Edge of Hunger (20 page)

But you're forgetting that she doesn't get involved with men she meets this way.

Ahh...right. So then what was she offering with that soft, hazy look in her eyes? Did she think he could cuddle up with her, hold her, keep her safe through the dark hours of the night, and not be buried a mile inside of her within five minutes?

Hell, he'd be lucky if he lasted two.

"Even if I ask you to, you won't stay with me tonight, will you?" she whispered.

THE SOFTLY SPOKEN words falling from her lips surprised Molly, but then, in a way, she felt as if the entire past twenty-four hours had been building up to them. Moments in time that finally led to the stunning realization that she needed to be close to this man. Needed to stay close to him. The pain in his eyes when he'd looked at that photograph in the storage unit had probably been the most significant. Then there'd been the way he'd clutched her hand when they'd first met Quinn, as well as his unexpected jealousy over the ruggedly gorgeous Kierland Scott. Even his grief over Kendra Wilcox's death...and the way he'd come to her at the motel, injured and on the verge of collapse, just to make sure she was okay. Each of those instances had forged the change, like the ebb and flow of the tide, sweeping through her, rearranging the landscape of her emotions with each surging, powerful wave.

She still feared the emotional damage he could wreak on her life, but her caution had been overwhelmed by her need. It didn't matter what came later. Scott's warnings of what was to come had left her staring at a bleak dose of reality, and for the first time in...well, in what felt like forever, Molly didn't want to base her decisions on the events that had shaped her past.

She wanted to be in the moment--to live for it. Take from it all the pleasure and happiness that she could, for however long it would last.

And at that moment, Molly knew that if she didn't get close to Ian now, while she still could, she was going to regret it for the rest of her life. They were beginning a new chapter in this drama, and she wanted to be by his side during it. Wanted to help him...hold him...not knowing what would come when he was forced to confront the evil bearing down on them.

And she had no doubt that day would come, probably sooner than any of them were ready for it.

He didn't respond to her question, but Molly could see the answer written into the lines on his face. Could see him withdrawing, closing himself off, probably pissed that he'd revealed as much as he had. She knew her own demons, but what were his? "Why are you still so afraid of getting close to me, Ian? After listening to what they had to say down in the kitchen, you know the Merrick aren't evil. They don't kill the innocent."

"You've been in my dreams, Molly," he muttered, his expression savage, eyes the color of a stormy sea, raging and beautiful and dangerously wild. "It can't be that hard for you to figure out."

"Yes, I know all about your needs," she said evenly, unwilling to back down. "You're right. I have been in your dreams...seen the things that excite you. Felt them. Experienced them firsthand. And I'm still here, standing at your side. Doesn't that tell you anything?"

"It tells me that you're too goddamn trusting for your own good," he sneered. "In case you don't realize it, there's a helluva big difference between dreams and reality, Stratton."

"There doesn't have to be," she told him, her tone calm, which seemed to anger him even more. She could see the muscle ticking in the side of his jaw, feel the furious waves of energy pulsing off him, violent and intense, and yet, she wanted to push him further. Wanted to push him past that infuriating control of his, until he finally let go and gave in to what they both wanted. The moment reminded her of standing before a roaring, raging fire, the intensity of the flames burning her face, while its primal beauty entranced her...enthralling her mind.

She'd never experimented with drugs--not once, in her entire life--but Molly wondered if this was what it felt like...this insatiable craving to feel that hypnotic burn against her skin, all the while knowing that it could end up destroying her in the end.

"Jesus, don't you get it?" he growled, the viciousness of his tone pulling her from her reverie, making her flinch. "There's nothing nice about what I want from you, Molly. The smartest thing you can do is stay the hell away from me."

"That's such bullshit," she shot back, the sharp, husky words heavy on her tongue. Emotion tingled in every cell of her body, prickly and hot, a dizzying combination of frustration and longing, combined with the icy burn of fear that she'd never be able to get through to him.

"You don't frighten me, Ian. The only thing that scares me is knowing that, no matter what happens between us, you're going to walk away when this is over. And you will walk away, won't you? Even if you want to stay, you'll make yourself turn away from me, the same way you've turned away from every other person in your life who's ever cared about you."

"Yeah, running's my specialty," he retorted in a low, ugly tone, taking a step closer, the heat of his chest touching hers, the furious power of him all but a living, breathing thing against her body. "But then I'm sure Elaina's told you all about that. Riley, he's the stand-up guy in our family. Always doing the right thing, walking the straight and narrow, like a goddamn saint. But me, I'm just the self-centered screw-up, who runs as good as his daddy did. Don't ever expect me to be there or to do the right thing, to stick around and save you, because you'll end up disappointed, Molly. Hell, at this rate," he snarled, "you'll probably end up dead."

Molly bit her tongue, fighting the urge to scream in his face. She was so damn tired of hearing him put himself down, when she knew he was so much more than the selfish jerk he made himself out to be. Not perfect, no. But then she'd always been wary of perfection. Perfection wasn't real. Wasn't honest. Perfection was an illusion that could turn on you at the drop of a dime, like a still, pristine beach just hours before the ravaging fury of a hurricane.

Ian Buchanan was angry and rough and bruised inside, but he was also brave and strong and honest. He'd had the strength to pull himself up out of a hellish existence and make something of himself. Had given freely to the mother he'd done his best to forget, without wanting any recognition in return. And now he was determined to keep Molly by his side, to protect her, even when he feared the attraction between them...feared the darkness he carried inside.

No, he wasn't perfect. But she had the strangest, most shocking sensation glowing in the center of her chest that told her he might...just might...be hers.

With a faint tremor to her words, she finally managed to say, "You might not have faith in yourself, Ian, but I do."

He turned away from her, toward the window again, hands shoved back into his pockets as he stared out at that endless pitch of night, the lake water lapping at the shore like something trying to crawl its way out of the inky darkness. "Christ, Molly," he rasped, his voice so low, she could barely hear him. "You have faith in everybody."

"That's not true," she argued, her anger rising like lava building up within a volcano, readying itself to erupt with explosive fury. "I stopped believing in other people a long time ago. I didn't tell you before, about everything that happened when Sara died."

Turning his head sharply to the side, he stared at her through the heavy weight of his lashes.

"I was dating her older brother. Sara's stepbrother. He was my first boyfriend, first kiss, first love," she told him, the hoarse words tumbling out in a choppy, breathless rhythm. "He was my first everything. When Sara's spirit came to me, telling me about the judge, I made the mistake of confiding in him. He acted so worried for me, so concerned. And he talked me into keeping quiet, not saying anything, convincing me he was afraid of what people would do...that they might even try to have me committed." A low, brittle laugh jerked from her throat, and she wrapped her arms around herself as she lowered her stare, focusing on the strong muscles of his throat, the dark silk of his skin. She swallowed, then nervously wet her lips, hating the shame that still flavored her memories, knowing she'd never be able to wash it away.

"He played on my fears perfectly," she explained, forcing herself to get the story out. "And in the end, after everything blew up and the judge was arrested, he came to me, calling me a freak and a stupid little bitch. And then he told me that he'd known all along about the fact that his father was abusing Sara, but had kept it to himself. Said he blamed Sara for acting like a slut and tempting his father, who was only a man. I guess he'd blamed Sara's mother for breaking up his parents' marriage, and he figured her daughter was getting what she deserved."

"Christ."

"So a girl lost her life because I was so gullible," she whispered, her words thick with disgust.

"Because I was scared and stupid and wasted all those weeks keeping my mouth shut, doing what he wanted me to do."

"And that's why you told me last night that you don't get involved with men you meet like this." It wasn't a question. He knew he was right.

She nodded, turning her head to stare out at the infinite stretch of night, the moon barely visible through the tall reaches of the swaying pine trees that lined the far side of the lake. "I learned an ugly lesson about trust the day he told me the truth, and I've never forgotten it."

Taking a deep breath, she looked back at him, the confession falling softly from her lips as she said, "And I've used that lesson as an excuse to close myself off for years, living in my own little world, where nothing can hurt me. Where I don't have to rely on anyone or expect anything from them. Where their actions can't affect me. That's why I told myself I had to fight what was between us. But I can't, Ian. I don't even want to anymore."

Shifting closer to him, Molly put her hand on his arm, wishing he'd turn toward her. Take her in his arms. Hold her. "I've dated since then, but it's always been difficult. Guys aren't exactly understanding about someone like me. And the more I tried to hide it, the bigger the blowup when the truth came out, until I finally just gave up. That's why I haven't had a relationship in so long. But you already know my crazy little secret. And yet you're still here.

You still want me. Don't you think that means something, Ian? That maybe all of this is happening for a reason? Your mother? The dreams? I don't know how to explain it, but it's like..."

"Fate?" he snorted.

She shook her head at his tone. "I'm serious, Ian. Call it whatever you want. Fate. Kismet.

Stupid blind luck. I don't know what it is, and I don't care. I just know that as scared as I am of messing this up--I can't keep trying to convince myself that you're a mistake. You don't feel like a mistake. In some strange, wonderful way, you feel like the best thing that's ever happened to me."

For a long time he just stood there, staring at her, the longing in his dark eyes so intense, so deep and wild and powerful, that she wanted to scream for him to grab on to her. The corner of his mouth twitched with emotion, his blue eyes brightening with the soft glow of wonder, and he lifted his right hand, touching her face, catching a teardrop on his thumb.

And then, from one breath to the next, his expression hardened, like a storm cloud blotting out the promising warmth of the sun, and he took a step back, his deep voice chilling, cutting her to the bone. "I've never been the best thing that's happened to anybody," he muttered. "So don't go wasting your chance on me, Molly. You're going to regret it if you do."

Ravenswing, Monday Afternoon

TRAINING WITH THE WATCHMEN was a bitch. For the past seven hours, Ian had been getting his ass slammed again and again, until he'd finally hit the ground so many times, he suspected his backside was now a gnarly shade of black and blue. He was also hot and hurting, and in a seriously pissed-off mood. One that was getting worse with every pounding kick and punch he received from the bastard fighting him.

Once Quinn had finished with him, Aiden Shrader took over, making the last two hours some of the most painful Ian had ever experienced. Unlike Quinn, who'd been more interested in showing Ian how to fight against something that wasn't human--as well as preparing him for the time when his own body would be altered in its Merrick form--Shrader seemed determined to beat the ever-loving hell out of him. At least two inches taller than Ian, the guy was massive, with muscles poured on top of muscles, and a smart-ass attitude that he directed at everyone around him. His caramel-colored hair fell in shaggy waves below his chin, hazel eyes piercing within a face that probably got him laid whenever he wanted.

Both of Shrader's corded forearms were tattooed from wrist to elbow, the designs a blend of Celtic and pagan symbols that also covered the backs of his knuckles. Ian knew them by memory, because he'd had those knuckles shoved in his face too many times to count. The only bright spot in the afternoon had been when he'd not only busted Shrader's lip, but had managed to blacken one eye.

They'd been dancing around one another for the last minute or so, getting their breath back, when the Watchman suddenly came at him hard and fast, the bulk of his body knocking Ian to the ground. A cloud of dust swallowed them, their limbs tangling as each man fought for dominance, their bodies rolling over the sandy lot they used for training. It was hidden out of sight of the main house, behind a long L-shaped garage that housed an impressive collection of cars.

The world spun as they rolled side over side, and the next thing Ian knew, he had a vicious set of jaws clamped on to his forearm. He roared at the fiery burn of pain, unable to believe the bastard had actually bitten him.

"What the hell was that?" he snarled, staring at Shrader as the guy moved to a crouch beside him, wiping the back of one tattooed hand over his mouth. The Watchman sent him a slow, arrogant smile, the bright glare of afternoon sunlight glinting off the pointed tips of what appeared to be a sinister set of fangs. "Just giving you a taste of what you're going to be up against," he drawled in a gritty rasp.