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I feel guilty for not using the Morganite knife and killing him for real since I know he’ll heal in the next couple of days. My only solace is that it will take a few days to regrow his whole fucking head. Dick.
I knew I shouldn’t have gone to that stupid exhibit. I swear it’s the last time I let Evan talk me into anything.
And I mean it this time.
Rhys was quiet most of the drive, a blessing because I had no idea what to say to him. But it’s a curse, too, the barbed guilt of my silence running through my veins. I’ve spent little time with him that hasn’t included me trying to rip him limb from limb, so a conversation might’ve been impossible. Plus, I’m a little disturbed that having him so close for so long hasn’t been the hardship I always thought it would be.
He was quiet, considerate, and he pumped the gas when we stopped, because me getting out of the car would have probably gotten the police called on us. He even got me snacks when he went in to pay.
It’s tough to be bitchy to a man that brings me foodstuffs.
And for every minute of those five and a half hours, I had to fight the two warring sides of my brain. One side completely ruled by hate and fear, telling me it’s all his fault, even though I know it isn’t. The other side worries if he’s taking care of himself and likes that he came to help—even if I didn’t really need it.
Both sides need to shut the hell up.
Rhys and I meet at the back of the car. He reaches past me to lift my duffel out of the trunk, not even letting me carry my own luggage—the bastard. He raises his eyebrows, almost asking permission, and I nearly lose it. If he’d cooperate and be an asshole so I could hate him appropriately, that’d be great.
Grinding my teeth together in an attempt to avoid screaming, I give him a jerky nod and let him take the bag. It requires a bit of effort, but I gently close my trunk, careful not to hurt my baby—even though I want to smash something.
I stride toward the front door behind Rhys, vigilantly trying not to stomp my feet and pout like a toddler. My anger only grows when I notice how spectacular he looks in a suit.
Holy shit balls.
Being away from him so long, I always forget the pull he has on me. Easily six foot three—maybe taller—he towers over me like a fucking monolith. I’m five-three on a good day, so he’s at least an entire foot taller than me. The crisp charcoal-gray suit caresses the wideness of his shoulders and the line of his body as it flows from his strong neck to his lean waist and tight ass.
People I hate are not supposed to be this hot in a suit.
He’s not hot. It’s just the bond, remember? It’s bullshit magic clouding your head. You hate him.
I’m pretty sure being pissed at Rhys is all that’s holding me together at this point. Flashes of the wounded humans, blood leaking through fingers, gasps of final breaths bombard my brain, and I swallow hard. Screwing my eyes shut, I try to blot out the horror on their faces of the people as they ran past me. The sight of the young woman who fell close to the back entrance and got stomped on by fifteen people before someone was brave enough to haul her up. The expression of unadulterated fear on Evan’s face when I slapped the shit out of her, snapping her out of her shock.
Before Rhys can reach the porch, Evan bursts out of the front door like a jack-in-the-box, followed at a more sedate pace by an incredibly large man who seems capable of murder. Evan’s long curly blonde hair flies behind her as she sprints toward me, her wide blue eyes set with determination, a frown pulling at her elfin face. She runs right past Rhys, plowing her shoulder into his gut with enough force, he nearly biffs it on the asphalt driveway. He’s saved at the last second by the burly dude, who could give Paul Bunyan a run for his money in the height department.
Instead of the fear I expect, she practically climbs me like a tree and attack-hugs me with enough strength to bruise my ribs and squeezes the breath from my lungs. I never knew the little blonde pixie had it in her. And I do mean pixie. If Evan says she’s over five feet, she’s lying her ass off.
“I’m so sorry, Ari. Please forgive me,” she whisper-sobs in my ear, fully latching onto me like a baby koala.
“For what, baby doll?” I murmur, gently rubbing her back, trying to calm her down. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
As horrible as I feel for slapping her, Evan can turn into your worst nightmare if she gets pissed off. The power running under her skin rivals even her father’s, and she’s a baby. Usually, only the old ones have the kind of juice that she has to keep bottled up, and she’s barely over a century old. It’s supposed to take several centuries to hone those types of powers, and she’s had to harness them in her little body for barely more than one.
“I–I did. I was scared of you, and you didn’t deserve it. You snapped me back when I could have done something stupid, or fully lost it and hurt someone. Fates, I’m such a freak.”
“Evangeline Marie Black,” I growl, full-naming her just like her mother would. “You are not a freak, you little shit, so stop talking like that. You are special in the best way possible. If I hear you talk bad about yourself again, I’ll singe all your hair off, so help me.”
My quip shakes a laugh from deep in her belly, and she climbs down to the asphalt, returning quickly for a squeeze before wiping her eyes and nose.
“Calm down, I got it. No need to murder my beautiful hair. That would be a crime against nature, or against the Geneva Convention, or something.” She gestures to her perfectly tousled blonde ringlets.
“Oh,” she says, bouncing right into the next subject, “I meant to tell you, I popped back to the gallery after letting Dad know the skinny of what was going on. I took care of the security cameras in the gallery as well as the surrounding buildings. I don’t know if there are backups to the digital footage or not, but the originals should be gone. Also, I made sure no identifying info is at the gallery, and since you go through a shell company for your royalties, I don’t think anyone can trace you through there.”
Evan has a proficiency for covering shit up. As she should. Puberty rage, plus a girl who can decimate an entire town in minutes? Girlfriend has experience. Her teen years were hell on wheels to say the least. Just don’t look too far into the history of the 1906 earthquake in San Francisco.
So not an earthquake.
That’s where I met Evan. In the middle of all that fire and ruin, half out of her mind with rage and about to burn to death. I had to knock the shit out of her then, too.
“What about you? Shouldn’t you be there now? Aren’t the cops still there?”
