Serpent's Kiss (Elder Races #3)(39)

He gave her an amused glance over one wide shoulder. “You’re in a mood.” The muscles in his wide, powerful back tensed, and he pushed out with controlled force. The cabinet split apart at the joints. He made quick work of dismantling it without, she noticed, scratching the walls once. Then he bent to stack the pieces together. “Do you have any twine?”

She went over to the open toolbox that sat on the floor just outside the closet. She set the hammer and screwdriver in the box, found a ball of twine and threw it at him hard.

It whistled through the air with such speed a human couldn’t have seen it, but he reached out and plucked it from the air with a lazy-seeming gesture. Of course he did. He bound the cedar pieces together swiftly, pulled out a pocketknife, cut the twine and pocketed the knife again. Without looking up, he flung the ball of twine back at her. Hard.

She flinched back a step but caught it. She glared at the ball and slam-dunked it into the toolbox, and suddenly Rune was right in front of her. Too close. Of course. He was always too close, and he stepped forward, closer still, until their bodies brushed together.

She looked up, her gaze narrowed. “You’re in my space.”

“I know I am.” He brought his amused, sensual face down to hers. In a murmur so quiet it came out as a throaty purr, he asked, “Would you like to tell me what might coax you out of your mood? I would be happy to oblige you with just about anything.”

She stared up at him, her eyes widening. Desire roared back between them, both his and hers. It flared low in her belly and weighted her limbs so that she wanted to lie down. Her imagination supplied her with the molten image of him lying on top of her, his nude muscled body flexing, that beautiful wild face of his sharp with sex and need.

Her body insisted it needed to suck in some air. She fought and lost a battle with control, and took a breath, all of her senses thrumming with his hot vivid presence. The light brush of his hard chest against her ni**les ignited sensations that were so long dormant, they should have remained dead and buried.

This was a wicked madness. He caused her to feel too much. It had gone beyond a dangerous, useless distraction and was fast approaching obsession. She couldn’t cope with all of it, both his emotions and hers. Coping with simple hope and fear were hard enough.

She tore her gaze away from his compelling face. Her hands shot out. She fisted them in his black T-shirt. “Did you finish reading?”

His sensual amusement faded. “Yes, just before I came in here.”

She concentrated her gaze on her fists as they rested against the hard plate of his breastbone. “And?”

He cupped her shoulders. “And, I don’t know. Your work is brilliant, but then you knew that. Something bothers me, and I haven’t been able to pinpoint what it is. It’s like trying to say that word that’s sitting on the tip of your tongue. You know the word is there and you’ve used it many times before, but you can’t quite think to say it.”

“Try harder.”

His fingers tightened. “What’s wrong?”

She tried to smile. It came out all twisted and wrong. “I’m starting to feel my Vegas again.”

He took a deep breath and pulled her into his arms. “That’s okay,” he said. His voice was as rock-steady as his gaze had been earlier. His cheek came down on the top of her head. “We knew it was coming. We’ll go through it together and we’ll learn more.”

She forced the words out. “That’s what I’ve been telling myself.”

Damn him, he stroked her hair, and then there were more feelings, traitorous feelings accompanied by weakening thoughts.

What would it hurt if she relaxed her rigid spine just once, just for a little bit? She tried it and found herself leaning against him. He guided her head so that it rested in the hollow of his shoulder. Her head seemed to fit there so flawlessly, the realization felt like it bruised her. Strength coursed through his long massive body, an inexhaustible well of Power that surrounded her with warmth. He wrapped his arms around her and somehow her arms found their way around his waist, and then they held on to each other tight.

Her eyes prickled again. They filled with burning liquid and spilled over. It had been so long since she had cried it took her several moments to identify the wetness.

He had done this to her. He opened doors in her that never should have been opened again. He was a sirocco that blasted through the topography of her mind and soul until they shifted like desert sands, and he forced her to confront feelings she had thought she would never feel again, wonder and desire, hope and fear.

Then he taught her how to feel new things, things that were so fresh and fragile and crushable, she was afraid they might break her. Fight to live, he said to her, and it was such a hard thing to do, because she couldn’t rouse herself to care enough to fight without also feeling afraid. Before he came, she thought she would only lose her life. She had distanced herself so she could witness her own end with detachment. Now she felt like she might lose something else just as valuable: her understanding of who she was.

She whispered, “Sometimes I think I hate you.”

He rubbed his cheek in her hair. “Why is that, darling?”

Her lips parted. Hadn’t he called her that once, so very long ago . . . or at least what seemed to her so very long ago? Only she hadn’t known what the word meant or understood what he was saying. She had thought he was a strange and beautiful god, calling her by a sacred name . . .