Chapter Ten
Astrid
The clock ticks on the wall, loud and rattling. It’s been fifteen minutes since she ingested the Pixie Dust. She doesn’t feel any different mentally. If she’d planned on getting blitzed, that didn’t happen, but there’s no mistaking something is off when Owen sits next to her on the couch and holds out his hands.
She’s already removed her gloves. She doesn’t need them around Quinn and Owen on a regular basis. Without touching him, she holds her hand up in the space between them.
“I don’t know if you know this, but I do feel beyond touch. It’s not as intense and definitely not as accurate. In a crowd it’s just a buzz, but one-on-one I can get a sense of that person. Take a reading.”
“Are you reading me now?”
Her eyes meet his. “Normally I can’t. I can track your scent or count your heartbeats. I know when something is wrong, but it’s vague and I have to rely on all my senses to figure it out. But now? It’s easier, clearer.”
His heart rate increases with every word; it should, she’s about to violate his privacy. She’s going to pry around in his thoughts. In his past. He probably wonders if it will hurt. It shouldn’t.
“What kind of information do you get off of me?” he asks. She still hasn’t touched him.
“Right now? You’re nervous. I think the Pixie Dust changes our body chemistry to smell like cinnamon, because I’m getting a huge hit of that.”
“What do I normally smell like?”
“Roses, when you use your powers. Detergent and sweat the rest of the time.”
“I’m sweaty?” He wrinkles his nose in disgust.
She smiles. “It’s a good thing. Manly. I like it.”
Astrid doesn’t tell him that the following wave is one of interest and testosterone. He likes being flattered. Who doesn’t?
“Okay,” she says. “I think I’m ready.”
They’re sitting face-to-face on the couch, legs crossed under them. His hands are resting on his knees. Astrid slowly reaches for him, touching her fingertips to his palms.
She gasps as the echo runs through her.
FEAR. PANIC. Blood on linoleum.
Astrid jumps back and removes her shaking hands.
“Did it work? Are you okay?” he asks.
Her heart races. “Yeah, it’s just…it’s hard.”
“See anything scary?” His smile is teasing.
She’s not sure how much to tell him. The blood and the fear. It—no, he—was absolutely terrified.
“Let’s do this,” she says, steadying her voice. “Try to clear your mind. Let’s see what rises to the top.”
He nods and closes his eyes.
Sobs. Heart caught in his throat. Tight-fisted anger. A swirling rage of black.
Her body trembles at the pain Owen carries. So much pain. A sob rips through her and he looks at her with grave concern.
“Hey,” he says, reaching for her but stopping, aware of the boundaries. She wraps her arms around her body, fighting the chill.
“Where did it happen?” she finally asks.
He looks at her blankly for a moment before realization dawns. “In the kitchen.”
Shot, just like Atticus and Holden.
His pain flares hers back up again. It lingers like a sickness; a virus spreading through her veins. The difference, though, is unlike the woman at the fire…that was a moment of fear and panic. Owen carries this with him every day.
She’s struck with the urge to make him feel better. To give him more to cling to than pain and anger. He watches her closely as she lowers her hand to his and tentatively pushes back.
Astrid thinks of good things. Happy thoughts. Harry Styles curled up in her lap. The annoyed look on Quinn’s face when she eats junk food. Boxing with Owen and the grin on his face the first time he landed a punch. The relaxed, sexy way he sleeps.
Warmth spreads from her fingers to his and slowly his echo adjusts, shifting from the negative to the positive. Bright happiness flows from him and Astrid opens her eyes and smiles.
“Did you do that?” he asks, grinning. The dark cloud behind his eyes fades.
Warmth spreads from her hand to his and it turns from simple happiness to something else. A flicker of desire—heat burning between them.
Astrid’s face. Her lips and hair.
The echo brightens and again she snatches her hand away, surprised this time.
His eyes twinkle.
“You changed my feelings,” he says. His voice is full of awe.
“I did, didn’t I?” She looks at her hands. “It’s still really overwhelming though, good or bad.”
“We’ll keep practicing. If you can push back like that, then I think you can do more. Maybe separate out the bad stuff. Control the intensity. Search for what you need and get rid of everything else.”
Although it could be the lingering echo, Astrid feels hopeful that maybe he’s right. There’s more to this than she knew. She reaches for her gloves but takes one last chance and brushes her fingers over his. Pleasure rolls through her body. Warm desire. She pulls away and pretends that it didn’t almost knock her off her feet.
Owen wants her.
Or maybe she wants him, and it transferred back. Whatever it is, her body is tied in knots.
He frowns. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Just, you know…practicing.”
He reaches for his bag at the same time the window shatters and a zing tears through the room. Astrid spins, looking out the front window. Owen stares at the shredded pillow behind him.
“Get down!” she shouts, reaching out with her senses. An engine idles out by the street. Two heartbeats pound in the yard. Owen stands and waves his hand, distorting the air between them and the window. It doesn’t stop the gunfire. “There’s two of them.” She cocks her head. “At least. Maybe one more outback.”
Owen grabs his bag and her hand, yanking her out the back door. A man stands in the back and they stop, but whatever shield he’s holding up protects them. Owen jerks his hand and the sound of dogs barking begins. The man jumps and holds out his gun in the direction of the growls. Astrid sees his face and stops cold.
No.
She’s yanked out of the yard—out of her paralysis. Owen pulls her into a small garage attached to the back of the building. The space reeks of oil and gasoline and she watches as he throws a tarp off a motorcycle and slings his leg over the seat. “Get on,” he says, tugging her and jump-starting the engine. The sound rips through the garage and Owen drives the bike right out the side door. Astrid wraps her arms around his waist, holding on as they fly through the back yard and down the back, muddy alley, away from the men and their guns.
“What the hell was that?” he yells into the wind.
“No fucking clue,” she replies, clinging to his waist as he breezes through a stop sign. Her heartbeat races in her chest, matching the thud coming from Owen’s. He’s scared and now she’s worried. She recognized that man in the yard. She knows how dangerous he is. She trained him.
Rowe.