Darkening Chaos: Book Three of The Destroyer Trilogy (34 page)

I
have followed him multiple times with no suspicious results. That doesn’t mean
I’m convinced something isn’t going on. I can’t watch him constantly. I worry
and watch, ready to act, but more often than not, I have to trust in his total
obsession for bringing down the Guardians and hope he won’t do anything to put
it all in jeopardy.  I try to take my mind off Milo for a few minutes and get
back to something much more fun for a change.

Like
getting ready for Lance’s eighteenth birthday party. I missed his birthday last
year due to hating his guts. If Howe is going to hold off because he can’t
decide whether I killed Drake or turned him, and which option is more scary, I’m
definitely making up for missing Lance’s birthday last year. This isn’t just a
party, of course. It’s mainly a guise for our recruits from all over the
country to meet and plan, and to attract new recruits. We don’t want to
advertise we’re all getting together in one spot, so using Lance’s annual
monster birthday bash works as a very believable cover. And thank goodness it
does, because we could all use a chance to have fun for at least a few hours.

“Hope,
is the DJ set up? Does he need anything else?” I ask as I rush through the
foyer.

“Everything’s
good to go,” she says, not stopping, either.

“Celia!”
I call when I spot her across the room. She hurries over, balancing stacks of
plates and cups in her arms, and asks what I need. “Did someone pick up Lance’s
brother, yet? I wanted him to be here before Lance gets back.”

“Yeah,
Daniel has him hooking up lights outside on the steps and making sure they got
all the ice taken care of,” Celia says.

“I
thought the ice was taken care of already. Have you seen Milo at all?” I ask,
my thoughts invariably slipping back to him.

She
shakes her head. “Haven’t seen him all day.”

I
frown, but try not to linger. It’s no big surprise he isn’t in the mood for a
party. I’m sure he’ll be here tomorrow for the conferences we have planned with
our out of town guests. “I’m going to go get ready, okay? Holler if you need me
for anything.”

Celia
nods and makes for the ballroom. Her ballet-inspired cocktail dress swishes
around her legs as she scurries away from me. Not many people can pull off a
virtual tutu outside of a dance studio, but Celia can. Its happy bounce still
fits her optimistic nature, but it amazes me sometimes just how much she’s
changed since her Inquest. Boys and clothes used to fill her mind to bursting.
Now you can hardly get her to talk about anything other than healing techniques
and combat triage procedures. That’s what everyone has been like, though.
Scared of someone coming after us, planning for those battles, thinking of
nothing other than helping me take down the Guardians. This party is just what
everyone needs. We’re all about to explode from the tension. And I am pretty
excited for ten-seventeen tonight.

I
turn away from the decorating and hurry upstairs. Your birthdate, right down to
the second, determines when your talents become fully unlocked. At
ten-seventeen tonight, Lance will be the first of my original band of
insurrectionists to hit that mark. Before meeting Braden, Lance was the
fastest, strongest, most graceful person I knew. Braden put him to shame, but
Lance’s already potent talents were a teasing hint at what power he would one
day hold. I get a little giddy when I think about finally being able to see
what Lance can really do.

Pushing
into my temporary bedroom—thanks to everyone refusing to let me go back to my
own house after news of Drake got out—I kick off my tennis shoes and start
wiggling out of my clothes. My sweater and t-shirt are scattered on the floor
and my jeans are about to join them when my door swings open. Braden stands in
the doorway holding a freshly dry cleaned dress. His wide eyes and flushed
cheeks match mine.

“I
… I’m sorry. I didn’t, uh, realize you were in here,” Braden stutters.

I
snatch up the nearest shirt I can find—a tank top hanging off the edge of the
bed—and yank it over my head. My jeans get rebuttoned as well before I turn
back around to face him. It’s hard not to notice the way his eyes are still scouring
every inch of me. My own reply sounds as inarticulate as his. “You could’ve,
um, you know, knocked or something.”

“Sorry,”
he says, crossing the distance between us in ground-eating strides.

His
eyes don’t leave mine and my heart rate spikes. The stream of primal desire
trailing after him doesn’t help, either. The dress he came up to give me is
dropped on the bed without another thought. I shiver when his hands slide around
my waist, under the edge of my shirt so his warm flesh is pressed up against
mine. He holds me there, at arm’s length, and hesitates. My fingers are
trembling as I slide them up his chest and around to the back of his neck. The
desire to forget the party is starting in half an hour pulses in his eyes. For
so long it was him chasing me, then both of us avoiding each other. Ever since
killing Drake put me out cold for two days, it’s been something else entirely,
something I can’t even explain.

Braden
sleeps in the room next to mine, now, but leaving me every night is almost
painful for him. It’s like he thinks I’ll slip away if he’s not with me every
second. When we are together, he is always touching me, on my shoulder or back,
holding my hand, anything to keep in contact. I’m not any better. Not being
able to feel him near me sends jolts of anxiety through my body, escalating to
a near panic attack if he’s away too long. It terrifies me to think of losing
him. No matter what he says, without him here to remind me of love and
happiness, I know I’ll lose myself like Drake did. Nightmares of what that man
did assault me every night. Only Braden slipping into bed next to me stops my
anguished screaming and crying some nights. I can’t survive without him.

In
his eyes, I can see that same sentiment echoed deep in his soul. I don’t know
if he moves or I do, or both of us, but our bodies press against each other,
our mouths joining and drinking in each other’s love. Everywhere he touches me,
my skin tingles and burns, the sensation spreading over every inch of me. When
our lips part, I gasp for breath and moan softly as his lips move down the
curve of my neck to my bare shoulder. Thoughts of music and guests abandon me
entirely. I surrender to the need swirling around us. All I care about is
Braden. My hands leave his neck and slip under his shirt, pushing the fabric up
slowly. His body shudders and he crushes me against him.

I
don’t know if he was trying to stop me or urge me to keep going, but a knock at
the door kills any chance of finding out. The sound is followed by a head
peeking in. Celia freezes at the sight of us in each other’s arms, grinning and
blushing at the same time. “Oops,” she says, “I just wanted to make sure you
got the dress.”

Reluctantly,
I pull my hands away from Braden’s sculpted abdomen and turn away from him. His
fingers trail across my body as I turn, refusing to let go. It’s hard to focus
on anything but him, but I force myself to pick up the dress and examine it. I
didn’t have the time or inclination to shop for something to wear tonight, so
Celia said she’d lend me something of hers. I had no idea what she was going to
come up with. I only hoped it wasn’t something poofy and frilly. It’s not.

I
rip the protective plastic covering off of the dress and thrust it at Celia.
“This is what you expect me to wear tonight?”

“Sure,
it’ll look great on you,” Celia says innocently.

I
stare at the black dress, willing it to catch on fire. It’s gorgeous, no doubt,
but there is no way I am wearing it. The silky top portion is gathered across
the front with a generous neckline and short ruffled sleeves. That’s not the
bad part. The reason I want to unravel every thread is the high empire waist
that goes straight down to what I hope is somewhere closer to knee-length than
miniskirt. Its super tight look makes me wonder how my hips are even supposed
to fit in there. Celia beams at me despite my horror and hands me a pair of
shiny black heels. My head starts shaking back and forth slowly.

Throwing
the dress at her seems like my only option until Braden’s emotions register
with me. He peers over my shoulder at the dress and says, “Why don’t you at
least try it on?”

I
turn to look up at him so I can argue. The heat radiating from his body makes
me falter. I don’t think he’s going to agree with me. He wants very much to see
me in this dress. “Okay,” I whisper.

His
eager smile pushes me toward the bathroom. My clothes fall to the floor, but I
can’t bring myself to put on the dress. I honestly don’t even think it will
fit. Celia is dancer-thin, lithe and graceful. Her curves are subtle. Mine are,
well, at little more noticeable. What was Celia thinking? Only remembering the
smoldering desire in Braden’s eyes keeps me from abandoning it entirely. Taking
a deep breath, I remove the dress from the hanger and unzip the back.

One
leg at a time I step into the dress. I start pulling it up, expecting a fight,
and am surprised when it slides up effortlessly. The dress stretches over my
hips and clings against my skin. I shiver under the cool satin top as I pull it
into place. The zipper is too high up on my back for me to reach so I settle
for getting it in place as best as I can without the zipper so I can at least
see how awful I look. My eyes close halfway through turning to face the mirror
and I have to force them back open. When I do, I can’t believe what I see.  

I
look … amazing. I don’t know how Celia manages to find the perfect dress every
time, but rather than looking like my hips and butt are trying to escape the
dress, the line and color slim and soften them. My stomach is flatter than it’s
ever been thanks to never ending training sessions and my legs look pretty
good, too. The gathered top looks positively elegant as it drifts down my chest
to meet the rest of the dress. I slip into the heels and take in the whole
look. I’ll never doubt Celia again.

When
I open the door, Celia and Braden turn to face me. Celia beams at me. Her tutu
skirt bounces as she hops lightly in her heels. She’s only in my periphery,
though. Braden gapes at me. The only other time he’s seen my in a dress is the
night he attacked Milo in the theater. Silks and heels aren’t really conducive
to combat training. He doesn’t say or do anything. He simply let’s his eyes
wander up and down my body. Waves of unadulterated passion roll off of him.
Thank goodness Celia isn’t a Perceptive, though I doubt it takes talents to
read Braden’s expression right now. The same probably goes for me. I turn
around quickly.

“I
couldn’t get it zipped up,” I say, looking over my shoulder.

I
expect Celia to jump in and give me a hand, but she elbows Braden instead. He
glances over at her looking vaguely distracted. She gestures to my back, and
says, “Go ahead, Braden. I know you want to. That dress was for your benefit,
anyway.”

Braden
smirks at her bluntness, but steps up to help me with my dress. I gather my dark
hair away from the zipper and wait for the electric touch of his fingertips.
The zipper can’t be more than eight or ten inches long. Braden makes the
distance last. My heart is about to pound right out of my chest by the time he
makes it to the top. Letting go of the zipper, his hands slide down to my hips.
I can feel his breath against the nape of my neck. I wait for his lips to
follow, but he lurches away from me. When I spin around to find him, I see
Celia shoving him toward the door.

“That’s
enough, lover boy. She just needed zipped up. Anything else is going to have to
wait,” she says. “Now go downstairs and help Hope. I need to do Libby’s hair
and makeup.”

Braden
pouts, begging me to overrule Celia. I shrug helplessly as she pushes me back
into the bathroom. If he had his hands on me for much longer, there was a good
chance neither of us would make it down to the party. Probably better if he goes.
For now.

“Sheesh,”
Celia says as she pulls my hair out of its ponytail, “this dress may have
worked too well. Judging by Braden’s reaction, you may have to beat off every
guy in the house, maybe even Lance. Hope may not appreciate that.”

“Lance
will be fine,” I argue. “I’ve already seen Hope in the dress she’s wearing. She
looks amazing. She’s kissing Lance tonight whether she knows it or not. Poor
boy isn’t going to be able to help himself.”

Celia
giggles, but it isn’t as cheerful as usual. I glance back at her, the pained
expression on her face making me guilty right away. “I’m sorry, Celia, that
wasn’t very thoughtful of me,” I say.

She
shrugs. “It’s okay. I knew I never had much of a chance with Lance, anyway.
Competing against you, at first, and then Hope. Well, you’re just plain
gorgeous, and Hope is beautiful with a ‘tortured soul that needs rescued’ kind
of vibe. I have a feeling that’s right up Lance’s alley. He makes a good knight
in shining armor.”

“Yeah,
he does,” I say, remembering all the times he was there for me growing up when
no one else was. “Celia, don’t think Lance doesn’t think you’re pretty. He
thinks you’re beautiful, actually.”

She
blushes, but her eyes light up with hope. I hurry to go on.

“But
you’re right about Lance. He’s drawn to girls who have a darker, riskier side
to them. You’re too good for him. Literally. You’re bright and happy, and no
matter how much you like to pretend you’re some dainty petal of a dancer,
nobody who spends five minutes with you would ever believe you would need
rescued from anything.”