Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
SHARD
Although I planned what to say when Rooney confronted me, as I knew he would, I’m briefly overtaken by the blazing desperation in his eyes, pupils so blown only the tiniest ring of hazel remains.
He’s a creature of provocative fire, one whose immense power will forever leave me at his mercy.
I can only imagine how much greater the inferno will grow once I’ve finally gotten another taste of him.
“I was inside you,” I finally say.
Rooney narrows his eyes, tongue flicking out to wet his bottom lip. “Why’d you do that? I could’ve fell.”
A smile softens the hard set of my mouth. “I wouldn’t have allowed that to happen.”
He huffs. “Still.” Rooney leans back on the lid of the toilet, running his shaking hands through his long hair. “What now?”
“You should rest. That…it seems I took a lot out of you.” Not that I’m sorry, but I hold back from admitting to that. Either Rooney would be amused or incensed, and I’m not keen on risking his stress levels.
“Gods,” he mutters. “That’s one way to put it.”
I watch him tremble as he stands, avoiding contact as he slides past me to the sink to wash his hands and face.
My consideration is intense, almost painfully so.
Rooney pulls the tail of hair at the back of his nape over his shoulder, finger-combing it, and at the sight of his exposed neck, my lips stretch into a broader smile.
“Rooney, I’ve a question.”
He frowns at me in the mirror. “Yeah?”
“How haven’t you noticed this?”
“Noticed wh—”
I tap the back of his neck, where I embedded the smooth stone of my own being.
I could have tracked him with a less noticeable soulshard, but sullying him with contact from another human’s soul was out of the question.
I was worried he’d discover the bump on his own, but I suppose I can’t blame him for being too distracted.
Rooney’s hand flies to the spot I indicated, feeling around with hard fingertips. “What the fuck did you do to me?”
Gently, I brush his hand away. “Kept you safe,” I explain, even if he might not see it the same way. “It’s a piece of me, and it allowed me to find you whenever you were in danger or distress.”
After a moment of blankness, Rooney’s face screws up into a sour grimace.
I won’t be surprised if he lashes out, even if I’d prefer he maintain his calm—not because I won’t accept responsibility if he views it as an invasion, which wouldn’t be incorrect, but because I’m not sorry, nor am I willing to lie and say I am.
Every situation I’ve pulled Rooney out of has grown in severity, and I’ll never regret my instinct to protect him.
What I’ll do if he demands I stop…is another matter entirely.
“When did you do this?” Rooney finally asks.
“Shortly after we met.”
Rooney’s eyes flick to the reflection of the bathroom door leading to the changing room.
“No, not then.”
“Then when?”
I sigh, pushing a hand through the dark, wavy hair I chose only because it’s what Rooney finds the most attractive.
Everything about this body was stolen from his thoughts, which I suppose he ought to know before we go any further.
“Weeks ago,” I say, “you were at a…queer club.” I don’t remember the name, and Rooney doesn’t provide it. “You kissed someone.”
Rooney squints. “I kiss a lot of people,” he hedges.
Humming, I close my eyes and focus, calling up the image of the petite redhead I was masquerading as when Rooney first caught my attention. I place their image in front of me, appearing as real as the blond I tricked him with my first day at Caution.
When the familiarity hits him, Rooney’s lips part. He spins to face me—and the still redhead. “You were— That was you?”
“Yes.”
“And you—”
“You said I wasn’t your type,” I admit with a shrug more awkward than anything I’ve ever felt, perhaps my entire existence. “But I needed more of you. One kiss, it…wasn’t enough.”
Rooney flaps a hand through the vision of the redhead, which I dissolve obligingly so he can confront me with nothing between us.
“So you bought the club I worked at, injected me with some spirit tracker without my consent, and…” He looks me up and down, notably unsure how to sum up what happened next.
“I stole the club from the previous owner,” I say first, for honesty’s sake.
“But that wasn’t until after I’d marked you, before you left the club.
And once I found you, I—” The next admission makes me wince, because after the days I’ve spent leaning more about Rooney’s mindset, I know upfront it won’t sound as romantic as some might think.
But I don’t deserve an audience with such a feisty young spirit if I can’t be honest. “I designed myself for you. Everything I could be, tailored to what your mind told me you’d want. ”
“That’s insane,” he deadpans.
“I don’t ascribe to human definitions of sanity.”
Rooney bites his lip before tipping his head.
“Fair enough.” He rubs his damp face, expression turning suspicious when I dispense a paper towel, but he accepts it readily enough.
Dabbing thoughtfully at his eyelashes, Rooney leaves me to squirm.
It’s not until he’s crumpled the towel and thrown it at the over-full trash can, that he once more levels me with his attention.
“And what now? Are you here for the rest of my life, then?”
“If you want me to be.”
“What if I don’t?” he presses, voice sharp. His finger jabs firmly into my chest, chin tipped up defiantly. “What if I tell you to leave me the fuck alone, that I don’t need to be saved by anyone, including some puffed up cosmic stalker who became obsessed with me after one fuckin’ kiss?”
My hands are shaking. Another unfamiliar feeling. “Then I’ll leave.”
“Leave me alone?”
“No. I’ll leave Earth. I’ll find my way out of this dimension and return to the edges of the universe to continue as my species was intended.”
Rooney frowns, his pointed finger relaxing until his palm settles over the human heart that only beats because I’ve told it to. “But that’ll kill you eventually, won’t it?”
“I suppose so, although we don’t see that as death; more an evolution. It’ll be quite a long time before my being matures that far,” I say as a form of consolation. “You need not keep that on your conscience, Rooney.”
“I don’t have a fucking conscience,” he bites out.
His hand balls into a fist, knocking against my chest once.
“I’m a nasty sonuvabitch who doesn’t give a fuck about how my choices or actions affect anyone the fuck else, least of all myself.
I don’t care about you, and I sure as goddamn hell don’t care about me. ”
Curling my much larger hand around Rooney’s fist, I take a step forward until I feel the heat of his frustration and rage in every harsh exhale.
“As difficult as it may be to believe that a selfish, inhuman being such as myself can care about anything but my own interests, please believe that there is nothing I would not sacrifice for you, Rooney. You are the only being I’ve ever been drawn to and I don’t believe there’ll be another after you. ”
Rooney’s lips part, but after seconds without sound, he presses them into a tight line.
“You should take the rest of the night off,” I suggest.
He shakes his head. “If you’ve been stalking me you know why I can’t do that.”
“I’m your boss,” I say with only a hint of a tease. “I’ll make sure what happens is what needs to happen to keep you comfortable.”
Pulling his fingers out of my grasp, Rooney adjusts his ponytail so it covers the nape of his neck once more—I can’t help but note that he hasn’t demanded I remove the opal yet.
“I need to get back to my shift. I’ll…we can talk afterward.
Yes?” The hard look he levels me with indicates this is some sort of test, the nature of which it’s not difficult to guess.
“Alright,” is all I say.
Rooney pins me in place for several moments more, before his shoulders relax and he nods. “Okay then.”
I sidestep, opening the door and gesturing for him to exit the bathroom.
The changing room is, fortunately, mostly empty.
Rooney takes two steps forward, rests his weight against the doorjamb, and then with a stubborn set of his jaw, whirls upon me and seizes my tie.
He yanks, jerking me downward, and I oblige him by following the gesture without an iota of resistance.
So immediate is my obedience that I don’t pause to consider what he might want until his red-bitten lips collide with mine.
The kiss is brief but explosive, leaving me reeling long after Rooney’s withdrawn. I want to chase him, because the reminder of how intoxicating his essence is has left me in a state of desperate shock, but I force myself back.
“See you in a couple hours,” Rooney says, then with a smirk, he fixes his posture to radiate his usual don’t-give-a-fuck confidence and stomps out of my reach.
The rest of Rooney’s shift passes in a blur.
I watch him entertain the men, allowing more of my being to linger inside him, reminding us both of our blooming connection.
Thorny and tentative, yes, but for this man I’ll bleed myself dry of anything I can offer him, so long as he stays within my atmosphere.
When the time finally—blessedly—caresses the shoulder of two a.m., something out of the ordinary happens: the woman, Nova, approaches me with a set jaw and blazing eyes.
“We have a situation,” she tells me.
At first I blink back at her, wondering what business of mine her situations are, until I realize having bought Caution means I am the one meant to put out the fires.
A brief puff of frustration rises in my chest, but I choke it back.
Refusing to keep peace in Rooney’s place of employment, which became my responsibility by my own choice, would inconvenience him.
So, I ask what needs to be handled, and follow her to the source of the commotion, pretending not to be as bewildered as I feel.
The situation is a disturbance between one of the pathetic little attendees and a gaggle of wretched wingmen, objecting to the attitude of the young professional being paid to arouse him.
Her arms are crossed tightly across her exposed chest, and although I try to sound authoritative, it becomes painfully obvious I don’t know how to talk peace into this situation.
“If you have better things to do,” Nova says tartly, “I could—”
“Yes,” I agree before she can finish her sentence.
“Are you the manager of this establishment? You are now. Handle this however you see fit.” I clasp her smaller hand between my own, dip my head in a polite nod, and make myself very, very scarce.
A flicker of my awareness stays behind to ensure I’ve made the correct call, and I’m satisfied when Nova’s surprised expression hardens as she turns back to address the rabble-rousers.
Wonderful.
By the time I’ve returned to the back room and composed myself, the club officially closes and the remainder of the patrons are shuffled out.
I stand aside, out of the way of the dancers as they file in to remove their masks of paint and shimmer, don street clothes, and drag their tired feet through the employee exit.
All the while, I wait for Rooney to appear.
He doesn’t, though. With each person who departs, I grow more and more antsy, wanting to reach out to find exactly where Rooney is and why he hasn’t come to find me.
But something stops me. If he hasn’t made an appearance, his absence must be deliberate.
I don’t sense any distress, thus I have no justifiable cause to seek him out other than what I want.
If I want to make a statement about respecting Rooney’s autonomy after all the decisions I’ve made without his input, I ought to give him… space.
After all these decades on Earth, indulging every whim, I suppose I’ve forgotten what space feels like.