Three

A soft rumbling near his ear dragged Zaire to awareness. He turned away from the fur in his face. The blanket shifted, and something wet touched his nose.

He blinked several times, his eyes burning like hellfire. A fluffy gray feline perched on his bare chest and stared him down. Delicious warmth drifted from a stone hearth a few feet from the bed he lay on, carrying the scent of smoke and pine. White flakes swirled beyond a wall of windows. The blizzard had slowed with the dawn.

He lay there, too weary to move. At least he’d made it to shelter. The memory was a fevered vision: dragging himself through the blinding snow, the bone-deep chill, the dizziness and taste of despair as each inch forward drained his failing strength. He didn’t remember stripping or building a fire. Or capturing a cat.

The fur ball curled up on his neck, its rumbling purr comforting. He hadn’t seen a cat since Jenny and Braden.

The peaceful second iced over, an echo of the brief life he’d had with his sister and nephew. Jenny was dead, and the only reason he’d trekked to this backwoods frozen hell was to hunt down a recruit for the Red Crows, the enemy who kept Braden captive and alive so long as Zaire cooperated. He closed his eyes. At least he wasn’t expected back for a few more days. Braden would remain unharmed while he recovered.

He shifted, and the hated rattling of chains gave him pause. Rolling partially to his side and dislodging the cat, he snarled. Silver shackles fettered his wrists to a thick, iron headboard. Heat burned through his veins like ignited oil. Whoever did this to him would die.

Sliding the handcuffs up until they hit a crossbar barrier, he eased to a half-sit, and his skull throbbed with the small movement. The room tilted, whirled, and settled into place as the dizziness subsided. The soft blanket covering him slipped down, revealing his nakedness. He’d been stripped, and his leg wound neatly dressed. So his captor didn’t want him dead. A fatal mistake. Another opportunity to kill him wouldn’t come along.

The demons in his head remained silent, his injected leg numb. He willed the Change anyway, a test of the enduring impairment. Once again, nothing happened. He ignored the lurch of his stomach. Disabled or not, he’d escaped far worse than handcuffs.

Zaire squinted at his surroundings, committing details to memory, searching for any advantage. The stone hearth beyond the foot of the bed towered up to white oak beams of a vaulted ceiling; unfortunately, no fire poker in sight. Matching bookcases flanked the door on each side in a showcase of pride and learning, and a black leather loveseat filled one corner, close to the windows looking out over a ruler’s domain. The curtain of snow outside brightened the room to dazzling. A dresser stood beside the bed within reach if he stretched his toes, but empty of trinkets or any potential weapon.

Light steps approached—small feet, insignificant weight.

Ever the alert predator, he weighed the information and settled back. He could handle a child or woman, no hardware required.

The owner of the footsteps paused in the doorway. Delicate, heart-shaped face, permanently etched into his memory. Shoulder-length curls, black silk. So small he could snap her with one hand.

Her. Zaire’s world tipped again. His heart clacked like a freight train at full speed. The one woman who, once upon a nightmare ago, could have saved him. The one woman who could utterly destroy the remaining pieces.

His dreamcaster.

All the blood drained from his head. Since childhood, the demons in his mind had taunted him with visions of her, whispered that he’d never find her. He’d searched for her so long, waited, watched, hoped. Each passing day without her had chipped away at his conviction, eroding it year after year until he’d finally surrendered to the doubt, surrendered to the shadows, to the V’alkara chains, to a world empty. He’d buried even the notion of her deep, a boy’s foolish hope. But he never surrendered the part of him that belonged to her.

And now, like a dream forgotten, she was here. Far, far too late.

Bitterness fractured his shock, and vicious emotions screamed in his blood, a burning need to weep, destroy, and roar until the heavens trembled. He felt gutted. Meeting her now was the final blow in the tragedy that was his existence, for he already walked the knife’s edge, too corrupted to take her claim or be of any aid to her. Meeting her now was the cruelest twist of fate.

And wallowing in what-ifs and injustice changed nothing. Taking a long breath through his nose, he punched all useless emotions and failed dreams back into the void where they belonged and focused on the situation at hand, on his dreamcaster, who held a gun in a sure, steady grip, aimed at his head. If not for Braden, he’d welcome death at her hands.

But because of Braden, he had to survive and escape.

“Who are you and what were you doing on Carmichael property?” Her velvet voice enslaved him as securely as the metal around his wrists.

Zaire tried to straighten further.

“Don’t move.”

He arched an eyebrow and twisted his wrist meaningfully, rattling the metal. “I don’t believe I have much choice in the matter.”

“Who are you?” She watched him steadily, more wary than fearful. If she knew who or what he was, she didn’t reveal it. While her grip was white on the weapon, her aim remained unflinching. Either she had some training, or she was naturally calm and collected. Perhaps both. If he possessed a soul, he’d gladly trade it for the luxury of discovering that truth.

“Zaire. Your name?” He drank in her every detail, unable to stop himself. He should question her as little as possible, yet he couldn’t resist learning at least her name, some small token to savor in his final days once they parted.

She hesitated a heartbeat. “Becca.”

A lie. Both disappointment and approval curled through him. She was wise not to trust others, even if he hated that she grouped him with the general population. “My gratitude for providing me lodging and caring for my leg. The weather caught me unprepared.”

“You’ve been unconscious for over a day. You weren’t wearing a hat. No gloves or thermals.” Her head tilted a fraction. “Unprepared doesn’t quite cover it.”

He blinked. It had been a very long time since someone dared even hint that he might be a buffoon. “I anticipated a brief excursion without complications.” He refused to call her Becca. She would divulge her true name before he returned to his world. “A grave error on my part.”

Her on-edge posture didn’t change.

“Release me.” He tempered his tone as best he could, unused to relying on civility to get what he wanted. Violence and menace generally served sufficiently. “Is it your custom to handcuff those who come to your residence seeking shelter?”

“Is it your custom to threaten and choke those who try to help you?” She lifted her eyebrows.

He held her gaze. “I haven’t received enough aid from others to accurately answer that.”

Her expression softened, and the gun lowered a few degrees, pointing at his chest instead of his head. Appropriate, since his heart was more vulnerable, the part of him that wanted to dismiss rationality and risk everything to keep her close for the smallest moment.

“What business brought you to this area?” Her tone assumed a layer of steel beneath the stone. Smart and strong-willed, too. She was exquisite, everything he always knew she would be.

“Hunting.”

“Without a rifle?” Her eyes narrowed.

“I have no need of firearms.”

“What if you ran into a bear? A pack of wolves? A mountain lion?”

His mouth twitched. “Then the role of prey would require clarification.”

Her chin dropped slightly. She sensed the truth in his words, a small progress. He was also fairly certain she believed he was mentally incapacitated.

“You currently have me at a disadvantage.” He rattled the handcuffs again. “Must you keep my clothing, as well?”

A lovely pink tinged her cheeks, and heat forked through him. It took every ounce of concentration to disregard it, yet he couldn’t stop the speculation. Had she felt anything when she removed his clothing, touched his bare skin, left him chained, naked and vulnerable?

“I sliced your jeans to clean up the laceration on your leg. They’re not exactly salvageable. Sorry.” She lowered her weapon another inch, and her assessing gaze flicked over him, making his skin tingle. “Isaac’s about your build. You can borrow some of his clothes.”

Isaac. The blanket shifted as he tensed. Her lover? Husband? Since losing any hope of finding her, he hadn’t considered she might be entangled with another man. A breath hissed between his teeth. It would be best if she were emotionally attached to another, easier for him to remain disconnected.

Easier, but still a challenge, and the attempt to be rational only made the glass in his gut sharper. “My weapons?”

The look she gave him confirmed that she believed he was an imbecile. “Your mini claymores shall remain confiscated until further notice.”

As she retreated a step and disappeared into the hallway, he dragged his numb leg closer. Drugged, weak, and impaired was not how he’d envisioned meeting his dreamcaster, but if he’d been free and healthy? He popped his jaw. Simply seeing her made him long to sidestep the undeniable fact that he was on the final slide to self-combustion. Claiming her would destroy her, too. The best action he could take—for them both—was to depart quickly. Put continents between them. Ensure she forgot him.

But he’d never forget. Not in this world or the next.

She reappeared in the doorway, clothing in one arm, and despite his purely sensible reasoning seconds ago, his lungs seized. Seeing her was like coming face-to-face with a fantasy creature, the rational mind unable to accept what the eyes said to be true. Her head cocked, she studied him. “If I let you go will you promise to be good?”

“Good?” He held her gaze, the steel a cold bite on his wrists, a reminder of another barrier separating them. As long as she released him, he’d agree to whatever she asked. He needed to be free—free of his restraints, free of this house, free of her…as quickly as possible. Even now, her proximity brushed over his senses, calling him, urging him to surrender.

“In this particular scenario, my definition of good includes no choking, grabbing, pummeling, or otherwise hurting any persons in this cabin, most especially me.”

A V’alkara would never harm his dreamcaster, information she didn’t need to know. While he didn’t recall choking her as she claimed, his fever had undoubtedly fogged his mind, the only possible reason he’d do so. Some deep instinct must have recognized her, preventing him from injuring her. “I vow,” he said as softly as he knew how, which wasn’t enough to make the words sound unthreatening, “not to touch you.”

An expression flitted over her face, vanishing as fast as it had appeared, strikingly similar to Braden’s when denied ice cream for breakfast.

She slipped the weapon into her belt, leaving her long, elegant fingers free. With sure, silent steps, she crossed to the bed and laid the clothes close to his feet. “As part of your release agreement, I want answers.”

Her questions undoubtedly had little to do with his identity other than why he was on her property, and how he received his injuries. She didn’t care who he was, who he might be to her. “Sometimes, it’s safer to remain ignorant.”

“Sometimes, handcuff keys stay lost.” She shrugged.

The impulse to smile staggered him with its strength. Once upon a dream, he would thoroughly enjoy any situation involving his dreamcaster, a bed, and handcuffs. The urge to smile died. Once upon a dream, he envisioned an existence without fear or pain or violence, exploring life with her, without judgment. Fragile feelings had no home in a V’alkara’s heart, a teaching he questioned in silence even after his training was complete. But finding his sister, watching her slowly die of disease, and then losing Braden confirmed at least one truth taught by the V’alkara leader, drilled into their souls through the path of pain. Caring was a weakness, a noose to be manipulated by an enemy’s hand. He wouldn’t add his dreamcaster to the equation.

He jerked a nod. An agreement for answers didn’t require honesty. He could tell her whatever he wished, and she’d never know fact from falsity.

“Not good enough.” Whether or not she intended it, her voice changed subtly, urging him to heed her. No longer was she a woman making a treaty. She was a dreamcaster, demanding obedience. If she knew what he was, she wouldn’t bother with compulsion. The V’alkara were immune. “I need your word that you’ll answer me truthfully.”

He swallowed thickly. His word was the one thing under his complete control, which was why he’d made so few promises in his miserable life. Without his vow to protect Braden after his sister’s death, he’d never be leashed to the Crows now, and a leash in his dreamcaster’s grip would be far more disastrous. But she was his doorway to freedom, and he’d do what he must to escape her.

“Very well,” he snarled softly. “I promise.”

She perched on the bed’s edge, close enough that her warmth brushed his bare toes. He denied the need to stretch toward her, to make contact, no matter how small. Twisting, she faced him. “Swear to God?”

He exhaled through his nose and forced his neck to relax. Lowering his chin, he held her gaze, unblinking. “If there is a God, I swear to him, her, or whatever creature it may be, that I will answer your questions.”

She glanced at his necklace. “So that cross you wear is just for fun?”

Jenny had given it to him, the only reason he wore it. He didn’t care to explain.

As his silence lengthened, her mouth softened. “Of course, there’s a God.” Her eyes sparkled, with amusement or pity, he couldn’t tell. “Who else could orchestrate such a string of seeming coincidences to ensure that we meet?”

Cold shot from his scalp to his heels, whether from her confidence that some superior force directed the world around them or from the suggestion, the hint that she expected to meet him at some point in her future. As if she knew. But she couldn’t know. He’d been extremely careful never to reveal himself, never to draw attention to her. Even as a boy, he’d understood that her safety was more important than his sanity and that the V’alkara could never learn of her existence from him.

“I mean,” she continued calmly, “it wasn’t like I planned to bomb out of the nursing program this particular week, and it was only a spur of the moment decision to come here for some solo R&R to figure out what to do with my life.” Her focus settled on his collarbone where his longest scar ended. She must have seen the unholy scars when she removed his clothing, yet awareness flashed through him, hot and needy. “And what are the odds of me being here at the precise moment you tussled with whatever messed you up? Someone was looking out for you.”

He clenched his teeth together to resist telling her that his life was proof enough. No deity had ever comforted him in the cage he slept in every night as a child. The only god during the day was the White V’alkara with his beatings and breakings and chains. There was no one else when Zaire surrendered inch by inch to the darkness ever writhing inside him. But that was an argument that would serve no purpose in convincing her to release him.

Zaire waited for her to meet his stare before nodding. “As you wish. I swear I will not harm you, and I will honestly answer whatever questions you ask.”

A sudden smile brightened her face, so sincere, so unexpected, his breath caught. “See how easy that was?”

Nothing in his life had ever been easy, yet as she stood, a silver key flashing in her fingers, he couldn’t disagree. Never had someone offered him freedom for so little—so little doubt, so little fear. She slid the key into the lock, and with a click, one wrist was loose. Sidling out of reach, not quite as trusting as she portrayed, she circled the bed. A heartbeat later, both hands were unencumbered.

Zaire straightened. The room didn’t spin, and the pounding in his head remained more a finger tap than a sledgehammer. As he slung his legs over the mattress edge, she backed up to the door, her hand on her weapon. Annoyance hit him harder than expected. She had no cause to trust him, and it was wise of her to be wary, yet it still chafed. Clutching the blanket around his waist, he heaved to his feet. Before he could balance, his numb leg buckled. He toppled into the nightstand, knocking it over with a crash. A drawer flew open, spilling its contents, and the lamp landed on his back. A cool draft brushed his bare buttocks. Glorious.

“Are you okay?” Her spicy scent of autumn nights and apples swept over him as she touched his shoulder.

Desire sang through his blood at the contact, a siren’s call. She crouched close, so near he could lick her. And he wanted to. Perfect, porcelain skin. Red velvet mouth. Slender neck. Every part of her delectable. It was fortunate that his leg hindered him, prevented him from following foolish urges. He rolled away with a snarl. “I’m fine.”

“Didn’t mean to ruffle your dark feathers.” She lifted her hands in a sign of surrender, her eyebrows high.

For a long, aching moment, the world stood still. Dark feathers. Surely a coincidence she would choose that particular description of his most hated resident scourge, the one who pushed for control every time he Changed into demon, shadow, or monster. Zaire disentangled himself from the lamp and the dozen or so cat toys from the nightstand drawer. Breathing hard, he propped his back against the bed while she watched him. His hands shook. Until he regained either his powers or full movement, he was as vulnerable and trapped as any normal human.

“What’s wrong with your leg?” She leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb, her dark eyes worried. “The cut was minor, nothing that should impair walking or standing. I checked it earlier, and there were no signs of infection.”

“It has nothing to do with the wound. I imagine I’ll regain full use shortly.” He refused to consider the alternative.

“If you say so.” Doubt rang in every syllable. “In the meantime, Isaac has some crutches in his room. Leftovers from a skiing accident.” She cocked her head. “Are you hungry?”

His stomach grumbled, suddenly remembering he hadn’t eaten for days.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Smoothly slipping out the door, she flashed an impish grin over her shoulder. “Don’t go anywhere. You still have to fulfill your part of our bargain.”

Zaire scrubbed a hand over his face, a sense of doom settling in his gut, heavy and undeniable. It was quite possible that he’d been better off staying handcuffed and silent.