Broken Heart 08 Must Love Lycans (22 page)

I was, of course, interpreting the riot of his emotions. I had plenty of time to practice over the years, especially as a psychotherapist. He was trying to go cold on me again, to push me away, to push everyone away. Something had happened to break his confidence, his faith in himself, and he’d coped by separating himself from pesky emotions. That was no way to live. In fact, it wasn’t living at all. And he needed to know the value of joy, of laughter, of singing, of spontaneity.

“Don’t,” I said. I took his face in my hands. “I told you, Damian. If you have to put on that mask for everyone else, then okay. But not with me.”

He stilled, his expression going carefully blank, his eyes displaying distant curiosity.

“If I only have a month to live,” I said, “then I want every day to be filled with wonderful things. With you. With sex. And cupcakes.”

He cracked a smile, and then seemed surprised that he’d done so. He turned his head and pressed a kiss to my palm. “I will give you everything within my power,” he said. “Including all the cupcakes you can eat.”

“And you won’t turn into Statue Man?”

“Not with you,” he promised.

“And you’ll have sex with me whenever I want?”

“I shall try to live with the inconvenience of servicing you.”

“Sweet. Then let’s go see Dr. Michaels.”

Chapter 9

T
he visit to Dr. Stan Michaels was anticlimatic. We met him and his wife, Linda, at their house, which was sorta out by itself in the middle of nowhere. They did, however, have a killer pool—with a rock waterfall and everything. And get this—it smelled like lavender.

Anyway.

We ended up going to the basement laboratory, which was filled with shiny tables and fancy equipment and a number of machines I couldn’t begin to identify.

He took blood, scraped off some skin, and even plucked some hair. He did the same to Damian, told us it would be a couple of days before he got back any results, and then we were on our way home.

Well, almost.

“She’s too warm,” said Damian. “And she’s—”

Dr. Michaels stared at Damian, waiting for him to continue. And I stared at Damian, too, and smirked. My poor lycan pressed his lips together, unable to verbalize that I was too horny for his own comfort.

“I’m what?” I goaded.

“Can you just check her temperature?” asked Damian.

“I did,” said Dr. Michaels. “She’s running a little hot, but lycans have a higher body temperature. It’s nothing abnormal.”

“So I am officially a werewolf?”

“Given your pupil dilation, your higher body temperature, your increased strength, and heightened senses … I would say you are. But the blood work will confirm.”

“You think I’ll survive my first shift?”

He looked away, studying the wall for a few seconds, and then he sighed. “I don’t know. Lycanthropes are a different species, and their bodies are designed to shift. You are a human. It’s unclear if your body will accept all the changes necessary to become a full lycan.”

“Like a patient who gets a new heart, or a kidney,” I mused. “I could suffer a transplant rejection.”

“In a way,” agreed Dr. Michaels. “Lycans and humans cannot procreate because lycan DNA essentially destroys anything perceived as foreign matter, including human eggs or semen.”

“So the fact I’m alive means my body has accepted the lycan DNA?”

“Or it means that the serum is combating the effects and once it runs its course, you will be vulnerable again.”

“And yet I’m manifesting werewolf characteristics.”

“Yes,” he said, offering a small smile. “That does seem to indicate a positive outcome.”

I beamed at Damian. He arched a brow, his expression serious, but I detected a sliver of relief that managed to wiggle through his weighty concern. Aw. He was so cute.

“I still recommend quarantine,” said Dr. Michaels. “At least until I get the test results back and can determine the extent of your condition.”

“You think I could be dangerous?” I was completely flummoxed by this idea.

“This is a rather historic situation,” he said. “There is no one else like you, Ms. Morningstone. We have no idea how the changes might manifest. Not even the blood work will tell me that. It’s safer to keep you contained until we have more information.”

“That makes sense,” I said. “I don’t want anyone to get hurt if I accidentally go all furry and fangy.”

“I will take care of you,” said Damian. He nodded to Dr. Michaels, and then grasped my hand and led me out of the doctor’s house.

Damian drove us back to the compound—and to his little white house at the end of a whole row of little white houses. They even had picket fences. His was tidy, but boring. No flowers, no paint, no color. Everything was neat and in its place, no comfortable messes in the yard, not even a carelessly tossed hose or a pile of rust-colored leaves. The only incongruity was the snowspattered grass. The porch was too small for a rocking chair, which was too bad because I liked to imagine owning a house with a wraparound porch and space for a couple of old-fashioned rocking chairs. Somewhere in that fantasy was a table that held a bouquet of spring flowers and freshly made lemonade. Or mint juleps. I’d always wanted to try a mint julep.

Damian didn’t even have a welcome mat on the tiny porch, which seemed sad to me. Not even in that small way could he invite people into his life. It was another symbol of his attempts to keep everyone in their places—far away from him.

Damian’s cell rang as we walked inside. He shut and locked the door, then plucked the BlackBerry from his pocket and continued into the kitchen. While he had his conversation, I went into the living room and studied the bookshelves. Talk about eclectic. Louis L’Amour paperbacks were squeezed next to science textbooks; there was a whole section of Charlaine Harris novels and underneath those, leather volumes of Shakespeare. Then I spotted a series of slim hardcovers with titles like
Vampires Are Real!
and
Aliens Are Real!
and
Werewolves Are Real!

I grabbed the werewolf one and settled on the couch to leaf through the pages. A few minutes later, Damian walked into the living room.

“I’ve updated Patsy on your condition.”

“What about her condition?”

“It appears you were correct about her pregnancy.”

“Yay, me.” I looked up from the book. “And where will I be quarantined?”

“Here,” he said. “I will watch you for as long as necessary. My brothers will take over my duties until I can resume them.”

“What duties?”

“I head up the security for Broken Heart and for the queen.”

“I thought you were the crown prince of the lycans.”

He gave a short nod. “Yes. I suppose I will not have to worry about Broken Heart for much longer.”

“Where are your parents?”

For a moment, Damian looked as though I’d struck him. He went pale, his gaze opaque. I shut the book, alarmed. “What?”

“Why would you ask about my parents?”

“Other than it’s a typical ‘getting to know you’ question, I assume that the king and queen of werewolves have to be alive somewhere, otherwise you wouldn’t be a crown prince.”

“Oh.” He crossed his arms. “It’s complicated. I do not wish to discuss it.”

“Okay.”

He narrowed his gaze. “You are not going to harangue me about this issue?”

“Good use of ‘harangue,’” I said. “And no, I won’t. If you want to tell me, you’ll tell me.” I smiled. “Do you know you speak formally when you’re in Statue Man mode?”

“You are psychoanalyzing me,” he accused.

“Making an observation,” I corrected. “Do you want to fight? Because we can do that if it’ll make you feel better.”

“Did I say I wanted to fight?”

“Why would you say that?” I rose from the couch and walked past him. “You’re too much a warrior to give away your strategy.”

He seemed disconcerted by my sudden exit, and turned to follow me down the hallway. I opened the bedroom door, flipped on the light, and stepped inside. “Is this the only bedroom?”

“Yes,” he said in tight voice. “I’m sorry if it displeases you.”

“Are you?” I asked, amused at his continued irritation. “Then you should probably do something about it so that I’m no longer displeased.”

“It’s my house. I decide if anything should be changed.” He made a show of looking around. “I like it.”

“Okay.” I unzipped my dress and stepped out of it. Then I went to the still-unmade bed, and started removing all the items piled on top of it. Damian watched me in frosty silence—even when he muscled in to take the suitcase, which he heaved over to the closet and stuck inside. I put the lingerie box on the dresser, and then pushed the cupcake box close to where I planned to tuck in. Oh, yeah. I was gonna eat cupcakes in bed. I needed a nap, and probably some real food, but what was the fun in that?

I stood up and half turned. “I forgot my book.”

Damian’s gaze jerked up to meet mine. He’d been examining my backside, and I knew he wanted me again. I knew because I wanted him. However, he was trying very hard not to desire me. Something had spooked him—perhaps the reminder that I was almost lycan, but mostly human. Or that he cared about me, and that scared him, or maybe he didn’t like that he couldn’t hide his feelings from me. That tended to irk everyone, not just big grumpy werewolves. I could probably drop my shields and cull through his emotions, but I was feeling a little vulnerable myself. Damian’s feelings were powerful, so much so I was absorbing and reflecting them as easily as my own. I didn’t want to repeat past mistakes—but the circumstances were not completely under my control, especially during lovemaking.

“I will retrieve your book,” he said. He returned a minute later and handed me
Werewolves Are Real!

“Thank you.” I put the book on the bed. Then I placed my hands on his chest and reached up on tippy toes to brush my lips across his.

He didn’t step away, but he didn’t touch me back, either. “I have ruined your life,” he said. “I may have even killed you.”

Ah. So that was it. He was feeling guilty. Our visit to the good Dr. Michaels had reminded him that all was not well. It was difficult for anyone to stop using the coping skills that had served them in the past. It took patience and time and a willingness to replace the old behaviors with new ones. Getting Damian to stop retreating behind his stone mask would be difficult—and only possible if he wanted to discard it.

“We may have limited time together, and I don’t want to spend it in recrimination.” I cupped his cheek. “I know better than anyone that feelings are complicated, and it’s not easy to deal with them. You do what you have to, okay? If you want to talk, I’m here.”

He studied me for the longest time, and then he cracked. The tension went out of his body, and he gathered me into his arms. “You are not like anyone I’ve ever known. You’re not scared of me. And you react to situations oddly.”

“Is that a compliment?” I asked.

“An observation,” he said, grinning.

I kissed him, and started tugging at his shirt, but he stilled my hands. “It may be wise to refrain from sex until we know more about your condition.”

“No backsies,” I said.

“What?”

“You can’t undo what we’ve already done. And therefore, we should keep doing it.”

“That made no sense.”

I sighed. “All right, Damian. If you think we should refrain, then we’ll refrain.” I gave him my most pitiful look. “But it makes me very, very sad.”

“I bought you cupcakes. They are the antidote to sad.”

“Well, I do love a good cupcake … especially if I can smear it across you and lick it off.”

“You know,” said Damian hoarsely, “refraining may be overrated. Perhaps only a precaution is necessary.”

“What kind of precaution?” I asked, suspicious.

“Condoms.” He brushed my hair away from my face. “If Dr. Michaels is right, and you are already turning into a lycan, we cannot risk pregnancy.”

“But we already have, haven’t we?”

“Yes. It was foolish of me to risk it.”

“Why did you?”

A flush of red crawled up his neck. “When I make love to you, I cannot think straight.”

“That’s a good thing.” I hadn’t thought about the possibility of children. I could see why Damian would be concerned. If I got pregnant, but didn’t survive the initial shift, I would destroy two lives. My physical need for Damian was weakening my emotional barriers. It appeared that I wouldn’t be able to keep my walls strong and steady around him.

And that was a tad discomfiting.

There was something else bothering him—the echo of a past decision, a past shame that mirrored what was unfolding between us. Him and Anna. The lycans and the Roma. Second chances—or grievous loss.

“I broke my promise,” said Damian.

“You would never break a promise.”