Rising Darkness (Game of Shadows #1)(66)

His light-colored eyes regarded her, the expression on his lean face quizzical.

Her eyesight flickered from the physical to the psychic and back again, blending the two images.

Light-colored eyes like—moonstones set in a midnight blue cloak—his energy mantling him like a royal collar—etching his high, strong cheekbones and that thin, mobile mouth.

She jerked her gaze away, shaking, and stared in the direction of the table across the room.

He put a warm hand on her arm. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she croaked, and cleared her throat. “I think I just saw who you were.”

She heard the frown in his voice. “What do you mean?”

“I saw an image of you. Not you as you are, here in the present. Well, at least not at first.” Vaguely aware that she was babbling, she made an effort to control herself. “I think I saw a vision of what you looked like in that first life.”

But if that was real—and she was so far beyond questioning the reality of her own experiences, so it must be real—then it had been no vision at all, but a memory.

My God, what a magnificent creature he had been.

And still was.

His fingers tightened. She felt each individual one, pressing gently into her flesh. He controlled his own strength completely, not adding a single twinge of discomfort to her still healing body. Not only must he have absolute knowledge of his own capabilities, but she realized that he had studied and marked the position of every one of her bruises. He had to have, to avoid them so completely.

Then he let her go. As she turned her gaze back to him, he rolled away from her and onto his feet, moving lightly like a dancer. “Come on,” he said. “We slept the day away, and we only have an hour or so of daylight left.”

Thrown off balance, she fumbled her way out from under the covers. The scuffed hardwood floor felt like a sheet of ice, and her toes curled in protest. Trying to minimize the discomfort, she stood on one foot. “What are we doing?”

“We’re going outside for target practice, remember?” He strode over to the table where he had left his T-shirt and socks, and he dressed swiftly, the bulky muscles of his arms and chest flexing as he drew the shirt over his head.

The cabin was too cold for half measures. Either she needed to get dressed or she needed to dive back under the covers. For a moment she wavered, but she knew that if she tried to go back to bed, he would only pull her out again bodily.

Shivering, she minced across the freezing floor to the dresser and dragged on a pair of socks. As predicted, they fit. Then she tried on the new jeans. They hung on her hips, but her other pair was still drying on the water heater, and these would do in a pinch. Finally she dove into the voluminous gray sweatshirt, hunting for the neck and armholes.

Her voice muffled by the thick material, she grumbled, “I would rather have some supper, you know.”

“Target practice first,” he told her. “Then I’ll cook you supper.”

That brightened her outlook on the near future considerably. She emerged from the depths of the sweatshirt with a smile. “You cook?”

“I cook.” He sat in the one of the chairs and laced on his boots.

“Do you by any chance cook omelets?” She hopped into her shoes.

One corner of his mouth lifted. “I do cook omelets. I cook other things too. It’s not haute cuisine, but it’s good enough.”

Somehow that didn’t surprise her. Autonomy would matter to him. He would be competent at a lot of things.

After only a brief hesitation, she walked over to put a hand on his wide shoulder. As he lifted his head in inquiry, she bent and kissed him on his hard, warm mouth. “I noticed that you bought asparagus, mushrooms and strawberries,” she whispered. “I meant to thank you earlier but got sidetracked.”

His expression relaxed, and he gave her a smile. “You’re welcome.” He stood, foraged in his weapons bag and pocketed a couple of spare clips. Then he strode to the dresser to pick up the nine-millimeter. “Come on.”

Grimacing, she followed him outside and around to the back of the cabin, noting how he studied his surroundings, his gaze clear and sharp. The clearing hadn’t been mowed in a while, and the long grass was tangled underfoot.

She muttered, “Have I mentioned recently that I don’t want to do this?”

“Not since you woke up,” he said. “In fact, I was just admiring your restraint, but I suppose that’s all in the past now.”

He held the gun out. She turned her back to him.

Circling her, he came back into view and held the gun out again, his expression implacable.

She scowled at him and snatched the gun out of his hand.

“Show me where the safety is,” he said.

She pointed, her mouth folded tight.

“Good,” he said. “Now, show me that you remember how to reload it.”

She pulled the clip out and slammed it back in. Her hands were shaking so that she fumbled the move.

[flat, popping sounds . . . people falling like mown flowers . . .]

He put a hand over hers. His grip was sure and steady. “Are you thinking about what happened to those people?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

He tilted her face up. “It’s time to take your own advice, Mary,” he said. His voice was calm. “The memories are terrible, but what happened is in the past. Acknowledge that, and let it go. This is just a gun. It’s a thing, like a scalpel, or a chair, or like any other thing. It’s up to you what you do with it.”