Chapter 4 #3
She hadn’t even thanked him for what he did that night in Boston.
That terrible night when Phillip could have raped her or worse.
She winced, her fingers moving of their own volition to touch the eternity symbol hanging from her neck.
It was hot against her skin, as though it retained some of his heat from all those years spent with him.
Her thoughts were jarred by the sound of the mug he placed on the table before her.
He didn’t linger near her. He selected a book from the bookcase flanking the right side of the fireplace then settled in a chair several feet away to her right, turning on a reading light behind the chair and taking a sip of his tea before setting it on a table beside him. He opened his book.
“Jack?”
“Hmm?”
She swallowed, suddenly nervous, rubbing the charm between her fingers like a talisman.
“That night in Boston…”
He looked up. His eyes clouded over for a split second, narrowing at her before he picked up his mug and took a deliberate sip, eyeing her from over the rim.
More buzzing. More white noise.
She didn’t care.
She stared at him, pouring her thanks into her eyes, feeling the connection with him even as he wouldn’t let her in.
You saved my body. You saved my life. You kept me safe even though you were shifted. You took care of everything…everything…and I never said…I mean, I just want to say…
“Thank you,” she whispered.
She saw the Adam’s apple in his neck bob slowly as he swallowed hard.
His eyes flicked from her face to her breasts, then to her lips, and back to her eyes.
Slowly. Like he was undressing her, touching her with his eyes.
Did she imagine she could feel the searing heat of his body from across the room, or was it true that she actually felt it?
And was he remembering that night or thinking about right now? She desperately hoped for the latter.
Before her eyes, the copper cooled to brown, stopped dancing, withdrawing from her, and she felt and saw his mask slip back in place. He gave her a friendly nod before placing his cup back on the table, then raised his book and continued reading.
The words on the page swam before Jack.
Cold shower.
Cold shower.
Another cold shower.
It certainly wasn’t the reaction she’d hoped for, but as he buried his nose in his book, it was clear that it was all she was going to get.
She picked up her notes and re-read them, trying to concentrate.
Referred to by many names, including Wolf’s Foot Clubmoss, it has a pale-yellow pollen from which Lycopodium, a substance used to treat various health conditions, is derived.
He doesn’t want to sit with me. He refuses to eyespeak with me. He hasn’t pulled me inside since Friday night. Is this dreadful politeness just a result of anger and hurt, or have his feelings for me changed?
In medicine, Lycopodium clavatum uses range from treating upset stomachs, food poisoning, kidney problems, and muscle cramps…
How could they change already? Could he want someone else?
The image of a young Roug woman sprang to mind.
Tall and muscular with fully developed breasts and a small waist. Black hair like Jack, with wild eyes that would glow hot as he made love to her, and skin that wouldn’t burn red when he touched her, and—
Stop! Stop thinking about it.
…to serious conditions such as hepatitis and pneumonia. It can also be used to treat irritability and other emotional problems that manifest physically, like alcoholism and eating disorders.
What if he wants her? What if the kiss with her did mean something, and I’m only here with him because he feels an obligation to me?
His father cheated on his mother, and his mistress bore a child.
Jack could do the same. He couldn’t find orgasmic pleasure with someone else, but he could find companionship and affection.
He could leave me and return to Quebec and find someone like him, who would understand and embrace his strange ways.
Make a life with her and never return to me…
Her heart clutched with the thought, and her chest physically hurt when she imagined Jack loving another woman, watching her, touching her, his tongue in her mouth, his lips moving over her skin, his strong body thrusting into her, giving her pleasure.
She whimpered lightly and felt a sudden tightening in her throat, followed by a rush of bile in her mouth.
Trembling, she reached for her tea, taking a sip, trying to calm down.
She had thought she felt repulsion when she learned about Jack’s nature last Thursday, looking at drawings of Roux-ga-roux, and even hearing him say his sister wanted to be bound to him, but even all combined, it was nothing against the revulsion she felt at contemplating Jack being intimate with someone else.
The idea of Jack with anyone else felt like death.
No. Death would be a relief from the pain of his being with someone else. He belonged to her.
She glanced up at him from over her notes.
His legs were long in front of him, crossed at the ankles.
She considered them for a minute, the bold lines of the bones in his ankle running down to his toes, a sprinkle of hair on the top of each foot and on each toe.
The arch was high, and the toes were long…
She blew out an exasperated sigh, looking away.
Jack leaving her was the very last thing she wanted.
She wanted him. All she had ever wanted was him.
She had to figure out if he still wanted her.
If he did, she would apologize for her behavior.
She would reassure him that she had spoken harsh words out of confusion and anger.
She would make it clear that her heart still belonged to him and always would.
He felt her looking at him. Just as he had in high school. He could hear her too, the soft whimper, the way her breathing was more deliberate when she was looking at him. He could smell, a moment ago, when her body swelled with slickness, right before she looked away, huffing.
It was taking all the control he had learned throughout his lifetime not to throw his book on the floor and jump on her.
It was a sort of an unreal, acute torture to know that she wanted him physically but still withheld herself emotionally.
Pushing her now wouldn’t ensure anything.
He needed to wait it out a little longer.
He needed her not just to want him, but to trust him, to choose him.
He needed her to be responsible for welcoming him into her life, into her body.
There was no room for coercion or pressure.
The ball was firmly in her court and must remain there until she made a decisive, direct move on him.
Not because of the binding, but he sensed that her head was close to surrendering, along with her heart and her body.
And only then would he trust that she really, really belonged to him.
He risked a quick peek at her from over his book.
Damn.
Her strawberry-blonde hair draped like silk over her shoulders as her head bent forward over her notes.
The ends just brushed along the way-too-plunging edge of her shirt, a deep, shadowed valley between her breasts, teasing him as he salivated.
He swallowed painfully, staring at her breasts, remembering the softness of them, their taste in his mouth as he suckled on them, the way the nipples beaded at the touch of his tongue, how she had arched her back, pushing up against him, welcoming him into—
He cleared his throat, tearing his eyes away, his mood darkening with desire for her, with the torture of having her near and not having her. He lifted his book and sighed.
“Jack?” she asked.
“Hmm?” He tried to sound disinterested, even as every nerve ending responded to his name on her lips.
“Why’d you come back yesterday? Just to, um…just to protect me?”
He glanced up at her, scratching his chin in what he hoped looked like an absent-minded gesture.
“I feel responsible for your safety,” he said quietly, evenly, his voice well controlled, despite the emotional turmoil he felt inside. “It’s my duty.”
She seemed disappointed in his answer. He saw the muscle in her jaw twitch as she clenched it. As much as he wanted to stare at her, he forced his gaze back down.
“Is your—I mean, um…is Lela beautiful?”
“Yeah.” He didn’t look up. “She’s pretty.”
“How pretty?”
“Very.”
“Prettier than me?”
He kept his eyes down. No one’s prettier than you. Not to me.
He shrugged.
“I bet she’s dark-haired and dark-eyed…”
He kept his eyes on his book and tried to keep his voice neutral. “Darker than you, lighter than me.”
“Do you, do you wish the binding—I mean, when you kissed her, do you wish it had worked?”
She was killing him with these questions.
He sensed she wanted reassurance, and he longed to offer it to her, but he didn’t trust her motivations.
Did she want reassurance because she was jealous of another woman?
Or because she loved him and wanted to be assured of his love for her?
Jealousy wasn’t enough. He wanted her love.
He shrugged again, looking at his book.
“Jack!”
He looked up, trying to appear casually interested in her questions.
“Hmm? What?”
“Do you wish you were bound to Lela?”
If Darcy were a Roug, her eyes would be on fire, greenish and silvery, maybe because she’d retain her birth color when she wasn’t shifted and turned Rougs burned silver, not gold. He’d met several turned Rougs in his lifetime, and they always gave themselves away with their silvery eyes.
“It doesn’t matter what I want,” he finally answered. “I have a duty to you.”
Her eyes widened in anger, and her mouth dropped open. She winced, snapping her book closed around her notes and hugging the messy pile to her chest.
“Duty! Well, I’m so sorry you’re trapped by your duty to me,” she hissed at him, making duty sound like a truly dirty word. “I’m sure you’re very sorry that you ever kissed me.”
She stood up, putting one small, pink hand on her hip as she faced him.
He wished he could kiss every freckle on it.
Thousands of kisses that would take all afternoon, leaving her panting, leaving him breathless.
He ordered his tongue to stay in his mouth and not lick his lips. But, damn, he wanted her bad.
“I am sorry.”
And he was. He was sorry that he had “destroyed her life” as she put it yesterday.
“Oh!” she gasped. Her mouth dropped open again as if he had slapped her, and her eyes suddenly glistened with tears.
He forced himself to stare at her impassively, maintaining the growling, humming noise in his head.
“Well, it might just shock you to know that I’m…I’m not, Jack. I’m not sorry you kissed me,” she continued in a huff, tears burgeoning in her eyes. “Do you hear me? It was…it was the most—Oh, you know what, Jack Beauloup? Just, just screw you!”
Then she turned and hurried out of the room.
A moment later, he heard her bedroom door slam. Hard.
He felt like a dog for hurting her, and it took every bit of strength inside of him not to run after her, comfort her, pull her into his arms and tell her how much he loved her, how he never, ever would or could want any woman but her.
But he also had to admit that hearing her say that she didn’t regret the binding made her pain worth it.
She regretted letting him drown, and she didn’t regret the binding.
Clearly Julien had no idea what he was talking about, because if the end goal was having Darcy in his life, one thing was certain: giving her space was definitely working.