Bound in Black (22 page)

“It won’t be long. You can have a seat in the bar while you wait.”

“Thank you.”

Hands tucked in my jacket pockets, I ambled into the bar and sat on a stool, my only company the old gentleman two stools down, who nursed a pint of dark beer.

“What can I get you?” asked the bartender, a rough-looking guy with kind eyes.

“Um, just a cup of coffee please. Waiting on takeout.”

With a nod, he disappeared for two minutes and returned with the coffee, placing it on the bar along with packets of sugar and a tiny jug of milk. “Here you are.”

“Thank you.”

He went back to stacking the rack of clean bar glasses. I stirred the milk and sugar in the coffee, then took a sip. Not the same as café au lait but still nice and warm.

“You closing up early?” I asked.

“We sure are. For Christmas and all.”

Christmas? I frowned and pulled out the phone I’d tucked in my jacket before leaving the cottage. Wow. It was December 25th, and it had never dawned on me. I had two missed calls. I listened to the messages from Mindy and Dad, wishing me a merry Christmas. How had it never even dawned on me what day it was?

A year ago, I would’ve been curled up by our big tree in the living room, listening to Bing Crosby with Dad and making s’mores by the fire—carefree, happy and oblivious to the angel/demon world. That was also before Jude—the love of my life who didn’t even know me anymore. I shook my head at my sad state.

“Not keeping Christmas with your family?” asked the old guy next to me with a thick Scottish accent.

Shocked out of my self-pity, I glanced over with a small smile. “Afraid not.”

“You’re American. Traveling the world on your own, are you?”

“Yeah. Sort of.”

“A bit young to be doing such a thing, in my opinion.”

If he only knew the places I’d traveled already. Sure, I was a bit young. But I’d grown decades in the past few months. My happy little life of college and clubbing had come to an abrupt halt on my twentieth birthday. With the Great War pressing ever closer, I’d been slapped into a reality that required mature focus and a very adult outlook.

“I suppose I am,” I agreed.

“Don’t look happy about it.”

Was I that transparent? Even to a stranger? Probably.

“Just a little homesick, I guess.”

“Aye. I’d say it’s more than that.”

He angled his body to get a better look at me, then reached out his hand for a shake. I took it in mine—well-worn but strong.

“My name’s Murdoch.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Genevieve.”

“Genevieve. Lovely name for a lovely girl. And a lonely girl, I’d say.”

I smiled at the way
girl
was drawn out with rolling r’s like “gurrel”.

“Yes, I suppose I am. I’m missing someone. Terribly.”

“Aye. Your man, I’d bet.”

“Are you a psychic or something?”

He chuckled. “No. Just old. I’ve seen enough heartbroken women to know what one looks like.”

“Break a few hearts yourself?” I asked, teasing.

“I did. Quite a few. In my time,” he said with a wink, draining the last of his beer. He knocked his knuckles on the bar. “One more, Hamish. For the road.”

The bartender turned from his cleaning and nodded.

“I hope you’re not driving,” I said, suddenly worried about the old guy. “The weather seems to be getting worse.” And no telling how many beers he’d had.

The bartender set another pint glass in front of him. “Don’t worry about him, miss. He lives about a mile away. Always walks.”

“Convenient too,” said Murdoch. “The wife can’t complain when I get my exercise. Two miles a day for an old man’s good for the lungs and heart.”

He took a deep gulp. Hamish turned back to his duties, disappearing into the kitchen.

“Won’t your wife be wanting you home? On Christmas?”

“Oh aye. She’ll be nipping my head by the time I make my way home. But that’s nothing new. The family comes tomorrow from the mainland, and I’d rather be out of her way with the cleaning and all.”

I finished my coffee and pushed the cup away. I was happy for him, imagining him celebrating with his family on Christmas, the normal joys of life.

“There goes that sad look again. You’re too young, Genevieve, for such distress. Has this man broken your heart for good? Or is he smart enough to return to ye?”

My stomach flip-flopped at his question. “I’m hoping he’ll return.”

“I’m sure you don’t want advice from an old man, but I’d like to give it to ye all the same.”

“I’d like to hear it.”

For the majority of the conversation, he’d stared ahead or at his ale, glancing at me here and there. Now, he swiveled on his stool to face me properly.

“There are few things in this world that truly make us content. There’s a difference between happy and content, did ya know?”

I shook my head, having never given the idea much thought.

“Happy is what you are when you buy yourself a new hat, when you look on something grand for the first time, when a lad surprises his girl with roses. But content is different entirely. A content person feels that all is right with the world even when tragedy strikes, even when loss weighs the spirit down. They’re still at ease within themselves, no matter what calamity breaks their heart. Do you see?”

I did. I nodded, though I wasn’t quite sure where all this was going.

He gulped down two swallows of beer. “Just so, a person can be depressed or sad. The depressed person feels the blow of some misfortune—loss of a job, a pet dies, a car accident. With time, depression goes away. But the sad one…” He shakes his head, leveling his gaze on me. “The sad one allows misfortune to darken the spirit, to smother any hope left inside. The sad one doesn’t live long.”

“What do you mean? You can’t die from sadness.”

“Even if the body’s breathin’, that don’t mean you’re livin’, lass.”

He swallowed the last of his beer and stood back from the bar, tossing a ten-pound note on the bar. “Good night, Hamish,” he said. The bartender waved with his back to us, still tending to closing duties.

“Night, Murdoch.”

“And good night to ye, Genevieve. Shake that sadness off, lass. Every day is precious.” He tipped his flat cap to me and ambled out into the evening.

When I returned to the cottage, I settled before the fire with my steak dinner and chocolate torte. Jude lay on his back, his head tilted to the side in peaceful repose. Mira hopped off the bedpost to the arm of my chair.

“I know. I’m going to share with you.”

I cut a few pieces of the pinkest part and set it on the hearthstone. She chirped brightly and set to gobbling her meal. I pondered Murdoch’s words of wisdom. The snow fell softly outside the window. The firelight illumined the room with a soft glow.

With my plate balanced on my lap, I pulled my phone from my pocket and scrolled through my music, finding an old playlist I’d made for Dad and me, then pressed Play.

Bing Crosby crooned “Silent Night” as I forked the first tender bite into my mouth. I was warm. I was safe. The man I loved was warm and safe with me. Murdoch was right. Every day was precious. Even with an apocalypse closing in on me, I believed this to the heart.

Mira finished her meal and peered up at me, orange eyes bright and pleading. I placed a few more bites in front of her. She chirped again, a sound of thanksgiving.

I laid my hand over my belly and whispered, “Merry Christmas,” to all three of my loved ones in the room.

Chapter Twenty

Close to noon a few days later and after eating a late breakfast of homemade biscuits, sausage and eggs—as my appetite increased daily—I spent the rest of the afternoon going through routines with my katana, watching Mira soar gracefully in the clouds over the sea, and finishing my romance novel. I did
not
read it aloud. I mooned over the super-cheesy happily-ever-after ending, dreaming of my own. If only life could be more like books.

I glanced at Jude on the bed, flat on his back, before finally deciding to take a long, hot shower. The steaming water streamed over my back while I mulled over what Kat had texted me today about violent protests breaking out in all parts of the US. Tension was rising, just as the demons had wanted. War was drawing closer. What she hadn’t mentioned was our encounter with Damas. And I sure as hell wasn’t going to bring it up. The entire experience, and the revelation of my horrific mistake in ever trusting him, had me on edge every time I thought of it. The alternative was to ignore the issue as long as possible, which I planned to do.

I was scrubbing my shoulder with the shower scrunchie I’d brought from my own apartment—one of the many amenities I’d stockpiled before I’d gone after Jude—when a whoosh of cold air sucked the steam into a whirl over the shower rack. Someone had opened the door.

Through the transparent curtain, I could tell Jude stood there in the bathroom, facing me. The scrunchie fell from my hand as I whipped the curtain back with a jerk, just enough for my head. My heart slammed in my chest. His eyes. Sparking fiery gold with an unnatural luster, no darkness whatsoever, they held a myriad of emotions all at once—desperation, fear, adoration, longing and something so deep, my pulse tripped and fluttered. His bare chest heaved like a man who’d run the most desperate race of his life.

“Genevieve.”

He said my name.

I froze, my head and shoulders poking out of the shower, steam drifting from the opening. “You…you know me?”

He took the two long strides needed to cross the bathroom, yanked the curtain aside and pulled me into his arms.

“You know me?” I asked again in disbelief.

His voice grated with heartbreak and need. “My love, my heart, my wife.” His lips brushed my ear. “I know you. Yes, I know you.”

I sobbed as I linked my arms around his neck and pulled him closer. “Jude.” I could manage nothing else.

He pulled back and stared at me, raking greedy eyes over every line before he lowered and sealed his mouth to mine, pouring all the loss and loneliness and love into a searing kiss. His tongue stroked deep, a groan rumbled in his chest and throat, his hands slid over my wet skin, caressing the curve of my waist, rounding over my hips. He kissed a trail over every inch of my face—cheeks, nose, brow, back to lips. The water streaming from the showerhead washed away my tears as quickly as they fell.

I said his name over and over, a yearning plea for more, more, everything. Our jubilant reunion transformed from intense joy to intense longing as soon as I skated my lips across his throat and bit down, his name leaving my lips in breathy supplication.

He backed me into the shower and pressed me into the wall. Mumbled and muffled, words were lost as our lips, mouths and tongues brushed over and into each other, frenzied desire driving us into a heady, dazed place I’d never known before.

His hands slid lower till he cupped the backs of my thighs and lifted. Instantly, I opened for him, wrapping my legs around his waist, my core settling against his hard shaft, his soaked sweatpants the only thing between us.

“God, Genevieve,” he whispered as I rocked against him. “I’ve missed you.”

A maniacal laugh slipped from my lips as I nipped the tight cords of his neck. He had no idea what those words did to me. “Jude…I need you…inside me.” My voice trembled like my hands. Like his own.

With the weight of his body keeping me in place, he jerked the waistband of his pants down, and the head of his shaft pushed into me with such swiftness, my brain hazed.

I cried out at the sensation of him easing all the way in.

“Genevieve.” He nipped and sucked my neck, my jaw, my earlobe, my lips. “Genevieve.” I couldn’t get enough of his voice—rough and throaty—repeating my name with heartbreaking reverence.

Hot water slicked over our bodies as Jude thrust into me with a fierce need that shook me to the core. My body responded as he drove deeper, that lovely mounting sensation climbing. “Please…deeper.”

He stopped kissing me and locked his gaze to mine. His lips apart, breathing hard, he pumped a slow, steady rhythm, keeping me with him as control slipped away from me, my passion carried too high, too fast. When I came, my head snapped back against the ceramic tile, my inner walls convulsing around his hard shaft. Jude stilled while my body pulsed with the orgasm. Before it had even subsided, I was rocking my hips and sliding again.

“Genevieve.” My name was his mantra, like a prayer for the dead man he once was. Every time he thrust into me, hips moving in a languid roll, he felt more alive. I knew this, because I felt the same way. My heart had been splintered and cracked and so broken, I thought I’d never be whole again. Only now did the poor thing beat with hope for true healing, the shards sealing together with every brush of his lips, every roll of his hips, every slide of his hand, every whisper of breath hot on my skin.

I laced my fingers into his dark hair that fell over his brow, and nipped along his jaw till my lips grazed his ear. He quivered when I spoke. “I love you, Jude.”