Leopard's Kiss (Shadow Guardians) (Shadows Guardians Book 1) (13 page)

Finally, Slade eased the car to a stop in front of a cement wall. The garage door slid shut behind them, and then the platform the car was on began to rise, moving quickly and silently upward, like an elevator. He unfastened his seat belt and opened his door as the platform continued to rise. "Let's go."

"Where are we?" Anya hurriedly unfastened her seat belt, and stepped out of the car just as the platform stopped beside a set of massive steel double doors.

Ignoring her question, Slade walked over to them, looking up at a flashing light above the door. She felt that same mental push from him, and then the doors slid open, as if he'd opened the doors with his mind, which he probably had. "Come on in." He stepped through the doors without looking back, and without waiting for her. His shoulders were tense, and his voice was clipped. "Welcome to my home."

S
lade didn't want
Anya in his home.

He wanted to toss her back into his car and pretend he'd never made this choice.

But he didn't.

He just stepped back, letting her walk past him into the foyer of his sanctuary, the safe house he most considered home, the one that was so well-hidden that no one could ever find it, unless he showed it to them. It was his private oasis, the place where he could relax completely, where his solitude was unbroken.

No one had ever touched the inside of the place. He'd built it himself, unwilling to allow a single person to know it existed. It was pure and complete isolation, and yet he'd just let Anya into it.

What the hell was he thinking?

His pulse hammering out of control, he folded his arms across his chest and watched her as she walked into the entryway, her eyes wide as she scanned it. "It's beautiful," she whispered.

Some of the tension eased from him, and he shrugged. "It's okay."

"No, it's not okay. It's beautiful." She walked over to the Picasso that he'd hung by the door, leaning forward to study it. "It's an original, isn't it?"

"Yeah." He shifted, uncomfortable. "Let's go in. Come on." He walked to the French doors that separated the foyer from the rest of the place, and pulled them open. But when he turned to allow her to precede him, he found her standing in front of the Van Gogh that he'd added just last year.

His heart skipped when he saw her expression. She was completely riveted by the drawing, her lips parted in silent awe as she studied it. Her expression was completely unguarded, enchanted by the drawing that he'd coveted for so long before he'd finally acquired it. He knew instantly that she saw the same beauty in it that he did. It was a long-forgotten sketch, one that only a handful of people even knew existed. It wasn't famous, it wasn't prestigious, but it was raw and powerful in its beauty and expression.

He walked over and stood beside her, studying the sketch again. He hadn't been here in months, despite the fact it was his favorite place to be. It simply didn't fit his life to stay in the same place for long, but that meant he didn't get to see the things he'd acquired that mattered to him.

Like the sketch. It had taken him years to convince its owner to sell it to him, yet he'd studied it only a few times since he'd acquired it. The isolation of the landscape was bitter, and the silence of the peasant farmer was raw as he fought the arid earth to forge a survival in a world that meant nothing. Slade had felt a connection to it the moment he'd seen it on one of his missions, recognizing the author of the unsigned work instantly.

"It's the same kind of loneliness that surrounds you," Anya said quietly as she lifted her finger to trace the shape of the man. "It breathes the anguish of a parched earth and shattered soul, trying desperately to find one drop of water or ray of sunshine to sustain life."

Slade's throat tightened as her words raked over him, articulating exactly what he'd felt when he'd first seen it. "It's just a drawing."

"Liar." Her voice was soft, non-judgmental. "It's how you feel every day, isn't it? You're that peasant farmer, even though you're surrounded by luxury, money, and have the freedom to do anything you want."

"I'm not a peasant farmer." He stepped back and scowled at her. "Come on. Let's go in."

She turned to face him, her hands on her hips. "This life you live is going to break you," she said, watching him. "It already is. No one can live completely alone, without any kind of connection to anyone."

Emotions warred within, trying to be heard and felt, emotions he wanted no part of. "I'm not alone," he said.

Her eyebrows went up. "No?"

"I have you, don't I? Irritating me, invading my privacy, and forcing me to save instead of kill."

She studied him, and then a small smile curved her mouth, a smile that made his heart skip a beat. She was just so damned enchanting, so dismissive of the darkness of the life he worked so hard to lead.

"Hell," he whispered, moving closer to her. "I don't need this from you."

She lifted her chin so she was looking up at him, unafraid, unabashed, and unrepentant even though he was crowding her. "I think you do, Slade. Maybe I'm the one who was sent to be your guardian, and not the other way around."

He fisted a lock of her hair, tugging on it. "I don't need to be saved."

"We all need to be saved," she said, not pulling away. "From different things, yes, but we all need to be saved." She put her hand on his chest, over his heart. His muscles twitched beneath her palm. "You need to fill that horrible emptiness inside you before it eats away at you completely."

He didn't need this kind of psychotherapy. He really didn't. He knew that he should just turn his back and cut her off, not even acknowledging her. But he couldn't. There was just something about her that compelled him, something that made him want to drop to his knees and beg her...for what, he didn't know, but there was something she had that he needed desperately. Something he wanted. Something he burned for so deeply that it hurt. "And you? What do you need?" He slid his hand around to the back of her neck and drew her closer, so close that he could feel her breath against his mouth.

"To save Julia," she whispered.

"No." He grasped her jaw, his finger sliding along her skin. "What's broken inside you so badly that you can't breathe anymore? What shadow follows you everywhere you go, every second of your life? What's your secret, my white leopard?"

Tears swam in her eyes, but she tightened her jaw. "I'm not broken."

"Then neither am I. We're both a couple of winners." Then, before he could change his mind, and before she could pull away, he kissed her.

* * *

S
lade's mouth
was decadent temptation. His kiss was pure power, sliding through her like a predator taking control of his prey. It was his death kiss...only it wasn't. She could feel the heat pouring from him into her, as if he were offering part of his soul instead of taking hers.

She knew she shouldn't kiss him again. But just like before, the feel of his mouth on hers was impossible to resist. Her entire body craved his, her soul ached for connection, and her skin tingled with the need for his touch.

He was broken, an empty wasteland where his soul had once been, but she knew there was something else inside him, something fighting to stay alive in the arid desert that consumed him.

Anya.
His voice caressed her mind, slipping into her consciousness with silky ease as he slid his fingers through her hair. His touch, his kiss, and his voice were so gentle, touching her heart in a way that his rough, against-the-wall seduction hadn't been able to.

She leaned into him, fisting the front of his jacket as she kissed him back, unable to tear herself away from him. His body was sheer muscle, shrouded in darkness and strength. He was a mystery, a shadow, a man who didn't exist...and yet he was solid and strong beneath her palms. He was real, at least for her, a killer who stole life more easily than he gave it...and yet, his kiss seemed to ignite something inside her. Something fierce. Something brave. Something that fit her more than spending a life running away did.

He pulled her closer against him, deepening the kiss. With a sigh, she capitulated, allowing herself to melt into him. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her nipples aching at the feel of his hard chest against her breasts. Heat flushed her body—

"Shit." He pulled back suddenly, jerking his hands back from her. "Sorry."

She blinked, trying to regain her equilibrium. "It's okay."

"No, it's not." He ran his hand through his hair, looking unsettled, an emotion she doubted he felt very often. "I almost killed you in my safe house, and I wasn't even trying. I can't risk it. I have no control when it comes to you." He glared at her, as if it were her fault, and then he spun around, jerked open the French doors, and strode into the main part of his home.

Anya stared after him, startled by his display of emotion. Then, the faintest ray of hope began to blossom inside her. The Black Swan was coming to life, for her. Because of her. She was beginning to matter to him. Her chest tightened, and she had to swallow back the sudden lump in her throat. She couldn't believe how incredible it felt to matter, to have someone who cared, despite his best efforts not to. She'd lived in fear her whole life, on the run, and now, suddenly, she had someone in her corner who believed in standing strong and fighting back, who was willing to help her do it.

Strength seemed to pour through her, and she pulled her shoulders back. She might be weakening him by making him more human, but he was giving her self-confidence and courage she'd never had before. The horrible shifter holding center that she'd had nightmares about her entire life had finally become a reality, and yet, for the first time she could recall, she didn't feel scared.

She felt strong, and she owed it to Slade.

S
lade didn't turn
around when he heard Anya's soft footsteps enter the kitchen. He never allowed anyone to approach him from behind, but with her, he didn't need to turn around. He trusted her completely. Already, he knew the sound of her walk intimately, and knew exactly where she was, how fast she was moving, and what her mood was. He could envision the sway of her hips as she walked. He knew the way her hair was curling over her shoulder. He could already see the way her mouth was pressed tight, as if she were trying to hold back what she wanted to say.

She strode into the kitchen and took a seat at one of the black leather bar stools by the center island. "Why do you have four stools if you've never let anyone in here before?"

He took a dish of chicken stir-fry casserole out of the freezer. He didn't bother to ask how she knew he'd never let anyone in there before. He just liked that she'd figured it out. He wanted her to know that the fact she was in his house was a statement of exactly how deeply he trusted her. Not that he
trusted
her, because he never trusted anyone, but yeah, she was here, and that was big. "Because I like it that way." He flipped on the oven and tossed the pan into it. "You want something to drink?"

She raised her brows at his answer. "Water would be great."

He thought of what she'd ordered in the bar. "No tequila this time?" He glanced over at her, and for a split second, all thoughts fled from his mind. Her elbows were on the counter, her chin propped up in her hands, her eyes at half-mast as she watched him. In his kitchen, on his stool, taking up space he'd never allowed anyone to occupy. The scene was so intimate and domestic that he froze, emotions warring between raw terror and a fierce longing.

Her eyes widened at his expression, and her breath caught. "You're afraid of me? Why?"

He grabbed a beer out of the fridge and took a long swig. He braced his hands on the counter, trying to pull himself together. "Chicken okay with you? It's all I've got in the freezer. I haven't made anything new in a while."

Her gaze flicked to the oven. "You bake casseroles and freeze them?"

"I like to minimize the number of times I leave here when I'm in town. I make a supply so I don't need to go out and get food." He turned away and grabbed a glass from his cabinet. All his glasses were pristine and unused, covered with a light coating of dust. He grabbed one and shoved it under the faucet to rinse it off. The finest crystal available, and no one had ever used them before. "No big deal."

She said nothing, and the silence stretched for so long that he finally looked over at her. She was watching him, apparently waiting, because the moment they locked gazes, she repeated her question. "Why are you afraid of me?"

He scowled at her as he set her glass of water in front of her, making sure to add crushed ice and filtered water from the fridge. He never cared about that, but for some reason, he wanted to do it for her. "I'm not afraid."

She grabbed his wrist as he started to pull away. "Slade," she said softly. "We're facing something huge that we don't understand. It probably has to do with my background and yours, but we don't have answers. If we screw up, we're both dead, and so is Julia. We need to communicate and trust each other if we're going to survive this."

He stared down at her fingers locked around his wrist. He could flick her aside so easily, but he didn't. He had no interest in making her release him. There was something about her delicate fingers encircling his wrist that made everything inside him settle, as if he could take a deep breath for the first time in his life.

He dragged his gaze from her fingers and looked at her. He never gave anyone answers to anything they asked him, unless it served his purposes, but for some reason, he wanted to tell her. Not a lot. Just a little. Just enough that she would know something about him other than the fact he killed. She was so embracing and emotional, he felt like an empty wasteland in comparison. Something inside him needed
her
to see he was more. "My mother and my sister were murdered because of my father's work." He shrugged, keeping his tone casual, even though the words he spoke literally defined his entire existence. "Their deaths taught me that when you care about someone, it makes that person a target."

Her face softened. "I'm sorry you had to learn that lesson."

"I'm not." He flipped his hand over and took her hand in his. He began tracing circles over her palm. He was trying to distance himself from her emotionally, but it wasn't working. He needed to touch her, to feel her, to hold her. Somehow, he needed to reassure himself that she was real, not a ghost or a shadow like he'd always been. "It's a critical lesson to grasp. Only a selfish bastard would let anyone into his life."

She cocked her head. "Or a man who understood that sometimes love is worth the risk."

"Love?" His fingers tightened instinctively around hers. He hadn't thought of the word
love
in a long time, not since the day he saw his father crumble in grief at the death of the woman he loved. "Love makes a man weak. It makes him vulnerable. It makes him do stupid shit."

She raised her brows. "Like what?"

He flattened his palm against hers, measuring her fingers against his. So small, so dainty, so fragile. "Like going on a rampage to kill your wife's murderers and getting yourself killed in the process, leaving behind a nine-year-old kid who knows about nothing except loss and revenge." His stupid father. After a lifetime of honing his skills to perfection, he'd lost his shit and gotten himself killed just because the woman he loved had died. When the old man had been murdered, Slade had also committed himself to revenge, but he'd learned from his father's mistakes, and he'd been strategic and smart. He'd wiped out the bastards, gotten rich as sin in the process, and had established a career that made sure no one ever messed with him again.

Anya tightened her fingers around his. "I'm so sorry, Slade," she said softly.

He stiffened, realizing he'd said more than he intended, and realizing he wanted to say even more. He wanted to grab his beer, sit down next to her, and tell her every sordid detail of his life...which was stupid and weak. She was too damned tempting. "It's fine," he said coolly, releasing her hand. "It's long over." He turned away to grab some plates from the cabinet for them to use for dinner.

She watched him, her eyes seeing more than he wanted her to see. "So, by having me stay here, you're making me a target?"

"Yeah." That much he wanted her to know.

She raised her brows. "You do realize that I'm already a target, right? Three assassins were hired to kill me before you added to my burden with your treacherous, relentless enemies."

He grinned, unable to hide his amusement at her word choice. "I know. That's the only reason I brought you here. You attract the bad sort, and this is the only place I really trust."

She snorted. "I attract 'the bad sort?' Back at ya, big guy, right?"

"Yes, true." He set the plates on the counter, then braced his palms on the granite, studying her. "But even so, my life is different," he said, unable to keep the urgency out of his voice. He had to make her understand. "You're a target for something having to do with shifters. We don't know what. But I have enemies in a thousand different places. People want to hurt me, and they want me to do things for them. Not a single one would hesitate to use you if they thought it would hurt me, or control me. There isn't a chance in hell I
ever
would have brought you into my life or my house if I'd had a choice, both for your sake and mine. But you have to stay alive, and this is the only place I truly trust." But even as he said it, cold seeped through his gut as the enormity of what he'd done settled on him, as he recalled the shock of finding his bloodied mother and sister. "I shouldn't have done it," he said suddenly. "I shouldn't have brought you here." If she were killed by one of
his
enemies, he would have no one to blame but himself.

Swearing, he turned away, lacing his hands on his head. Why the hell had he made this choice? Why? She was screwing with his mind, his perfectly ordered world, and everything that had kept him alive and sane for so long. What the hell? He couldn't—

Her hands slid over his shoulders, and he froze. "Don't touch me."

"Turn around."

"Get away from me."

"Slade. Turn around."

Slowly, gritting his jaw, he obeyed her. She'd apparently crawled across the island, and she was now sitting on the granite, her feet dangling, her face at eye level with his. She set her hands on his shoulders, studying him intently. "Listen to me, Slade. My whole life has been spent in fear of being hunted down. We had no home, no money, and no security, but it was okay, because we had each other. We had complete trust in each other, and that made us stronger. We never would have survived that long if we hadn't had such a tight bond."

He could feel the warmth of her words, the love entwined around each word she spoke about her makeshift family. For a split second, envy rushed through him, the cold, lonely green of jealousy. He could barely remember his childhood before all hell had broken loose, but he had vague flashes of feeling safe and loved, especially by his mother. The way Anya spoke of her family made him want to see what he'd forgotten, to remember what he'd lost, to be able to hold it the way she did. "Tell me about your mom," he said. "Tell me something."

She smiled softly, her eyes distant as she revisited a place in the past. "When I turned sixteen, I really wanted a sweet sixteen party with tons of friends. I hated the fact that I had no one except the three of them. So, my mom spent three days cutting out massive pieces of cardboard and decorating them to look like the teen celebrities I idolized. Julia took me out shopping for dinner, while Marjorie and my mom decorated the cabin with more balloons, streamers, and candy than I'd ever seen in my life." She smiled. "They had a disco ball, speakers blaring music, and every celebrity I'd ever idolized was there, in full-scale size, for my party. It was amazing. She had so little, and was able to create exactly the party I'd dreamed of."

Slade grinned, watching her eyes sparkle as she told the story. He'd never cared about celebrities, unless he'd had to kill one, and he'd never bothered with friends, but at the same time, the warmth and love in her eyes as she told the story touched him. "I've never created anything good," he admitted. "I wouldn't know how to. Your mom sounds like she was an incredible woman."

Anya grinned at him. "She was the best," she agreed. "But that's not the point." She held out her hand to him. "The point is that we'll be stronger if we connect with each other. It might make me vulnerable to your enemies, but if I don't find Julia, I have nothing to live for anyway, so it doesn't matter to me." She smiled. "Besides, I think you need to matter, Slade. You need to realize that someone cares whether you get home at night."

To his surprise, something tightened in his throat, and he turned away for a moment to regain his focus. When he turned back, Anya was still holding out her hand. "Don't keep pushing me away, Slade. Let me in. I need this, and so do you."

He stared at her hand for a long moment. A part of him desperately wanted to accept her offer, to believe that he would be stronger if he were teamed up with her. Maybe he would, but that wasn't enough of a reason to endanger her. "I won't risk you like that."

She searched his face. "Don't you understand that if we fail, then I die? What does it matter if your enemies target me, if I'm already dead? Or if I'm locked up in that cell so I can be sold to some bastard who wants to knock me up and give him a shifter baby?"

He went cold, absolutely ice cold, and grabbed her shoulders. "Don't say that."

"It's the truth! I don't want to end up like that just because you're too afraid to let me in! Don't you understand? We don't even know who is pulling the strings, why we both got chosen for this plucked-from-death miracle, or what's coming next! We have no one to trust except each other. You can't do this one alone, Slade, so just stop it, focus, and let's make this work!"

"Dammit, Anya! Why are you so ready to make yourself vulnerable? You should be scared of me, of my life, of these bastards, of it all, not sitting here telling me that I need to get cozy with you!"

"I am scared!" she shouted at him. "I'm terrified! I have only three people in my life that matter. Two of them are dead, and the third is being held by horrible monsters. I live in a constant state of panic that I'm not running away like I'm supposed to, and absolutely terrified that all my mother's sacrifices to keep me safe are going to be for naught because I'm still going to end up in the hands of the bastards that nearly broke her the first time! So I could use a little support from you, instead of you pushing me away like that!"

He stared at her, shocked by her outburst. She seemed to have her shit together so completely all the time. He'd had no idea of the depth of her fear. She was trembling now, tears of fury glittering in her eyes. "Shit. I'm sorry." He didn't know how to fix it, how to make it right.

She shook her head. "It's fine, Slade. I just..." She looked at him. "I'm just stressed and tired. I know how dangerous everything is, but it doesn't do any good to dwell on it. I'm not used to being on my own, and I need to be able to count on you. Please, be on my team. Don't push me away."

He ground his jaw. His instincts demanded he keep his distance from her, but she kept dragging him back in. He'd managed separate himself from his brother all these years, no matter how strong his urge to connect, but for some reason, Anya was different. Maybe it was because she was so relentless, pushing at him to let her in. Maybe it was because she'd lived in darkness her whole life. She was no stranger to death, to fear, to hardship, but somehow, she'd kept her heart alive, and she'd managed to retain a view of life that had long since left him. He wanted to be a part of her world. He wanted to see and live through her eyes...and he couldn't afford that.