine the numbers of virgins deposited near our flying grounds."

"Kinky," Lethe muttered, and finally forced herself to turn over. Lannes helped, sliding his strong hands around her waist and back. The room was dark, but she caught the glitter of his eyes, and laid her palm against his cheek. She felt bone beneath her hand, craggy and sharp, but nothing that frightened her. Her fingers trailed over an angular nose...and paused against his lips.

She remembered those lips. How they felt on her mouth. But the memory was tempered with the hard, bitter knowledge that he knew something about her. Something unpleasant. Something that had sent him from the hotel and made him stand alone until he could bear to be in her presence again.

"Don't," he whispered. "Don't think about it. Not yet."

Not yet, but soon. It made her sick.

His lips moved against her fingers, and she felt heartache behind that gesture. "I told you not to think about it."

Heat pooled in her stomach. "Easier said than done."

"Try," he said, and one large hand slid down against her hip, tugging her closer. Lethe could not help herself. She reached under his arm and touched the base of his wing. He shuddered, closing his eyes, and between them she felt his s.e.x thicken, a reaction that was so unexpectedly noticeable, her pulse began to pound. She hooked her leg over his hip, grinding against him, and the friction of his jeans through her thin pants tore a small soft sound from her throat.

His hand crept under her shirt. He had calluses she hadn't noticed, but they felt good on her skin, and she arched against him, unable to control the desire that raged through her as his knuckles grazed her aching b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

She stroked his wings again and he cried out, jerking against her in one hard thrust that made her see stars.

"Lethe," he gasped, his hand closing over her breast, squeezing. She m.u.f.fled her own cry, baring her throat to him as his mouth closed against her neck, his teeth dragging along her skin in a savage kiss. She grabbed the waist of his jeans, scrabbling for the b.u.t.ton, but it was too difficult to undo. She settled for sliding her hand down his stomach and her fingers brushed against something ridged, hot, and hard.

Lannes snarled breathlessly, covering her wrist with his hand. "Don't. Not unless..."

He stopped, but she could hear his words ringing in her head.