Page 103 of Awry
I know it.I just know.
Something terrible enough to be locked away.
I have no idea if what’s here is tied to the bloody knife or to my aunt’s death.All I know is it’s been locked away until I’m ready to see it, according to my aunt’s note.
“I’m ready,” I whisper— ignoring that the panic attack I just navigated is evidence to the contrary.
I close my eyes, pressing my forehead to the armoire.Then I deliberately recall the recent memory.
The feel of those lips against mine.
No one has ever kissed me like that.With reverence, mingled with love and desire.No hands have ever held me so firmly, as if I’m neither breakable nor dangerous.
I drop my hand from the armoire, taking a step back.
It wasn’t a memory.
Not a glimpse of the future either.
Just my brain, my mind, trying to calm me, feeding me sensations I never knew I wanted, never knew I needed.
But that kiss, that strong yet gentle embrace shielding me from the panic building within my own mind, is something I know I will never have.
I take another step away, then another, until I’m heading down the stairs and carefully closing the door at the end of the upper hall behind me.
I’m alone in the house.By my own design.But also because anything else would just be a temporary illusion.
I will always know.
I will always know now that I’m only the Conduit.
No person will ever want to kiss me so gently or help soothe a panic attack when the universe feels like it’s too big to hold within my only-mortal form.Too big to channel.Any bonds I take — as with the bonds my aunt took — will just be an extension of my function as the Conduit.
I just …
I thought I had more time.
I feelPrecious’s approaching presence just as I finish setting a batch of caramel ice cream to churn in the ice cream machine.With a coconut-cream-and-white-chocolate base.Because rather than embracing my destiny, I’m apparently being ridiculous.
However, it’s someone else who steps over the property boundary to open the gate.Someone else who climbs back into the vehicle and brings it up the drive, leaving the gate open.
I’m practically running for the front door, still drying my hands with a tea towel, when I hear the rumble of the high-powered gas-guzzling motor.
I get the door open, my gaze already turned toward the winter-bare fruit orchard to the right and the weathered, cedar-sided workshop-barn beside it— as a pristinely restored 1967 gold Camaro coupe pulls up in front of the wide front door.
The engine hasn’t even died before the driver’s-side door is opening, and a male steps out — dark-blond hair, naturally tanned skin, and shoulders so broad I’m surprised that he slips out of the car so agilely.Though he is clearly a shifter.
The moment his booted feet hit the ground and the energy underpinning the property rises to ghost his footsteps, I know that he is a …presence, a power.He’s in black jeans and a light-gray henley.He lays his hand on top of the Camaro, pivoting toward me — not bothering to look at the barn or the property or anything else as he reaches to shut the car door with his other hand.
He meets my gaze.His eyes are light colored, either blue or green, but I can’t tell which at this distance.
He’s still moving, hand running across the top of the car, then down the back window, then fingers only along the trunk.
He fucking caresses the fucking car as he crosses alongside it, then continues steadily toward me.And for a moment of utter insanity, I want it to be my curves under those fingertips.
The passenger-side door thunks closed.I feel Presh’s presence as well.But I can’t tear my gaze away from the golden god in worn black jeans taking long, steady strides toward me.I’m locked in his gaze.
The nearer he gets, the more I see … in his expression, in his body language, in the way his essence entwines with that of the property.
