Page 38 of Discovered Magic
The scrape of chair legs signaled Draven’s rise. He loomed large and ominous as a funnel cloud. Yet the man with the beseeching expression ignored him, except to motion for him to wait.
“Look, it seems you’ve forgotten, but your name is Abigail Monroe. Your mother and I call you Abbie, and we’ve been so worried about you.”
Mary tried the name on for size, but it didn’t fit. Tears stung her good eye, and she blinked rapidly. “Not… familiar,” she whispered.
“It’s okay.” The stranger’s voice turned tender. It soothed, easing the panic threatening to overwhelm her. “It’s going to be all right. I promise.”
Before Draven could intervene, her hands acted of their own volition, sandwiching his face between her palms. “No shock… when touch?”
He grinned, and the love in his smile radiated to her toes. “Oh, I always feel a shock when you touch me, my dearest, but not in the way you mean.”
Heat rushed through her. After all this time, all the insults and slurs cast her way, she wouldn’t have believed she could be embarrassed. Yet here she was, blushing like a sixteen-year-old debutante at her first ball.
“Are we…? Did I…?” She was helpless to form the words and dropped her hands to her lap. “Never mind.”
“Yes. You’re mine, and I’m yours. And I’ve come a very long way to take you home.”
“Mary? Do you know this man, ma chère?” Draven’s question was gentle, but his eyes were granite-hard as they locked onto the stranger.
She wanted to say yes. Part of her encouraged the lie, but she shook her head in slow, heartbreaking denial.
The man’s brows clashed together. “You do, Abbie, and you need to come with me. There’s no time to lose.”
“She’s goin’ nowhere,” Draven declared. “Move out, now.”
The newcomer stood, and his hand dropped to the gun at his side. “I’m not telling you again. Back the fuck off. I’m taking her home.”
“Pausa!”
Everything around them froze at Draven’s snapped command. The world went still, motion suspended in time. Only Mary, Draven, the dark-haired stranger, and Jonas Thorne remained in motion.
Movement by the door drew her eye.
A man with white-blond hair—hair just like hers!—sauntered toward them.
“Far enough, fella,” Jonas said, sweeping his fan of cards closed and setting them neatly on the table.
The big blond grinned. “You must be Sheriff Thorne. Those sapphire eyes, the golden hair, and the blood-borne arrogance give you away.” He jerked his thumb toward the man still kneeling by Mary. “Wilder is, too, but he gets his coloring from his mother’s side.”
Jonas blinked, then stared hard at the man by Mary. “Thorne. Is it true?”
“Yes.”
“And a young Draven Masters,” the blond giant crowed as if delighted. “It’s certainly a mind fuck.”
Her Guardian scowled. “Are you claiming to know me?”
The weird electric tension grew too much, and Mary curled in on herself, pressing her forehead to her knees.
Go away. Go away. Go away, she chanted silently.
Fire built beneath her skin, rising until she worried she might combust, and as with every instance before, her wishes failed to carry her away. No escape. Only pain. With a choked sob, she tore at the silver bracelet encircling her wrist.
“Go away!” she screamed.
* * *
The gambler whom Castor called Draven swore as his pinky ring flared to life.
