Authors: Asha King
His words made her heart speed oddly. He sounded...sad. And a warm pain bloomed in her chest, a sudden ache she didn’t quite understand.
Addie brushed it off and finished taping gauze to his side, then brushed her hands off.
“Who was your grandmother?” he asked.
She paused, took a deep breath, and avoided his eyes. So he
could
hear well. And it was an odd question. “Just...an old woman. This was her house before she died—everyone knew her around here.”
“A family recipe.”
He stared at the mortar, which she swiftly snatched up along with the first aid supplies.
She might have decided her grandmother wasn’t crazy but she still wasn’t eager to talk about it.
“I’ll make some lunch,” she said as she quickly rose. She was out of the living room and into the kitchen before he could respond.
Sunlight streamed through the large kitchen windows along the back of the house, giving the room a warm yellow glow. For a moment she paused at the counter beside the sink and stared out the backyard beyond the porch.
If she closed her eyes, she swore she’d hear Granmama’s voice. The cluck of her tongue in a teasing chide, mumbling as she touched the saint medal at her throat. Her long weathered fingers would tap little Addie’s head as she smiled down at her.
The floor creaked directly behind her and Addie startled, hair fanning out as she swung around.
Erik stood there; he’d snuck up quiet as, well, as a
cat
. He was mere inches away and stared down at her. Gold ringed his amber eyes that studied her intently.
He still wore no shirt, his cut muscled torso seeming to radiate heat. For a moment she could imagine running her hands over his smooth skin and her heart fluttered. A deep blush moved down her neck from her face, fanning out to her breasts, the purely physical reaction to his presence both out of place and startling.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Addie swallowed dryly, parted her lips to speak though she couldn’t come up with something to say.
“I’m sorry for prying,” he said, his voice a low rumble like the purr of a big cat.
Addie leaned against the counter at her back, feeling trapped in a way that was not at all unpleasant. She took in a breath and held it, shivers rushing across her skin. “It’s okay. I...I pried first.”
“But I’m imposing on you. You have every right to ask.”
He seemed to move closer—whether he’d actually stepped any nearer, she couldn’t say. But her head tilted back, holding his eyes. Every fiber of her being wanted to reach out; she coiled her hands into fists at her side to stop herself. This wasn’t like her at all but all logic was leaving swiftly.
“You’ll tell me,” she said. “When you’re ready?”
Erik stared down at her and she no longer saw the bruises or cuts over his skin, just the beautiful man beneath them. His Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed, waiting before answering. “Yes.”
Oddly, she believed him.
His mouth opened to say something else and then he swayed; whatever energy he’d had, he used just getting to the kitchen.
Immediately she darted forward, lifting his arm and tucking herself beneath it. “Sit back down in the living room. I’ll make lunch.”
He accepted her help and said nothing else on the matter, though she hoped they’d return to the conversation soon.
And hopefully when I’m a little less flustered
.
Chapter Eight
Addie sensed another storm rolling in as the weekend continued on.
She’d never felt quite so hypersensitive to it; as the thick clouds filled the sky, they seemed to press down and added a weight to the air in her house. Lighting was coming, an electrical current running through the air. By Sunday she was restless with the feel of it. She paced all afternoon, was sure to feed the feral cats in the yard and secure the shed, then busied herself around the house. By the time evening fell, the storm was hitting hard. When the power went out, she retired to her room to sleep
Of course, sleeping wasn’t easy with a tiger in the other room, even if he currently looked like a man.
She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Rain beat against the window and shadows rippled on the wall across from it. Lightning periodically lit the sky and thunder shook the house. Though she avoided staring at the bedside clock, she sensed midnight’s approach.
Erik was getting stronger, bit by bit—she regularly made him tea out of a vaguely remembered recipe of her grandmother’s, and that seemed to ease the fever. Bandages were changed twice a day and that wound was healing up. He moved around her house more on his own, helping with the dishes, keeping his space beside the fireplace tidy.
He never relaxed, though. Not even when he slept, which seemed fitful and never deep. There seemed to always be a tension around him, like he was bracing for something.
Probably something violent, if she had to guess.
Then there was the matter of him not leaving the floor.
Her offers of the spare room or even the couch were always deflected, sometimes with a casual decline, other times with a misdirect. Maybe the hardwood, being less comfortable, made it easier for him to be alert, but more and more she suspected it was that he wasn’t used to anything else. It took everything in her not to press for more information.
And if he was getting better, she had to question how much longer he’d stay.
She rolled onto her side, closing her eyes and willing sleep to hurry up. She didn’t
want
to think about that, after all. Addie...enjoyed his company, more than she would’ve expected. He was quiet and tidy, spending his hours awake reading books from her living room shelf or helping her around the house. He spoke about general things, but never himself or what he’d come from. She expected within the next few days, she’d wake up one morning and find him gone, disappearing from her life as abruptly as he’d entered.
Ugh. Stop thinking. Try to sleep.
But even then, as her consciousness faded, it was his amber eyes playing in her mind that followed her into the darkness.
Amber eyes that closed, exhausted. A heavy, deep sigh rumbled the air.
He pulled himself up onto tired legs and heavy paws thumped on the ground as he surged forward, blinking tiredly. Blood was slippery across the basement’s cement floor where it pooled toward the middle, but he ignored the bodies stacked aside, just kept on moving. Cell bars rose on either side of him, looming in his peripheral vision.
One slip was all it had taken. Just one. Cell didn’t latch right and he’d seemed too weak—they didn’t think anything of it, just left him there to die.
This would be his only chance.
The others who were still on top of their game rattled at the bars, shook the cell doors. Shouts roars, hisses. Yellow light wove up to the ceiling in his far right, the spot where magic users were house and bound from doing anything.
His heart pounded painfully, erratically. Eyes blinked and the world seemed to tilt beneath his paws, but he continued for the far door. It was opening, just a few inches, voices spilling out; they’d do a round, start carting out bodies.
The metal door creaked open, someone laughed.
He leapt.
A surge of adrenaline gave him strength and speed. His claws sliced through throats, cutting the men off mid-cry. He was painted in their blood by the time he was through and then he ran, leaving crimson streaked footprints behind him.
He heard the voices above—the laughing, glasses striking in toasts, the jeers and cheering. An announcer called out—he couldn’t make out the names but someone new would enter the ring.
They’d be distracted above.
He moved through the complex in a blur, keeping to shadows, moving swiftly, cutting through anyone in his way, ignoring each wound that stung with every step. And when he crashed through a window at last, he was certain that was it, but soft ground met him, cushioning his fall. Broken glass scraped at him but he ignored it, pulled himself up, ran again.
And ran.
Thunder seemed to shake the ground and trees rattled from the wind. Rain soaked him, cleaning his pelt of blood. Lighting flashed, helping to guide him away from the complex.
Freedom. All he wanted, all he needed was freedom. His heart ached at the mere thought of it, at the possibility of dying free. He breathed in the cool, damp air, let it fill his lungs.
They’d pursue, he knew. They’d catch him. Lincoln always caught everyone. His only hope was to die first.
The world flickered around him, brightening, colorizing. He saw her then. Sanctuary. Safety wrapped around him—
But something tore through it, a jagged edge knife slicing through her warmth. Her house went dark, she went dark—everything so, so dark, and he knew, he KNEW, somehow he’d led them here and—
Erik sat up suddenly, abruptly, backing up in a rush, his hand locking onto the first weapon he came in contact with. His back struck the brick fireplace and his heart hammered as his brain seemed to fully waken.
Moonlight poured through the windows and lit the living room. Addie was crouched on the floor next to where he’d been sleeping, her hands raised and fingers splayed. Her eyes were wide, lips were forming words he couldn’t quite make out—he still heard his own steps beating across the ground, the jeers of the crowd.
Awake. You’re awake.
You’re safe.
He came back to himself and sagged, brick fireplace scraping his back. His hands shaking, he lowered the fire poker he’d grabbed, tried to calm down.
“You’re okay,” Addie was repeating. “Erik?”
But he remembered the dream, remembered the danger he was putting her in by being here.
He tried to rise but she reached for him, took his wrist and pulled him back down. Her small hands were firm, strong.
“Talk to me,” she said softly, her fingers drifting down to twine with his.
Erik crouched down again, stared at her. If her home was a sanctuary, he
had
to be hidden. It was just a dream, he wasn’t thinking clearly.
Was he?
“Erik?”
He swallowed dryly. His chest still rose and fell rapidly as he struggled to get his breathing under control—he felt like he’d actually been running.
Pillows waited around him; he cleaned them up during the day but at night she always put them back on the floor where he slept. It was a sweet gesture, and he felt bad that she worried about his comfort. But she didn’t know how he didn’t trust kindness, still.
Though looking at her, moonlight threading silver through her hair, her eyes on his, he thought maybe she
did
know.
She was in the dream
.
Erik let out a breath, cast his gaze aside. A strange embarrassment rose up in him.
“Erik?”
He pulled his hand from hers, turned to settle back down once more. “Just a nightmare. I’ll go back to sleep.” But as he tried to lie down, he felt her hand run up his shoulder. Soft, warm. The gentleness hurt more than being hit did.
She moved, her arms wrapping around him, and he let her. Let himself be cradled in warmth and kindness for just a little while.
“I saw you...run,” she said at last, and cleared her throat. “I think. I can’t remember the last time that happened and I never knew if...”
How could she not know what she was?
He turned, found her on the floor next to him, her head propped on a pillow. He stared down at her; if she tilted her head back just slightly, her lips would be inches from his. Heat rushed through her body, warming him where their flesh made contact. Her lips were close enough to touch and he felt himself sinking closer and closer. His entire body craved her, cock hardening, wanting to roll her on her back, feel her beneath him, touch every part of her.
But you won’t because you’re not good enough.
He reined himself in, tried to focus on anything else. His eyes lifted so he was staring at the ceiling instead but he couldn’t quite force himself to let her go or tell her to leave. Instead he shifted, got his arm under her, and held her tight to him. She crossed her arm over his bare chest, her fingers brushing his side below the bandage and sending tingles through him.
“Am I crazy?” she whispered.
Not the first time she’d asked that and the more she said it, the more of an edge her voice seemed to take on.
“You’re not crazy,” he reassured her. “You were...in my dream.”
Memory
.
“How long had you been there?”
The complex? He couldn’t even remember anymore. He didn’t know for sure how old he even was. “Four or five years there, I think.”
“Before that?” She snuggled in deeper, which only intensified his want of her.
“I ran for a few years. Hid.” That was when he’d escaped his previous “owners”. They’d kept him for his own good, they’d said. Ever since his parents were...exterminated. Run, hide, captive. Over and over again.
The day Lincoln bought him after winning in the ring was perhaps the worst, though. Because his fate had been sealed and he knew he’d never have a chance to win freedom, never run again.
“Tell me about your grandmother,” Erik said before she could ask more.
She tensed, even seemed to hold her breath. But her grandmother, he was certain, held the key—that history would explain things for him.
“My grandmother lived here,” she said at last. “I spent some time with her growing up. She was crazy. Institutionalized. She died there when I was little. When my mother died, I inherited her house and what was left of her things.”
The barebones story, her voice light and casual. But it was enough for him to fill in the details.
“Your grandmother wasn’t crazy and neither are you.”
“Well, you turn into a tiger. You’re not really one to judge.”
He wished he could make her believe, that he could explain, somehow.
Explain how much danger she’d be in if someone like Lincoln found her and figured out how she is?