Darker Than Desire (23 page)

“This isn't about me.” Jensen rose, staring at them both.

“Well, it's not about us then, either. Because neither of us killed her.” Sybil shrugged and turned, heading toward David. He just stood there as she rested a hand on his arm. Something in her heart cracked a little when he didn't look down at her, didn't take her hand. Too much had happened, she told herself.

That was all.

Too much had happened.

*   *   *

She kept right on telling herself that, even as he followed her into the house. He'd gotten his truck to take her home.

Normally, that would have filled her with pleasure—and heat.

But once the door shut and she caught sight of the look on his face, she knew she wasn't going to like how this went. A hollow ache spread through her chest.

If you play with fire …

She wondered if the same could be said of ice.

David had heat in him, although it only came out on rare occasions. She'd played with him to try to crack that icy sarcophagus he'd buried himself inside and oh, man, the heat that had come whipping out to tease her.

The ice was back, though, and thicker than ever, swathing him like a cocoon that left her shivering even though she hadn't touched him.

Settling down on one of the lounge pillows she kept piled in front of her gas fireplace, she used the remote to turn it on. Staring into the flames, she wrapped her arms around her knees.

He still stood by the door. She could see his reflection in the protective glass and her heart bled one slow, bitter tear. Clearing her throat, she managed to say, “Well, today was memorable.”

His boots echoed on the floor as he moved to stand next to her, staring down, not at the fire, but at her.

She felt the way his gaze traced over her and it only added to the ache inside. It was like he was memorizing every last thing about her. And in the very bottom of her soul, she knew he was doing just that. Right before he told her good-bye.

“
Memorable
is one word,” he finally said, his voice gruff.

Slowly, he sank down, keeping a good two feet between them as he looked into the flames.

Firelight danced off his skin and the sight of it hit her in the heart. The artist in her wanted to grab her camera, tell him not to move. It would be a beautiful shot, a way to keep him frozen like this forever.

And it was a memory she couldn't bear to memorialize.

Unable to sit there another minute, she rose to her feet and headed to the kitchen door. Pausing by the counter, she pulled her skirt up to her knees so she could unzip her boots. Feeling his eyes on her, she suppressed a shiver and continued to remove the boots, leaving them to fall where they were as she reached into the fridge for a bottle of the Mill Street White she'd opened a few days ago. She could use a whole damn bottle, but there was only a glass or so left. She found the biggest wineglass she had and poured out every last drop.

“I'm assuming since you didn't jump me the minute we got inside, you have something else on the mind other than sex,” she said after she'd taken one deep drink. Over the rim of the glass, she stared at him. “So why don't you say whatever you need to say? I'm tired.”

Scared. Sad. Missing you already.
But suddenly, despite her threats to fight him if he walked, despite her determination to do just that, she was … tired.

And she
hurt
. Realizing that he'd just walk, now, hurt like he'd just ripped her heart out.

Maybe he had.

She'd chased him all these years. If he didn't want to be with her, then she couldn't change that.

His blue eyes bored into hers.

Sybil lifted a brow. “What? Cat got your tongue, David? Or did you decide you wanted a quickie before you left? You'll have to be quick. I'm tired.”

When there was no response, she tossed back the wine and put the glass down, went to go around him. He caught her arm and whirled her around. She barely managed to stop herself from crashing into his chest and then she brought up her hand, balled into a fist, punching him.

His head snapped back and she jerked away.

Blue eyes flew to her face as he wiped the blood away from the corner of his mouth. “You going to give me some clue what that was about?” he asked calmly.

“If you're going to dump me, just get on with it,” she said, furious. Misery and fury swamped her, and her entire body trembled. “Don't think I can't see it. You've been dancing around this for weeks and I told you that I'd fight you, but…” She trailed off, the words dying.

“Sybil—”

She slashed a hand through the air. “I don't want to hear the excuses and the reasons and the lies. The bottom line is you don't want me enough. So fine. It's over.”

He grabbed her and hauled her against him. “You think I don't want you?” The words were rasped against her lips and she tasted his blood, but she didn't care.

His tongue pushed between her teeth as she gasped. All the rage he felt, and the pain he always covered, was poured into that kiss. She didn't hold any of hers back, either. Because this was the last time, she realized. The very last time.

Curling her hand into the front of his shirt, she sagged between him and the wall as his tongue slid along hers, tasting her everywhere. And it was like the way he'd stared at her earlier—as though he was memorizing everything about the kiss, the way she tasted, the way she felt against him, the curves and hollows inside her mouth, as well as the curves of her body as he slid his hand down her back and grasped her hip to pull her closer.

They couldn't be any closer unless they each dissolved into the other. She felt his erection grinding into her belly, his chest crushing against her breasts as she twined her arms around his neck.

And then …

Nothing.

Her legs wobbled with the speed with which he put her down.

He was three feet away and standing in the middle of the floor, staring out the back window.

“You think this is because I don't want you.” His voice was flat, level even. She'd heard him talk to a cop, his adopted father, Abraham, and total strangers in that same tone of voice. But when he turned his head to finally meet her eyes, that blue gaze was vivid, all but burning. “Is that what you think?”

“You seem to make a habit of trying to walk away.” She wished she could sound as uninvolved. But her legs were shaking, her heart pounding, and just staying upright—without crying—took all of her energy.

He turned to face her. “The key word there is
trying
. I've been
trying
to walk away for years. I always knew things from my past would come back to bite me on the ass and I wanted you out of the way before it happened. It's not because I don't
want
you, Sybil. I want you too much. And I won't let everything
I
am stain what you are.”

“Everything you are…” she echoed, shaking her head. As the words spun around and around inside her head, she found the strength—and the fury—she needed to shove off the wall. Glaring at him, she strode across the floor. There was still a smear of blood on his face and Sybil was tempted to hit him again. Her hand was starting to throb, but that didn't much matter at this point. She was going to feel like a walking, bleeding wound here in a bit anyway.

“Everything you are.” She lifted a hand and covered his chest, staring at her widespread fingers. “What's in
here
determines who you are.” She moved her hand up, pushed it into his hair so that her fingers now spread over his skull. “And what's in here. The monsters in your past didn't
define
you. They tried to break you and they failed. They tried to make you into a monster, but you made yourself into a man. You've defined yourself, not the past, as awful as it was. Not the monsters, not your evil father and not that bitch who whelped you.
You
did it, from the time you took the first step to leave right up until now, and you'll keep on defining it.”

She moved back. “Are you really going to choose the past over
me
? Over
us
?”

*   *   *

Her eyes, so big and beautiful, cut into him. Every emotion she felt was right there. Anger, misery, resignation, hunger and pain. It was all right there and it laid him open. He'd take just about anything over this, including that fucking whip again.

“I wouldn't choose
anything
over you.” Curling his hands into fists, he focused on some point past her face, because if he looked at her too much he'd lose his resolve. “It's because of
you
, how much you matter, that I have to do this. I can't let all of this spill over onto you. I won't let it.”

“Believe it or not, David, I'm a big girl. I can handle it and you're not the only one who's been ready for shit to hit the fan. I've been expecting this for years.”

The rough sound of her voice stroked over him, inflamed him, tormented him, but he didn't let himself look. “And what about Drew? You ready for this to hit him? Hasn't he had enough just having Layla toy with him?”

“Oh, for fuck's sake.” The words flew from her like stones, crashing into him. “You're reaching now. How can
you
hurt Drew?”

Slowly, he lowered his gaze and stared at her. “People are going to look at him, and wonder. They'll wonder if I'm carrying on what my father did.”

“Then people are fucked-
up
. You think I'm teaching Drew a good lesson in life to tuck tail and run because of what people
might
say?” Color flooded her face now and her eyes danced, snapping with the force of her fury. “You arrogant son of a bitch. That boy is
my
concern and has been almost from day one. Layla sure as hell doesn't care. You don't get to make decisions that affect him. Not unless you decide you want to be in his life—in mine.”

“You're right.” He nodded. “But this decision affects my life, too. And I won't let any of my troubles spill onto either of you. I—” He stopped, uncertain of even what he'd been going to say.

She stared at him, bright eyed, her jaw clenched. “You what?” she countered gently.

When he remained quiet, she laughed gently. “You can't say it. Even now.” She sighed, slid her hands up and hooked them behind her neck. “It's really over. Ten years, all coming down to this…” Her lashes drifted down over her eyes.

For a long moment, they both stood there. Then, unable to remain so close with this chasm separating them, David turned to go.

“You won't say it,” she said, freezing him at the door. “And I won't keep it inside, not anymore. I love you, David. I've loved you for a long time. And it might take a long time, but I'll find a way to stop loving you. You choose to walk away now and it's done.”

The words stabbed him in the heart, sharp as a blade. If only they'd managed to kill him.

“Be happy, Sybil.”

 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Be happy
.

Three days later, the words still rang in her head.

Not a pretty set of bells, though.

More like a death knell.

Happy.

She curled her lip as she huddled over the coffeemaker and waited for it to squeeze out enough coffee to wake her sleep-addled, miserable brain. Yeah,
happy
was a long time coming.

Behind her, she heard a familiar cough and the shuffling of feet on the floor. Pasting a smile she didn't feel on her face, she turned to watch as Drew came into the kitchen.

“There's my morning bird,” she said softly. “We'll never need an alarm clock with you in the house.”

He eyed her through bleary eyes. “You were up before I was yesterday, too. What's wrong?”

“Nothing.” She gave him a bright, false smile even though the action felt like it might split her head open. “I'm just not sleeping too well lately.”

“You're sad, too.” Drew flopped down in the chair and watched her with old eyes. He was all of eight, but he had old eyes. Sometimes she wondered how he could have come from Layla. He shouldered responsibility, looked life right in the eye and never backed away from hard things. Layla was the exact opposite and always had been. “Why are you sad?”

She shrugged. “Just got the blues, Drew. Why don't you tell me what you want for breakfast?” Turning away, she poked into the cabinets, although she already knew the answer.

“Peanut butter toast, I guess.” He sighed and she heard a thud as he propped his elbows on the table. “You never tell me anything.”

“Sure I do. I tell you when it affects you and I tell you things you need to know.” Pulling out the jar of peanut butter, she turned back to look at him. “Right now, this is a thing that affects me and it bothers me and I'm trying to deal with it. When I get a little more steady with it, I'll tell you. But it's not your concern and it's not going to affect you, okay?”

A tension she hadn't realized he had eased and he heaved out a heavy sigh. “So it's not about Mom?”

“No.” As guilt hit her like a fist, she put the peanut butter down and moved to drop onto the seat across from his. “You talked to her the same day I did. She sounded pretty good, right?”

He nodded. She almost hated to see the hope in his young eyes, but she'd felt the same thing. Layla had sounded stronger somehow. Steadier than she'd sounded in years.

“Then stop worrying about your mom, okay?” She leaned in and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“I'll try.” He squirmed a little as she pulled away, staring at the tabletop. “I … I was kind of wondering. What if she gets better? That means I have to go live with her, right?”

Sybil's heart started to crack. But she kept her voice level. “She is your mom, Drew.”