Edge of Hunger (16 page)

Her eyes went wide with surprise. "The Casus must know about it somehow," she murmured, reaching for the necklace. Molly carefully lifted the cross from its bed of bloodred velvet, surprised by its heavy weight, as well as its warmth. Shifting to her feet, she turned toward Ian. "If you bend down, I'll slip it over your head."

"Not a chance," he rasped, eyeing her with a cautious stare as he took a step back.

Molly frowned. "Ian, your mother wants you to have this. I don't think she would have gone to all the trouble if it wasn't important. She even says it will help protect you. You can't just leave it packed away."

He stared down at her with eyes so dark they looked black beneath the thick shadow of his lashes, the moment stretching out painfully long, until he finally said, "If you don't want to leave it in the case, then you wear it."

"What?"

"I'm serious. Here," he muttered, taking the necklace from her grasp. "It'll look a helluva lot better on you anyway."

"Ian," she breathed out on a soft burst of air. "I...I couldn't. This is...dammit, it was meant for you."

"Either you wear it or it stays in the case," he told her, his deep voice cut with stubborn determination. His fingers closed around the gleaming black metal in a fist, the long velvet cord falling gracefully over the powerful thickness of his wrist. Molly stared, unable to look away, the simple image of the sensuous velvet draping his dark golden skin somehow painfully erotic, and she pressed her hand against the jarring burst of awareness burning low in her belly, its deep, rhythmic pulse spreading through her, until she had to fight the urge to reach out and grab him.

She wanted to ask him if he could feel the cross's warmth, its power, but didn't want him to think she was any crazier than he already did.

"I mean it, Molly."

"Fine," she snapped, frustrated at him for being so stubborn.

"Turn around," he instructed, his voice husky and low as he stepped up behind her, and she shivered from the heat of his body. He didn't touch her...but came close enough that she felt his size, his forceful masculinity, so strong and vital and overwhelming. It made her feel small, vulnerable, endlessly feminine. Melted her insides with a hot, smooth glow of warmth.

Made her breath catch. Made her ache for his touch.

And yet, he didn't touch her at all. He simply slipped the necklace over her head, its warmth settling between her breasts. Then he murmured for her to turn around, the erotic rasp of his breath teasing the sensitive shell of her ear as he spoke.

"Ian, you should really be the one wearing this," she said unsteadily, turning to face him.

He gave her a tight smile. "It's not my style," he said quietly, his gaze appreciative as he eyed the way it rested against the swell of her chest. "But it looks hot as hell on you."

A part of her wanted to smile in response, but the part that was worried and frightened had her frowning instead. "You can't keep running from what you are, Ian. Trust me, I know."

He arched one brow at the whispered words, his sensual mouth curved in a purely wicked, utterly male expression of arrogance. "I'm not running, Molly. If I was, you could bet your sweet little ass that I wouldn't be here right now. And since we got what we came for, let's get out of here."

"Wait," she said quickly, bending down to pull out the shoe box that had been stored beneath the black case. "We haven't opened this one." She set the box beside the smaller case, then pulled off the lid.

"What's in it?"

"These," she said, turning toward him with a small, leather-bound journal in one hand, a framed snapshot in the other. Molly held the journal out to him, but rather than take it, Ian stepped closer, staring down at the photograph in the carved wooden frame.

"That's me and Elaina," he said in a quiet voice, his thick lashes shielding his gaze as he studied the image. "Man, I was a scrawny little thing."

Her mouth curled with a ghost of a smile. "You were adorable, Ian. And you're actually grinning. I almost didn't recognize you without a scowl on your face."

"Very funny," he drawled, rolling his eyes.

"Look at this...at the edge of the frame. The pattern's been worn down where someone has held it." A terrible sense of sadness bloomed deep within her chest as she smoothed the tip of one finger against the worn patch, wondering how many times Elaina must have clutched the frame in her grasp. Lifting her gaze, she caught his guarded expression as she handed him the photograph. "Elaina must have missed you very much."

"Christ," he rasped, rubbing his thumb against the smooth patch of wood.

Blinking, Molly fought the hot glow of emotion burning at the back of her eyes and throat.

She could see the regret etched into the rugged, beautiful angles of his face. For all his macho blustering, there was a scarred, tender core at Ian Buchanan's center. He might have been tarnished and battered and a little rough around the edges, but he was still solid and strong and good. She knew there had to be something more behind his rift with Elaina--something deeper than teenage rebellion and arguments. Whatever it was, it'd been enough to keep them apart--a fact that he now regretted. And in that moment, something inside Molly shifted into a sharper focus.

She'd been touched by his reaction to Kendra Wilcox's death--but the depth of emotion revealed in his expression as she stood there beside him--God, it melted her. Made him so much more real to her. Changed him from the surly, too-gorgeous-for-his-own-good womanizer, the cynic she needed to guard herself against, to a man with incredible depth and compassion. And that made him dangerous to her in a way that no amount of physical desire could ever do.

He'd already been a threat to her defenses--now he was a threat to her heart.

Holding out the journal, she gently said, "You should take this, Ian. There must be something in here, something important, for her to have left it with the cross."

"Just put it back in the box with this," he rasped, handing her the photograph. "We can take the whole thing, along with the case."

"And you'll read the journal?" she pressed, replacing the lid on the shoe box, then stacking the cross's black case on top.

Rubbing at the back of his neck, Ian gave a low, shaky laugh. "Naw, but you should. Maybe there'll be something in there that we need."

"I don't know," she told him, feeling uneasy as he picked up the shoe box and case. "They weren't left to me. It feels like it would be an invasion of privacy."

"Hell, she's been sneaking into your head for months now, Molly," he drawled, heading for the open door. "Don't be such a Girl Scout. Seems only fair that you would get to read her journal."

"Ian, you don't really think she can..."

"Read your mind?" he finished for her, shooting her a teasing look over his broad shoulder, the regret that had carved his features only moments before hidden, as if it'd never existed, behind a wickedly sexy grin. But she wasn't about to forget.

No, Molly was on to him now. She'd have even returned his smile, if she wasn't feeling quite so uncomfortable about the idea of his mother snooping around in her mind, especially considering the way she'd been thinking about his body last night. Gaack. Talk about embarrassing.

"Ian, I'm serious," she said, her tone dismal as they stepped out into the bright glare of afternoon sunshine, the heat rolling up from the asphalt in a searing, stifling wave. "Do you think she can really do that?"

"Hmm, I dunno." He shifted the items under his arm as he locked the door behind them.

"Anything interesting in there you wouldn't want her to know about?" he asked in a suggestive drawl.

The blush firing beneath her skin said more than any words, and his shoulders shook with a soft, husky rumble of laughter. But instead of teasing, he took mercy on her and changed the subject, saying, "After we get back to the motel, we need to try and figure out who this Scott guy is. I'll put a call in to Riley and see if he can get us an address."

Molly almost managed a grin as she climbed into the truck. "That would be wonderful."

"Yeah. It doesn't happen often, but there are times when ol' Saint Riley comes in handy." He laughed drily, and a minute later, they were on the road, traveling beneath the brilliant glare of a lemon-yellow sun, surrounded by the rugged beauty of the mountain forest that hugged the narrow highway. It was a peaceful, idyllic setting, oddly comforting, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for her to be doing, driving down the road with Ian Buchanan, the radio playing softly in the background. But as Molly rubbed her fingers against the intricately etched surface of the cross, its power thrumming against her skin, warm to the touch...she couldn't help but worry about the darkness that lay ahead.

THE SECOND IAN OPENED the weathered door of Molly's motel room, he knew someone was there. Throughout the day, he'd had the strangest sensation of acute awareness, as if he were sensing everything with an intensity that wasn't normal. Sounds. Sights. Smells. Each of them amplified and sharp.

Though the Merrick wasn't trying to fight its way out of him, its presence was lingering, heightening his abilities.

His nostrils flared as he breathed in the dark, clean, woodsy scent of the trespasser, and he scanned the room, looking for anything that was out of place. Reaching behind him, he grabbed on to Molly's wrist, holding tight, a gentle squeeze warning her to be silent as he slowly pulled her into the room. He pressed her against the wall just inside the doorway, his back plastered to her front.

He could tell by its scent that the intruder wasn't Casus--but that didn't mean that it wasn't dangerous. Wasn't a threat. Because the scent definitely wasn't human.

Cutting a quick look over his shoulder, he mouthed the words, "Don't move," to Molly, then slowly moved toward the center of the room, bitterly aware of the Merrick shifting within him, demanding more information. Like an animal, it wanted to lift its nose and sniff at the air, its bright eyes alert to danger. It was letting him know that it wasn't docile--that it intended to do its part to protect their woman.

Whoa. Their woman?

The jarring thought slammed into Ian's brain like a hammer, stunning him, and he scowled, choking off a vicious curse when a light thread of sound came from the small kitchen.

Keeping his arms loose at his sides, he flexed his hands, ready to take down whatever the hell was about to come through that doorway.

"You needn't try to sneak up on me," came a deep, lazy drawl from the other room. "I already know you're there, and as corny as it sounds--" there was a slight muffled sound, like someone snickering under their breath "--I come in peace."

Stopping in the center of the room, Ian rolled his head over his shoulders, keeping his weight light on his feet as he muttered, "If that's so, then get your ass out here and show your face."

A chair screeched against the linoleum, and then a dark shadow fell across the floor, through the archway, seconds before a tall, dark-haired man filled the space.

"Who the fuck are you?" Ian growled.

The stranger arched one dark brow, his hard mouth twitching just a little at one corner.

"Charming," he murmured.

Jerking his chin toward the intruder, Ian said, "You know this guy, Molly?"

"Um...no," she whispered. "I've never seen him before in my life."

If she had, Molly knew she would have remembered him. He was too striking to ever forget, and if asked to describe him, the first word that would have come to mind was dark. Dark hair, shorn close to his scalp, his features...perfect, like something that had been sculpted from marble. Dark eyes burning within thick black lashes, beneath the dark slash of his brows. Even his skin was dark, burnished a deep gold with a slight reddish undertone, attesting to what had to be a Native American ancestry, especially with those striking cheekbones. He wore a plain white T-shirt and dark blue jeans, with brown hiking boots on his feet.

"What the hell are you doing in her room?" Ian demanded in a strained voice, while the stranger hooked his thumbs in his front pockets and leaned his shoulder against the side of the archway.

"No need to get your back up. I'm not here about the woman, as tempting as she is. I'm here because of you, Merrick."

Molly choked back a gasp, thankful she'd slipped the cross inside her T-shirt before they'd climbed out of the truck. Whoever this guy was, he was somehow involved in the nightmare closing in around them. Until she knew which side he was on, she wasn't about to reveal their secrets.

"My name is Buchanan," Ian snarled, his voice unusually guttural, and for a moment, Molly wondered if the darkness inside of him--the Merrick--was about to break free.

As if impervious to the danger of that possibility, a low, coarse burst of sound that could have been a laugh rumbled in the stranger's throat. "Ah, but you're more Merrick than anything else. Even more than you're human. So let's not play word games," he drawled with the barest inflection of a Western twang.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Ian demanded, "And what exactly do you want with me?"

"Kierland Scott sent me. I believe you might be familiar with the name."

"You know Scott?" Ian grunted, and Molly wondered if his shock matched her own.

The stranger inclined his dark head with a fraction of movement. "You could say I work with Kierland. He's asked me to bring you to Ravenswing. Both of you."

"Ravenswing?" Molly repeated, at the same time Ian snorted, saying, "And what in God's name makes you think we'd go anywhere with you?"

"Those marks on your arm," the man remarked in a quiet rumble, gesturing with one sun-browned, long-fingered hand toward the scratches revealed beneath the edge of Ian's short sleeve. "I know what made them. They're called the Casus, mortal enemies of the Merrick. If you come with me, we'll teach you what you need to know in order to survive."

"We?" Ian rasped.

"The men I work with. We're called the Watchmen."

Ian made a rude sound under his breath. "The Watchmen, huh? Sounds like some kind of eighties rock band."