The Problem with Promises Page 2

  His gaze did a lightning sweep of the room, taking in all the doors—the bedroom, the closet, the bathroom—then the window, and finally, me and Merry.

  “Go back to sleep,” I told him. “The witches aren’t here yet.”

  But that was as pointless as expecting a Jack in the Box to fold up and close his own lid. He was awake. Tired blue eyes studied me.

  I tugged my arm free with a wince. I had a bite wound that I’d received in Threall and it was throbbing again. “I’m going downstairs.”

  “Stay,” he said.

  “That’s got to be your favorite word.”

  “Don’t go.”

  “Second favorite word,” I said, walking to the window.

  “That’s two words.” He swung his feet over the side of the bed and scrubbed his hands over the stiff bristles of his hair. “I’m awake.”

  But you shouldn’t be—not with those purple smudges under your eyes.

  “Come back to bed,” he said, his tone all butter and temptation.

  I eyed his body in all its near-perfection. The few scars he’d kept looked good on him. “If I get in that bed, you’re going to make love to me.”

  Even in the half dark of the room, I could see his decidedly naughty grin. “And that would be a bad thing?”

  Normally, all I had to do was inhale the clean scent of him, and I was a goner. And if he’d been awake when I’d sashayed out of the ladies’, we’d have enjoyed each other. But I’d had time to brood. Guilt asked, in a withering voice, “Hedi, do you have any right to enjoy being held and loved, after you sent your twin to hell?”

  My face must have reflected my answer to that puzzler.

  “Oh,” he said.

  “Oh,” I echoed, a tad sadly.

  Trowbridge’s wistful gaze dipped toward the girls and I turned back to the window before all parts of him woke up. “Do you know what time it is?”

  The mattress protested as Trowbridge got up. He came up behind me to wrap an arm—muscled, hard, warm—around my ribs. He eased me against his hard body as his hand slipped upward to cup my boob. He lifted it, so that it plumped in his palm, as he considered the night sky. “Around eleven.”

  “Does the sky look the same there?” I asked him.

  “In Merenwyn?” His chest rose and fell. “No, the stars are different. There’s no Big Dipper or North Star.”

  “What does it have instead?”

  “The moon is lower and bigger.” He studied the sky silently, perhaps lost in his memories. “There’s a cluster of smaller stars called Caitlin’s Daughters. People make wishes on them.”

  “Do their dreams come true?”

  “Not that I can see.” His palm slid along my skin until it encountered the chain I wore low around my hips. That sent the soft leather pouch hanging from the end of the bride belt, swinging. Inside the little bag were seven stones, clear as diamonds but far more valuable. “Why can’t you sleep?”

  I gave him a mute shrug.

  “The first obstacle has been passed, Tink,” he said softly. “The Old Mage must have succeeded in merging his soul with your brother’s.” His thumb absently brushed my nipple. It hardened.

  Hedi, the mouse-hearted.

  Hedi, the betrayer.

  “What makes you so sure of that?” I asked.

  “We’re not dead,” he said with his usual bluntness.

  “Good point.”

  Trowbridge rubbed his chin against my shoulder. “You’re worrying about him.”

  I nodded.

  “Did you get any sleep?”

  I shook my head. “I can’t stop thinking.”

  His exhale spoke volumes. “We’re going to have to work on that.” Then he leaned back a bit, so that he could gather my hair and draw it over my right shoulder. He set to gently untangling the knots in my rat’s nest. Immediately, my nipples beaded—the backs of his knuckles were warm on the slope of my breast.

  I let out a sigh, part pleasure, part sadness.

  “Tell me what’s bothering you most,” he said, working on a difficult snare.

  I swallowed. “I spent ten minutes as the Old Mage’s nalera … and it almost drove me insane. You’re naked. Every secret, every weakness, everything you like to hide from others, it’s there. Accessible for your mage’s interest and use.” I waited for him to say, “Don’t feel bad,” or maybe, “Clearly, love of my life, you had no choice.”

  Instead Gorgeous finished with the knot, then said gruffly, “Go on.”

  The stars blurred.

  “Lexi’s the Old Mage’s bitch now,” I said in an anguished rush. “Every single thought he has is being examined—”

  “Hedi,” Trowbridge cut in. “You have to remember that your brother lived a long time in the Fae’s Royal court. He’s had lots of practice shielding his thoughts.”

  I slumped against him, thinking how we’d waited until Lexi was so weak that he couldn’t stand, couldn’t talk, couldn’t walk.

  “Sweetheart,” he said, moving his leg so that I could be cradled closer. “One day you will be required to become a leader, and there are going to be things you’ll need to do that will leave you awake at night. It will harden you. And eventually you’ll wonder if you have any humanity left inside you. But you’ll have to push past that. You’ll have to force yourself to grab sleep when you can. To eat when you must. To keep going, no matter what.”

  “What are you talking about, Trowbridge?” I turned, lifting a shoulder. “I have as much interest in leading people as I do in sitting for a group sing. I’m not a leader. I’ll never be one.”

  He said something under his breath that sounded a whole lot like “Not yet, anyhow.”

  I pushed away and leaned against the window frame. The glass was cold. I covered Merry with my palm and she sent me a throb of heat.

  “Sweetheart, look at me.”

  I considered that, and didn’t resist when he turned me gently to face him. Gravely, he cupped my face. For the longest moment, he studied me, with an intensity that made me feel like he was memorizing my features.

  “What is it?”

  “If I could keep you like this,” he said fiercely, “untouched and safe from everything harmful, I swear to God I would. You are perfect, just like this.” Mouth set in a flat line, he stroked my jaw. “But I can’t keep you out of trouble, no matter how much I want to, Hedi Peacock.”

  He was freaking me out.

  I gave him a weak smile. “If we live through all this, I’m going to turn into the most boring person in the world. I’m going to take up knitting. And baking.” Then I tipped my head toward the window. “Also, I’m going to fix your front yard. It needs flowers, Trowbridge.” One corner of his mouth lifted, so I added, “After that? Maybe Tai Chi.”

  “Good luck with that.” My lover tucked a strand of my hair behind my pointed ear. “Tink. You’re attracted to danger.”

  “I am not. Whenever I see it, I run like hell.”

  “No you don’t. You run right into trouble.”

  “Do not.”

  Real amusement softened his tone. “Let’s see what you’ve done in the last twelve hours. You bargained with a mage and stared Cordelia down. Of the two I don’t know which is the bigger deal.” His gaze went to my mouth, clung there. “Sweetheart, you defy me every chance you get. You wrote ‘Stud-muffin’ on my chest.”

  “I thought you were asleep.”

  “I was concentrating with my eyes closed.” A ghost of a grin flitted across his face. “You came close to losing me with the double f’s.” He gazed at me, face somber. “We’re heading for a shit-storm, Tink.”

  “I know,” I whispered.

  Blue eyes turned predator cold. “Remember this. Whatever happens—whatever it takes—we can’t allow the Black Mage to walk through worlds. That bastard has no place in ours.”

  Unsettled, I dragged my gaze from him. Searched for something calming, and found it in the blue flower sprigs peppered across the wallpaper. Very small, ver
y sweet. Oh Goddess, let me be wrong. “You’re going to Merenwyn to kill him, aren’t you?”

  “There will be no peace for the Raha’ells until I do.”

  I closed my eyes briefly. Them again. “The Black Mage has magic. And guards. While you’ll be armed with nothing more than hatred and the notion that his death will right a wrong that’s based on prejudice and fear. I know you miss your Merenwyn pack and feel responsible for them. But risking your life—”

  “That’s what an Alpha does for his pack.”

  I’ll never think that way. “Would killing the Black Mage change the Fae court’s opinion that wolves are a lower order? Would it stop the trapping, or the—”

  “It will buy them some time.” His fingers soothed my tense jaw.

  “Until what?”

  “Until I find the safe passage.”

  I’d sent a rogue across the gates six months ago. In some ways, he’d been easier to deal with than the “Son of Lukynae.” Never in a million years would rogue wolf Robson Trowbridge have lifted a clenched fist in the air and cried, “Freedom for all!”

  “Trowbridge.” I paused to pick my words carefully. “If there really was a portal keyed to recognize and accept Were blood, wouldn’t someone have used it by now?”

  “Are you saying there is no Safe Passage for the wolves of Merenwyn?”

  “I’m saying that…” The Raha’ells are no longer yours to lead. “My wish list is a lot shorter than yours. I’m not trying to save the world. I just want the seven of us safe,” I said. “That’s all I want, Trowbridge. You and me, Lexi and Anu, Cordelia and Harry … even Biggs. Everything I do is for that, and because of that.” I bit my lip. “You’re confident you can take on everything that comes your way. While I … What if I haven’t got what it takes?”

  Knuckles brushed my cheek. Callused. Heated with blood. Smelled like forests and the wild. “Stop worrying,” he said softly. “We can do this. And you have everything you need inside you to finish this.”

  “How can you be so sure?” I whispered.

  “I just am.”

  I forced my lids open and lifted my chin to gaze at Gorgeous. I love you—that’s what I tried to telegraph.

  He frowned. “You look really tired.”

  “Go ahead, Trowbridge,” I said sourly. “Keep drowning me in compliments.”

  His thumb lightly grazed the circle under my eye. Then naked as a jaybird he gave me a smoldering look. “I’ve got an idea.”

  Trowbridge steered me into the bathroom, his hand warm on the small of my back. “I could spend the next year in a shower. Hot water. Lots of towels. Soap … damn, I missed good soap.”

  The League of Extraordinary Bitches had gone over the en suite with their sponges and Pine-Sol. The tub gleamed, the sink had been swiped down.

  “I’m not sure if I want one right now.” An absolute truth. Though a lot of our conversations seemed to take place in one bathroom or another, we’d only really ducked under the spray once together. And that had been in a motel that had smelled of strangers, puke, and booze. Not one of my warm and fuzzy memories. Robbie Trowbridge had turned the water to cold, then held me under it.

  “It will relax you,” he murmured, pulling aside the curtains.

  Sure it will. I leaned against the bathroom vanity.

  His body was marble. All tendons and definition. Thanks to his zero body fat, even his veins were on display—blue ribbons beneath golden skin. One led a trail down his massive bicep, curved into his elbow, then forked—three times—on his forearm.

  Sexy beast.

  My One True Thing turned on the taps, then stood, holding his hand under the spray. On one level, he was just a man waiting for his shower to warm. Palm turned upward to accept the dancing spray. Weight balanced on one foot, hip cocked. But this was My One True Thing. I didn’t even know how to describe the way his hip and groin met. He looked like a Ken doll, except for the fact he is an awesomely functioning male, and Ken has the anatomy of … well … a Ken doll.

  Poor Barbie. She could have done so much better.

  Trowbridge plucked the desiccated soap from the soap dish. His bicep flexed—pumped—as he lifted the cake of Irish Spring for a sniff test. Goddess. With Trowbridge, watching my man wait for the shower to heat was a mouth-drying, pussy-tightening event.

  “This stinks of Mannus,” he said in disgust, before pitching the bar into the empty wastepaper container with enough force to overturn it.

  I did not bend to right the wicker basket.

  But I did spot an item that had escaped the league’s attention. Head tilted, I stepped back to get a better look. Half hidden under the skirt of the vanity was one of Trowbridge’s dreadlocks. I leaned to pick it up. Fuzzy. Surprisingly soft. Smelling of him and Merenwyn. Should I get one of the crafty bitches to make a bracelet out of it?

  “What’s that?” he inquired.

  “Nothing.” I slid it off my wrist and tucked it in the drawer.

  When I lifted my eyes, I caught him watching me in the mirror. Oh, goody. He’d offered me a full frontal. Ever the happy homing pigeon, my gaze traveled to the thin line of hair beneath his amazing navel, following the trail all the way to the promised land. I can’t help it. If he’s naked, I’m going to do a status check. Why? Because there’s really such a thing as male beauty and it can be found in a pair of heavy balls and a cock that was growing thicker under my approval.

  “Sweetheart,” said the guy in the mirror. “When you look at me like that I want to—”

  “Eat me up?”

  The man doesn’t blink when he wants sex.

  “That’s my T-shirt,” he said.

  “You want it back?”

  “Uh-huh. Take it off.”

  “You’re a bossy man, Robson Trowbridge.”

  His eyes gleamed wickedly. “Sweetheart, lose the shirt.”

  * * *

  Boring but true: when you’re tired and alone, disrobing is all about minimal effort. With far less grace than efficiency, you tip your head to one side, grab the neckline of your T-shirt and haul upward. It’s not a particularly exciting thing. Your va-jay-jay doesn’t flood with heat. Your nipples may or may not bead. (In my case, that depends on room temperature, my general level of exhaustion, and whatever I’ve been reading). You’re stripping for yourself. Who cares?

  But when you’ve got a man watching you with heavy-lidded interest, the shedding of clothing requires some contemplation.

  Like how it might be best to arch your back first. And suck in your gut until your belly button kisses your spine. And perhaps you’ll opt for crossing your arms when you reach for the hem of your T-shirt—knowing that when you finally peel the jersey up over your head, your arms will be twined above you.

  I’m a dove. Yours to love.

  That might be when you’ll pause to allow him a moment of art appreciation. And his breath might hitch as his gaze travels from your crossed wrists, down to the column of your throat, and from there to slip lower to the curve of your breasts.

  You may hold the pose, because the night before last, you’d discovered something of breathtaking importance—your lover had an unexpected appreciation for all things visual.

  Bottom line, don’t talk, just give the man a diagram.

  I held myself poised like a well-padded water nymph, all arched back and lifted chest. For him. And for me. Because when Trowbridge looks at me like that, I’m not fat, I’m not short, I’m not average.

  I’m Hedi, Pocket Venus and Destroyer of Men.

  I held the position until my lungs screamed for air, then slowly lowered my arms. The shirt wafted to the tiles. My hands tensed, then relaxed.

  I gave him my best come-hither.

  Ravish me, Big Boy.

  I could have said it out loud. Just like I could have turned to face him instead of watching him in the mirror. But silence, I realized with growing wonder, was so much sexier. And seeing him prowl toward me? All predatory intent? That was beyond erotic. Particular
ly as he was doing the same thing as I was—watching the two of us in the mirror. Except my gaze kept sweeping from him to me, while his was fixed on the short girl in the mirror. A hungry wolf, he was, eyeing his game.

  “You’re creamy,” he said.

  Startled, I raised both brows.

  “All over,” he said, his voice rough. “I used to think it was because you had some Fae in you. But I’ve seen them and none of them can match your skin. You’re so…” He shook his head, his voice trailing away.

  “Creamy.”

  “Just perfect. Pink and clean. So … soft. Female. Clean,” he repeated, “and—”

  “Creamy,” I said, a smile flirting.

  He walked toward me, still shaking his head. As I pivoted to meet him, he murmured, “No. Stay like that. I want to look.”

  Well, if you twist my arm.

  Pheromones did a dance of joy when he eased himself behind me. I’m not sure whose they were. His. Mine. In the end, it didn’t matter. All that was important was the fact that the air stirred moodily around us—sex, salt, woods, and wild—as he invaded my personal space.

  “You’re perfect,” he repeated.

  “I am.” Disbelief, covered with a layer of jest.

  “Yes, you are.” Certainty, unvarnished by civility. “You’re made just for me,” he elaborated.

  You feel that too?

  Eyes glittering, he reached for my hips. Slowly, he drew me backward, bending his head, to observe how my body fit against his. He was fully aroused, his penis an insistent and hot presence pressed hard against my buttocks.

  My inner core slicked.

  “Look at us,” he said.

  Easy enough to look at you, My One True Thing. You are beauty personified. Once pretty, now honed into something raw and beautiful. While me … my attention shifted to the short girl being held by a broodingly handsome man. I considered her, trying to evaluate her as a stranger would. She wasn’t as plain as I thought. In fact, she was …

  Well, hell. Standing comfortably inside the circle of her man’s embrace, she was pretty damn close to being hot. That is, if you liked flaring hips and a nipped-in waist. I think I do. And her face? While definitely not classically beautiful—and, if one wanted to be tedious about details, not even pretty—it was … arresting. Yes. That was it. Arresting. Both baby-faced and inexplicably bold. What was it? Because of her full upper lip? It was literally puffed with desire. Her brown hair? Nothing extraordinary there, except if one’s gaze lingered on how its tangled lengths parted to reveal softly rounded shoulders.