What the hell had he done?

Julius flung his legs over the side of the bed, wrapped the sheet around his hips, and hung his head. If they gave awards for being a selfish bastard, he’d win.

The shower turned on in the bathroom and he shot the door a side-long glance. She’d invited him to bathe with her, but he needed to think. The long and the short of his problem, was that he kept thinking of Kat as having the same narrow range of emotions that Katherine the Great had had.

Katherine—the past-life version of Kat—didn’t fall in love. She’d been an interesting woman. He’d learned a lot from her. The sex had been good but . . . Katherine never loved him and he’d been normal back then.

This wasn’t good for Kat. This wasn’t going to end well and he didn’t want the added guilt of hurting her.

The light pouring out of the dresser drawer drew his attention. That damn book. Today the light seemed brighter than before, pulsing out an urgent message he couldn’t quite make out.

Hell. He got up and crossed the room, pulling open the drawer and picking up the book. As soon as he set it on the dresser, the clasps popped open and the sense the book liked him returned. He flipped though some pages, looking for whatever it wanted him to know. The spells were all of the black Magic variety—curses, bindings, and hexes.

He came to a blank page, started to flip past it and then hesitated. “Tell me.” He ran his hand down the page and as he did, ink rose to the surface of the page, long scratchy letters—the hand that wrote the words must have shook—and thick splotches of red ink, or maybe blood, dotted the page.

The name Tanin’iver appeared at the top.

---

The Original created the Tanin’iver by giving a lost soul a body meant for another. He’ll be forever cursed until he makes a great sacrifice.

---

Hadn’t Kat called him the Tanin’iver that first morning? He snorted and flipped the book closed. “And here everyone thought I never had a soul.” Apparently, it was just lost. He stuffed the book back into the drawer and was about to close it, when another object caught his eye.

A Guardian knife.

The distinctive blade had a design etched down the center revealing the wood trapped within. All Guardians carried these knives. They were perfect. The wood dusted vampires, the silver was deadly to Lycan as well as a handful of other daemons, and sharp pointy objects stabbed into vital organs tended to take care of pretty much any other creature.

How long had it been since he’d held one of these? He sat on the edge of the bed with the blade in hand, and rubbed his thigh. Where had Kat gotten this? Did she know the Guardian? Had she destroyed one? Or was this his?

His hand went to his throat, but no, he no longer wore a Guardian pendant. He had been a Guardian at one time. James Pasquino had mentored him.

He shook his head. That was all he remembered.

The strip of wood in the center of the six-inch blade was stained dark with dried blood or ash or both. A strange sort of déjà vu settled over him, though he couldn’t say if it came from holding the knife, or sitting here like he was with the blade. He drew the blade across his thigh, a shallow cut, just enough that the bite and burn chased the spiders away.

He froze. Stared at the cut. He had to stop, Kat was going to have a fucking conniption.

The shower was still running and, same as before, a memory tugged at his mind. There was something familiar in this. . . .

Sitting on the bed.

A sheet around his hips.

The shower had been running.

The TV had been on.

He sat in a musty hotel room, with his blade in hand. The place was nothing special, like a thousand other run-down roadside pit-stops. Some old movie played in the background more for company than entertainment.

He’d tried to stop himself from cutting his skin, but his hand had a mind of its own. He used the knife to prick himself.

“Stop it,” he spoke out loud to the empty room.

A laugh shook out of him and he cut himself again.

“I want out of here. Out of this prison. Out of you.”

He dug the blade under his flesh, deeper this time. His skin split wider and wider to either side of the sharpened steel.

His stomach roiled.

“You’re going to ash us both.”

As much as he hated this, part of him liked it. Instead of having a thousand spiders wandering under his skin, their little legs pricking his nerves and making his skin crawl, there was localized pain. One spot of hurt, everything else went quiet. Focused.

He stared, transfixed. The skin split wider.

It was awful.

It was a relief.

“Julius!”

His name and the urgency behind it snapped him out of his reverie.

“Don’t move.” Kat knelt in front of him, her gaze focused on the blade.

PUSH IT DEEPER.

The shakes returned full force. The spiders. That fucking voice. The damn blade was stuck into his leg almost to the point where the etching opened to the wood within. Had she not walked in—

Shit. What had he done? Chased a memory that gave him no more answers and a lot more questions. Why had he been talking to himself? Laughing at himself? It was the prison memory all over again—like he had more than one mind in his head. Wasn’t that a thing? Some psychological disorder?

Kat’s fingers folded around his wrist. She grimaced as she eased the blade out of his skin. Seeing her discomfort was damn near worse than the burn of the blade. He stared down to a deep gash in his thigh next to the shallow cut he’d made earlier. He rubbed his chest. His arm. Fucking spiders.

“What were you doing?” Her voice was sharp and he took an instant dislike to being scolded.

He refused to look at her and he couldn’t look at what he’d done. He grabbed the bandage off the bed and yanked it over his eyes.

“Answer me, please.”

She dropped the blade into the dresser with a clatter. Slammed the drawer shut. “I didn’t go to all the effort of healing you so you could hurt yourself more.” Despite her harsh tone, her hands, as always, were soft and gentle when she cupped his face. She sighed. When she spoke again, her voice was calmer. “Please talk to me, Jules. Why are you hurting yourself?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but didn’t know what to say. No matter what, she must realize by now he was a head-case. Oh, God, he wished he wasn’t. He wanted to be her mate. Wanted to be worthy. Normal.

Her palm stroked down his thigh and his skin warmed until it burned. He tipped his head to peek beneath the bandage. His skin stitched itself together, leaving nothing, not even a scar.

“Thank you.”

“Tell me what’s going on, Jules.”

Should he tell her about the book? The lost soul and sacrifices? The memory? The voice?

The alternative was . . . what? He was out of alternatives. He rubbed at a spot on his ribs where the spiders gathered. Either way, no matter what he said would make him look bad. He’d backed himself into a corner.

Maybe that was the point. Maybe on some level he knew he had to make a sacrifice. Maybe forcing Kat to do what was best for her, despite what he wanted was the sacrifice. Maybe things would go better for both of them then.

GET THE KNIFE.

“I, uh . . . .” He shook his head. He wasn’t listening to that voice. Not today. “I was day-dreaming and not paying attention.”

“You do that a lot, do you?” Her hand caressed over his bicep. His ribs. His cheek. She touched every single place he’d rubbed.

His face heated. Damn it, why couldn’t he be normal?

She sighed again, resting her forehead against his, holding his face in her hands. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

“It’s okay. I know I seem crazy—”

THE KNIFE. CUT-CUT-CUT-CUT.

“But you’re not.”

CUT OUT YOUR EYES.

A shiver stole over his skin and he stood to pace. “I sure as hell don’t want to be.” He didn’t have to be. If he ignored the voice. The spiders. If he could remember.

His pacing brought him to the dresser. To the knife.

Shit.

He turned back to Kat, forced himself to walk toward her, each step harder than the last. The spiders itched and niggled in a frenzy under his skin. She deserved better than this. “Have you considered the possibility that you have this whole thing wrong?”

“What thing?”

“Us.” As soon as the word left his lips, his chest ached. “I mean, how do you know we’re mates?” Same way he knew. Same way he’d never be able to un-know it. He rubbed at his chest. The back of his neck. The spiders grew angry.

Her colors dimmed. “You still don’t think we are?”

“After we made love?” hung in the air unspoken but not unheard. Jesus, he was an ass. He’d be damned if he let her get hurt.

CUT YOUR EYES. CUT THEM OUT.

His whole body jerked. “I think you’re lonely and too kind, and beautiful and cut your—” He snapped his mouth shut. Closed his eyes.

—EYES. CUT YOUR EYES.

“Cut my what?”

When he opened his eyes, she’d planted her hand on her hip. Her colors darkened and pulsed.

She had to get away from him. “I think you could do better,” he rushed the words out before the voice took over. “I think you should do better. Go find some handsome guy and kiss him. Twenty bucks says you’ll take to him easier than you would to me, anyway. I mean, how do you know if you even have the right guy? Maybe you just want someone.”

CUT YOUR EYES. GET THE KNIFE. CUT-CUT-CUT

She continued to stand there, staring at him without saying anything so he kept going, “You need someone. It doesn’t matter who.”

Her colors flared and she gasped. “That’s the meanest—”

Without conscious thought, he turned back to the drawers. He couldn’t resist anymore.

“Look at me while I’m talking.”

Christ, he couldn’t resist anymore. “Knock me out.”

CUT-CUT-CUT. His mouth formed the words, though no sound came out.

“What?”

“Cut your eyes. Cut your eyes!” It wasn’t what he’d intended to say, goddamn it! He meant to ask her to say whatever it was she said that made him seize up. He couldn’t cut out his eyes if he was shaking in a stupor on the floor.

“Watch her.”

Watch who? He opened his mouth to ask. “Cut-cut-cut out your eyes.”

“Oh, for Gaia’s sake, watch her!” She shouted this time.

Still, his hand reached out and pulled the drawer open. Shit. He was doing this. Cutting out his eyes. Right in front of her. He couldn’t stop.

She shouted at him again. This time he didn’t catch what she said.

The room swirled around him. Colors flashed behind his eyes.

He tried to break his fall.

“Damn you, Julius Crowley!” She snatched a pillow off the bed, stuffed it under his head and turned him to his side. “Starting an argument you can’t finish isn’t fair.”

Or was it not fair that forcing him to seize had become so commonplace that she’d continued right on with the conversation without him as if he weren’t shaking, his muscles so taut they appeared ready to burst through his skin. “I think I’m losing my mind now. Kiss someone else. You can kiss my ass.” She slapped one hand over her mouth. She was swearing like a drunken sailor. “See what you did. You have me cussing I’m so mad at you.”

She brushed her hand through his hair, while she grounded her own energy. She’d always had difficulty keeping calm during an argument, but found it twice as hard when her mate was being an asshat. Kiss someone else. Ha! She didn’t want anyone else.

The seizure was lasting longer than normal. She frowned down at him. She’d had to repeat “Watcher” three times before he’d seized. That hadn’t ever happened before. She chewed her lip. Was the memory curse fizzling out? Five days had passed already and they didn’t last longer than a week from what she’d read. What would happen if next time he didn’t seize when she said the trigger word? Would she be able to stop him from trying to follow the felo-de-se curse?

What if tomorrow morning she had nothing but Magic to keep him safe? What if tomorrow she didn’t even have that? He was a big guy, she couldn’t take him on physically while he was under control of the curse.

She needed help.

The idea of traveling to Machon to talk to the coven sent apprehension darting up her spine. What if they refused? Or if they decided he wasn’t worth it?

Would they think her weak for needing help? Shouldn’t she be able to care for her mate on her own?

She tamped down her hurt pride. His safety was more important.

His shaking started to subside and she eased him onto his back. She glanced at the bed. He’d be more comfortable there, but she feared she wouldn’t have enough Magic to put him into a deep sleep and travel to Machon if she transported him to the bed, too.

Instead, she dragged the blankets to where he lay and tucked him in, using Magic to induce a deep sleep.

Kiss someone else. She smacked his shoulder. Then checked the cuts on his thigh. Nothing there now aside from a couple of pink lines of freshly healed skin. Two more scars amid all the others. Except these had happened here. In her house. While she hadn’t been paying attention.

What if she’d been out of the house? What if she hadn’t walked in for five more minutes? Or ten? Fifteen?

The curses were one issue. The coven could help with the felo-de-se curse, time would heal the memory curse.

But after they’d been removed, would he still have the urge to cut himself?

For the first time, the full ramifications of having Julius as a mate settled over her. Their relationship would never be perfect. He would never be perfect. After everything he’d been through . . . she was lucky. He was sweet. Attentive. Kind. A wonderful lover. A good listener. Yet he might never be a well man. She couldn’t leave him on his own. Not to go shopping. Not to go out with friends. Not ever. Not as he was now.

What had she expected? That she’d wave a hand over him and heal the damage done over the years? Or that they’d have magic sex and he’d fall in love with her and all their problems would fade away? That only happened in story books. Never in real life.

So maybe he’d been right. Sort of.

She needed to decide. Was he worth the sacrifice?

Confronted with his severe issues, she might lose her freedom. The freedom to be alone. The freedom to walk away from him when she got upset or frustrated—because in doing any of those things, she could lose him for good. He might always be a threat to himself.

The coven would say handing him over to the humans for termination would be a kindness. He’d never be how he’d been before the Watcher possessed him.

That thought alone sent rage shooting through her. She got up and paced. What it came down to, was: Could he still bring something good to the world?

The answer rose in her, an empathetic yes. He was a blessing. She’d already learned so much from him. He challenged her bias to the mentally ill. Through his art and their interactions, he challenged her ideas of self-worth. Of whether strength, or lack thereof had anything to do with rape. Of what mattered. He mattered to her. Their time together mattered. Not what anyone else thought. Not whether they were ‘normal’ or not.

A week ago, if someone had asked her what she wanted her life to be like, she’d have painted them a picture of a typical couple. Going out on dates. Laughing with friends. Cooking together in the kitchen. Now, none of that would ever be. In part because they weren’t human, in part because of his health. They’d never be typical anything.

“And that’s okay.” She drew in a deep breath and when she let it out, tears came with it. She grieved for what would never be. For what she wished could be. For what they’d both lost before they’d even found each other.

When she finished, a new determination filled her near to bursting.

She needed help and that was okay.