Page 62 of Captivated
“All right.” Her temper bubbled until she clenched her hands into fists. “I’m going to tell him. When I’m ready to tell him. Do you think I want to bind him this way?” It shocked her to feel a tear slip down her cheek. She brushed it away impatiently.
“That’s a choice he has to make for himself.” Sebastian had already decided that, if Nash chose incorrectly, he would take great pleasure in breaking several vital bones—the conventional way.
“Sebastian’s right, Morgana.” Concerned but firm, Ana rose again to wrap her arms around her cousin. “It’s his choice to make, as it was yours. He can’t make it if he doesn’t know the choice exists.”
“I know.” To comfort herself, Morgana laid her head on Ana’s shoulder. “I’ll go this morning and tell him.”
Sebastian rose to stroke a hand down Morgana’s hair. “We’ll be close.”
She was able to smile with a trace of her usual verve. “Not too close.”
***
Nash rolled over in bed and muttered into his pillow. Dreams. He was having so many dreams. They were flitting in and out of his head like movie scenes.
Morgana. Always Morgana, smiling at him, beckoning to him, promising him the incredible, and the wonderful. Making him feel whole and strong and hopeful.
His grandmother, her eyes bright with anger, whacking him with her ubiquitous wooden spoon, telling him over and over again that he was worthless.
Riding a bright red bike down a suburban sidewalk, the wind in his hair and the sound of flipping, flapping baseball cards thrumming in the spokes.
Leeanne, standing close, too close, with her hand out, reminding him that they were blood. That he owed her, owed her, owed her.
Morgana, laughing that wild, wicked laugh, her hair billowing back like a cloud while she streaked over the dark waters of the bay on her broomstick.
Himself, plunged into a steaming cauldron with his grandmother stirring the stew with that damned spoon. And Morgana’s voice—his mother’s voice?—cackling like one of the Weird Sisters from Shakespeare.
“Double, double, toil and trouble.”
He sat up with a jolt, breathing fast and blinking against the streaming sunlight. He lifted shaking hands to his face and rubbed hard.
Great. Just dandy. In addition to everything else, he was losing his mind.
Had she done that to him, as well? he wondered. Had she insinuated herself into his mind to make him think what she wanted him to think? Well, she wasn’t going to get away with it.
Nash stumbled out of bed and tripped over his own shoes. Swearing, he kicked them aside and headed blindly for the shower. As soon as he’d pulled himself together, he and the Gorgeous Witch of the West were going to have a little chat.
***
While Nash was holding his head under the shower, Morgana pulled up in his driveway. She’d come alone. When she’d refused to let Luna accompany her, the cat had stalked off, tail twitching in indignation. Sighing, Morgana promised herself she’d make it up to her. Maybe she’d run by Fisherman’s Wharf and pick up a seafood feast to soften the cat’s heart.
In the meantime, she had her own heart to worry about.
Tilting down the rearview mirror, she took a careful study of her face. With a sound of disgust, she leaned back. What had made her think she could cover the signs of strain and worry with simple cosmetics?
She pressed her lips together and looked toward his house. She wasn’t going to let him see her like this. She wasn’t going to go to him with this kind of news when she appeared vulnerable and needy.
He had enough people pulling his strings.
She remembered that she’d once thought he was a completely carefree man. Perhaps, for long periods of time, he was. He’d certainly made himself believe so. If Nash was entitled to his front, then so was she.
After taking a long, soothing breath, Morgana crooned a quiet chant. The shadows vanished from under her eyes, the color crept back into her cheeks. As she stepped out of the car, all signs of a restless night had beenerased. If her heart was beating too quickly, she would deal with it. But she would not let him see that she was miserably in love and terrified.
There was an easy smile on her face as she rapped on his door. A slick, sweaty fist was lodged in her gut.
Cursing, Nash jammed one leg then the other into jeans. “Just a damn minute,” he mumbled as he yanked them up. He stalked down the steps barefoot and bare chested, all but growling at the thought of a visitor before coffee. “What?” he demanded as he flung open the door. Then he stopped dead, staring.
She looked as fresh and beautiful as the morning. As sultry and sexy as midnight. Nash wondered how it was that the damp still clinging to his skin didn’t turn to steam.
