Bound Guardian Angel (47 page)

He took a step closer and glanced toward his
mate. “That was before I met Sam.”

Cordray glanced at Sam, who blew Micah a
demure kiss before turning her attention back to the cutting board
in front of her. She was slicing grape tomatoes in half and tossing
them in a large glass bowl.

Cordray turned back toward Micah. “You
expect me to believe that just by taking a mate, you’re a changed
male?
Completely
changed.” She knew that Sam had brought out
a better version of Micah than had been there before, but surely
remnants from his past still remained.

His dark eyes narrowed as he crossed his
arms over his chest and leaned his hip against the side of the
counter. “Oh, that’s right, you’re not mated.”

“Micah . . .” Sam cast him a
reproachful glance.

Micah lifted his fingers toward her. “No,
Sam. I think Cordray needs a lesson in what happens when a male
takes a mate.”

Cordray crossed her arms and reclined
defiantly in her seat. “I know enough.” She exchanged glances with
Sam, whose eyes filled with compassion. After last night’s
conversation, Sam knew exactly how up-close-and-personal she’d been
with the mating phenomenon.

Micah cocked his head to one side. “What you
know is the equivalent of book smarts. And book smarts don’t mean
shit on the streets.” He let out a derisive puff. “Book smarts tell
you that the lunar cycle impacts the tide and that changes in air
pressure create wind, and all that shit. But until you walk along
the beach, with the surf washing over your feet as the tide comes
in and the wind is blowing through your hair, you have no idea how
it actually feels.

“Same with mating. You know the semantics.
You know the biological explanation. You know what you’ve heard
from others. But you’ve never actually experienced it. You don’t
really know how it
feels
.” His gaze pierced hers under
black, furrowed eyebrows.

Sam shifted uncomfortably, her gaze
troubled. “Micah, stop it.”

But Micah wasn’t ready to stop. Sam might
hold sway over him, but not in this instance. “When you’ve
experienced mating firsthand, Cordray, then you can talk to me
about how I am or am not a changed person now that I’ve mated
Sam.”

Damn, Micah sure was ultrasensitive
tonight.

“Fine. Whatever. You’ve changed. Blah, blah,
blah.” She flapped her hand like it was inside a hand puppet. “I’m
sorry I brought it up. Just make sure you don’t fuck up Operation
Grudge Match, and I’ll never have to say I told you so.” She set
down her half-empty coffee mug and stood.

“Aren’t you staying for breakfast?” Sam
said.

Cordray eyed the buffet of lemon poppy seed
waffles, raspberry coulis, salmon on top of scrambled eggs, and
tomatoes. But at least the jar of olives was gone. Still, her
stomach did a little somersault.

She placed her palm on her belly. “I don’t
think my stomach could take food right now, but thanks anyway.” Her
headache was better, but she still felt like crap on top of shit.
Her belly was in no mood for food, especially when what she really
needed was blood. “And really,” she added, gesturing toward the
strange mix of foods, “I’m not sure if this is breakfast, dinner,
or dessert.” Sam sure had kooky tastes.

Sam stabbed a bite of waffle and smiled. “I
was craving lemon waffles and salmon this evening. Go figure.”

She shook her head, glanced toward Micah,
who reached around and stole another piece of salmon, and then
grabbed her jacket from the arm of the couch. “Well, enjoy your
breakfast.” To Micah, she said, “I’ll e-mail Digon and let him know
I can vouch for you.” She shrugged into her coat.

He nodded once in acknowledgement as he
dipped a segment of waffle in the raspberry coulis.

As Cordray started for the door, Sam said,
“Stop by anytime, Cordray.” The tone in her voice held a plethora
of unspoken messages, all obviously aimed at what they’d discussed
last night.

Cordray glanced over her shoulder. Sam was
watching her with a mix of concern and hope, as if she were a
mother watching her firstborn child take the car keys for the first
time.

Cordray paused and dipped inside her
thoughts.

Tell him. Please tell him. You need to tell him that
you love him.

She squinted and bit her bottom lip as she
averted her gaze. “I’ve gotta go.”

She dashed toward the door, yanked it open,
let it slam behind her as she descended the porch steps two at a
time, and then hopped on her Ducati.

Within seconds, she was zooming away from
Micah’s home, vowing never to speak of her feelings for Trace
again.

Chapter 24

The farther Trace drove from Asylum, the more his
chest ached. And the more his chest ached, the more pissed off his
inner beast became. Which, in turn, pissed
him
off.

For God’s sake, what the fuck was up with
his goddamn power? He’d been worked over by Micah only a few days
ago.
Hard
. Not spank-me-with-a-noodle hard, but
rip-my-mind-from-my-body hard. The waxing session had been the most
intense session he’d ever endured. But as puny as getting waxed
sounded, his beast should have been sated ten times over, not
clawing at him for another round.

By the time he reached Micah’s house, he was
almost doubled over and damn near ready to melt. His right hand
trembled uncontrollably. His entire body hummed with mounting
pressure. Fear replaced anger. Worry filled his heart.

His power had never claimed him so quickly
before, but he felt as if he were on the verge of exploding like an
overly inflated tire driving over jagged granite. There was only so
much tension his body could take before it snapped and unleashed
the full force of his power.

Wincing as a shard of agony ripped through
his chest, he staggered up to the keypad for the garage, managed to
punch in the security code, then ducked under the bay door as it
slowly crept upward. At the inside door, he gasped and clutched his
chest as he gripped the handle and twisted it.

Sam’s laughter coming from the kitchen was
music to his ears, as was Micah’s deep voice, but neither calmed
the strain compressing his lungs. It felt like a giant fist was
wrapped around his torso, squeezing his rib cage, mashing his
organs together.

He hesitated in the hallway and pressed his
right palm against the wall to keep him upright. The plaster
vibrated under his hand and cracked.

This was bad. If he didn’t get to Micah
soon . . . if he couldn’t reach his master in
time . . . he would mutate. That had to be what was
happening to him. Never before had he felt such agony—such intense
suffering.

Micah laughed from the kitchen. “No, baby,
you put the banana liqueur in first, then the brandy.”

“Like this?”

Trace could hear the smile in Sam’s voice.
He could practically see the shimmer in her clover-green eyes as
she looked up at Micah with complete adoration filling every angle
of her face.

How he wanted a female to look at him the
way Sam looked at Micah.

“Whoa! That’s enough,” Micah said. “Are you
trying to get me drunk?”

Sam giggled.

Trace pulled himself toward the kitchen, his
hand dragging over the wall, leaving a hairline fracture in the
paint as his power simmered just below the boiling point.

He turned the corner, saw Micah standing
beside Sam at the stove.

“Now, stand back,” Micah said. He was
holding the handle of a sauté pan.

Sam leaned away just as Trace fell to his
knees.

“Master . . .” The agony was
so great he could only whisper. “I need you.”

They couldn’t hear him, too absorbed by
whatever it was they were cooking.

Micah lifted the handle of the pan. “Let the
edge of the liquid catch the flame,” Micah said. “Like this.”

“Master . . .” Trace clutched
his chest.

A plume of blue-orange flames burst from the
pan.

Fire!

Mother!

Oh God!

Trace shrieked as pain knifed his soul and
memories of his mother burning to death blasted into his mind,
almost blinding him with its ferocity.

Sam jumped and spun around. “Oh my God!
Micah, help him!”

Micah dropped the pan back onto the burner,
the flames stretching upward, and immediately lunged for him.
“Trace! What’s wrong?”

All Trace could see was fire. Maddening,
life-taking fire.

His mother dying.

Because of him.

His power spiraled into a vortex. He was
going to let loose. He could feel it. And there was nothing he
could do to stop it.

“Sam!” Micah reached for her. “Help me!”

She started forward.

“No!” Trace lurched away from them both.
“Stay away from me!” He didn’t want to kill them. He didn’t want to
take yet another beautiful, innocent life the way he’d taken his
mother’s.

If only he’d been more disciplined. More
responsible.

Micah grabbed his arm. “I’m here, buddy.
I’ve got you. Stay with me.”

Trace tried to pull away, feeling his power
slither down his arm and coil in the palm of his hand. “Get away
from me. You and Sam have to get away from me now. NOW!” He thrust
his fist against the floor, forcing the leash to stay on his beast
just a little bit longer even as a shockwave of energy pulsed down
his arm. A dull boom sounded as the earth trembled.

He was losing the battle. Shit was going
critical.

Sam froze, wide-eyed, terrified and unsure
what she should do.

“Get away from me, Sam!”

Her panicked gaze flew to Micah, imploring
him to do something.

Fear flickered over Micah’s face, then
determination hardened his features as he slowly rose to his feet.
As he did, his master’s persona fell into place until he stood tall
and proud, confident, in total Domination mode. “Do you dare tell
me what to do in my own home, slave? You dare to speak to my mate
in such a way?”

Fast as lightning, Micah’s hand shot out,
striking him across the cheek.

Trace’s head whipped to the side, but the
wicked slap came just in time, seconds before his power would have
burst from his hand and obliterated everything within a fifty-foot
radius.

For the moment, he was saved. They all were,
but the dull throbbing in his chest persisted, and his power
remained poised to strike.

“Master . . .” He turned
pleading eyes up at Micah. “What’s wrong with me?”

* * *

Micah wasn’t sure if the question was literal,
figurative, or rhetorical, so he didn’t know how to answer. There
was nothing wrong with Trace in the figurative sense, but right
now—at this very moment—it was obvious something was most
definitely and gravely wrong with him in the literal.

“I don’t know,” he said a moment later.

He had never seen Trace in such awful shape.
He was pale, and for a dark-skinned male, that was saying
something. Sallow hollows filled the space under his eyes. Dots of
perspiration sprinkled the skin above his upper lip. The guy looked
shredded and completely strung out.

“Help me.” Trace’s pale eyes beseeched his,
the pain he was experiencing evident in the twist of his lips and
the way he grimaced as he clutched his chest.

He knelt in front of his best friend and
placed his hand over his bald head. “Let me in, Trace,” he coaxed
gently. “Open up your mind and let me in. I can help you better if
I can see what’s going on inside here.” He tapped his fingers on
Trace’s head.

Trace closed his eyes with an air of regret.
“I can’t.”

“Can’t? Or won’t?”

“Does it matter? The result is the
same.”

Anger surged through Micah’s blood, and he
rose to his full height. Trace’s refusal was unacceptable.

“Are you saying that you are willfully and
intentionally keeping me out of your thoughts?”

Trace remained silent, head shamefully
bowed, hands on his thighs.

Micah paced to the side and shot a look over
his shoulder at Sam. “Turn that off.” He pointed to the burner.
“Make sure everything is shut down in here, and then go down to my
dungeon and prepare the table.”

He knew he wasn’t Sam’s Dom and that he
shouldn’t be bossing her around, but he was through being nice. He
was going to deal with this shit with Trace today, and Sam was
going to help him. Together, they were going to make Trace open up,
even if it took all night, because this shit couldn’t go on like
this anymore. Trace had come within seconds of killing them
all.

Anyone else would tell Trace to get lost and
never come back, but that wasn’t an option for Micah. No way would
he lose his best friend when he had vowed to take care of him. And
so help him God, he kept his promises.

Since banishing Trace was off the table,
that left only one solution. Pry open the gridlock Trace had on his
mind by force.

Sam disappeared down the stairs.

He paced back toward Trace and stood in
front of him, feet solidly planted shoulder-width apart, arms
crossed.

“Look at me,” he commanded.

Trace flinched but kept his head down.

“I said
look at me
!”

Trace sighed in defeat then lifted his head.
The misery and sorrow pulling on Trace’s features nearly shattered
Micah’s heart. His friend was in hell. Despair and heartache had
Trace fully in their grip.

What could be going on inside Trace’s head
to make him so miserable? So hopeless?

“I told you during our first session that
you would let me in, Trace. Remember?”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, Master.”

“And yet you tell me that you still refuse
to open up to me. Not that you
can’t
, but that you
won’t
. There’s a big difference between the two, slave.
Can’t is out of your control. Won’t is within it. And yet you still
won’t let me in, knowing that I can’t fully be your master until
you do. Knowing I can’t save you from yourself until I can see
inside your mind.”