North of Need (Hearts of the Anemoi, #1) (4 page)

“You realize this is all totally weird, and a little creepy?”

“I can see how you’d feel that. I’m not trying to frighten you, though, just being honest.”

Megan traced a seam in the blanket, picked at it. “And, uh, how did you come about this information without my sharing it?”

“From a mutual friend.”

“A mutual friend.”

At the tremble in her voice, Owen moved closer on the couch and grabbed the hand twisting the fabric in her lap. He squeezed, hoping the gesture gave her some reassurance, then intertwined his fingers with her smaller ones. For a moment, he got lost in the sensation of touching her. His senses thrilled. She was so warm, so soft. His heart yearned. Amazing how important, how necessary, physical connection to another was to the soul.

Why had he denied himself this for so long? How many winters had he remained elemental to avoid the awkwardness and betrayal he’d been certain awaited his homecoming to the Realm of Gods? Isolation had become his own personal brand of hell. Made no difference that it had been self-imposed. Then, he’d felt he had no choice.

“And who might that be?” Her voice drew him from his thoughts. She brushed her thumb against the heel of his.

This was where it would get interesting. He took a deep breath, fully prepared to tell her the truth.

She scrambled up and jumped away from the couch. “What the hell? Again? Really? Now you have something to say? Get out of my head already!”

Alarmed, Owen sprung to his feet. “What’s the matter?”

“Oh, nothing,” she said, her voice shaky and exasperated. “Just going crazy over here. Don’t mind me.”

He rubbed his hands against her biceps, trying to ease her. “I don’t—”

She waved a hand. “I know. Never mind.” She sagged within his grip. “Apparently, I’m not
ready
for this conversation.” She said the last part louder, and directed it out into the empty space of the room instead of to him.

Owen squeezed her arms, ignoring the physical urge to pull her into his, and bent down to look her in the eyes. “Okay, then. Well, you just let me know.”

Chapter Six

Megan stared at herself in the mirror, the flashlight throwing up a long oval of gold from its perch in the sink. She’d had enough weirdness for one day and promptly announced she was tired and going to bed after the annoying voice-from-beyond butted in with his two cents again. She froze. Since when had she decided the voice was a
him?

She half believed she would wake up any minute and find this had all been one bizarre-o dream. Except for the little, er, big problem of the very real, very flesh-and-blood male currently parked on her couch for the night.

Peeking into the living room through the bathroom’s connecting door, she called out, “You gonna be okay out there, Owen?”

He was lying on his back, long flannel-pajama-clad legs crossed at the ankle and arm up over his head. Cover off to the side. No shirt. Jeez, his chest was broad and defined, stomach cut with ridges of muscles. He turned a lazy gaze from the fire to where she stood in the doorway. “I’m good. Thank you, for everything.”

Good, indeed. She’d never look at that couch the same way again. She hugged herself. “Okay, well, give a shout if you need anything, or just help yourself. G’night.”

He nodded. “Good night, Megan.”

Megan ducked back through the door, leaving that one open in case he needed the bathroom in the night. She trailed through the bathroom out to her bedroom—the cabin’s only bedroom—and closed the door behind her.

She frowned. It locked from the inside, so there was no locking him out. Which,
hmm
, now that she thought about it, kinda negated the fact that she’d locked the main door to her bedroom.

“You better be right,” she said, head tilted back to the ceiling. “It better be ‘okay,’ just like you said it would be.” She stilled, listened. Of course. Never talkative when she wanted. Stupid voice. She climbed in bed and arranged the covers. “And don’t even think of pulling any Dickens-esque ghost tour tonight, either. You’d be a day too late, anyway.”

With a huff, she settled back into the pillows. Aah, so warm, so comfortable. God, she needed some rest. Everything would look clearer in the morning.

Her eyes trailed to the ceiling, but the glow-in-the-dark stars didn’t shine tonight. There hadn’t been enough light to set them to glowing for her. She felt John’s presence anyway. Here, in this place that had always been just their own. “I miss you, John. I’m sorry there’s a strange man in our house. But I couldn’t leave him out in the storm, ya know? Hope you don’t mind too much. He’s kinda nice.”

She turned on her side facing outward, punched the pillows to get comfortable. Her mind wouldn’t settle. She flipped to the other side. Closed her eyes. Concentrated on falling asleep, which chased it further away. She couldn’t even pretend she didn’t know what the problem was though, because she had no trouble concentrating on the man sleeping on her couch.

Owen. A complete stranger she’d met so recently she could count the hours on one hand. It was ridiculous she was giving him any special thought at all. But the more she told herself that, the more her brain conjured images of their evening together. The timbre of his voice complimenting her. The intensity of his dark gaze. Those little moans of pleasure he made over their dinner, and the ice cream. The way she forgot she was alone.

Owen made her think things, feel things,
want
things she hadn’t allowed herself to even consider in the previous two years. Things in her darkest hours she couldn’t have even conceived of having again. On the one hand, it felt like she’d just lost John yesterday. But, on the other, sometimes it felt like he’d been gone forever. Like maybe he’d never really been here at all. Was two years enough time to let her eyes—her heart—open to the world around her again?

“Stupid,” she mumbled into the pillow. “Way to get ahead of yourself, Megs.”

Sleep eluded her for a long time. She tossed and turned. Her ears strained to pick up any telltale signs of Owen’s movement, but everything was quiet. At one point, she toyed with the idea of going out and stoking the fire. The air was downright cold, though she was comfortable in bed with the covers piled high and deep. With only those chenille blankets, though, Owen would get cold if the fire died completely, but she hated the possibility of waking him. Finally, she settled for just checking on him. If she could see he was asleep like he was supposed to be, maybe she could settle herself.

Megan crept from bed and threaded through the bathroom. She couldn’t see his eyes from across the great room, so she tiptoed closer until she could confirm they were closed. His soft, slow breaths told her he was out. The chenille lay twisted around his calves and feet, leaving all that broad, toned flesh of his chest and abdomen exposed to the chilled air.

Her fingers itched to pull the cover up over him. Hmm. Probably overstepping. She nodded to herself and returned to bed. This time, she fell right to sleep.

§*

Her cries woke him. He flew into a sitting position and listened as she whimpered and called out plaintive, half-formed words.

Owen debated for only a moment before hauling himself off the sofa. He strained to read the clock on the hearth, and barely made out it was a little after two. Except for a few orange coals on the bottom, the fire had gone out.

In the darkness, Owen cut through the bathroom and pressed his ear against the door to her room. She let out a high-pitched cry. His chest tightened. He was here for her, and she needed him. Quietly, he turned the knob and stepped into her room. He stilled as he made out the arrangement of furniture. “Megan? You okay?” he whispered.

Just as he suspected, she was asleep. He padded around her bed and knelt beside it.

Her face was crumpled in anguish. The small, feminine hand that hung off the edge of the bed twitched and clenched. He grasped it with his own. Softly. Gently. “Sshh, angel. I’ve got you.”

Her hand stilled, clutched back. The strained sounds quieted. Her face relaxed. That his touch soothed her ignited a satisfied warmth throughout his chest. He wanted to bring her solace, happiness. He wanted to be the
only
one to ever again do that for her. It was why he’d been made in this form. Why she’d made him. Even if she didn’t know it yet.

For long, quiet moments, he studied her peaceful countenance. She was lovely, beautiful even, her complexion mirroring the peaches and cream they’d shared. Blonde waves surrounded her face in a soft frame and tumbled down over her shoulder. He longed to brush the stray curls off her forehead, her cheek.

His need to touch her further meant it was time for him to return to his own makeshift bed. A man of his word, he would bide his time, to the extent he could, and let her come to the realization that she needed him. As much as he needed her.

He carefully untangled his hand from hers, watching her face to make sure he wasn’t disturbing her. Missing her touch instantly, he retreated. But as he reached the bathroom door, she exhaled a low moan. His heart seized. He froze, pulled in two directions. When she did it again, he simply couldn’t leave.

He’d stay. Facing the bed, he laid himself on the floor as close as he could. He reached up, gently reclaimed her hand, and repositioned her just enough for the mattress to support their hands’ weight. Resting his head on his folded right arm, he shifted until he was as comfortable as possible.

She was quiet again, peaceful. He smiled and closed his eyes.

§

Megan blinked into consciousness, luxuriating in some of the best sleep she’d had in ages. God, what a difference it made. She yawned, then rolled onto her back as a stretch gripped her muscles. Something warm and heavy restrained her hand. Megan looked down and gaped.

Stunned, she yanked her arm out from under the big masculine hand that could only belong to one person. She shifted to the bed’s edge and peered over, knowing what she’d see but not understanding it. Owen. Stretched out along the whole length of her bed. Her eyes raked over his body, drinking in his tousled black hair, miles of bare skin and cut muscles, the black trail of curls that led down to his pajama bottoms, which had settled low on his hips. Dangerously low.

Damn. She couldn’t have built a better model if she’d tried. Even in the dim pre-morning light, his physical perfection was obvious.

Movement drew her gaze back to his face and she blushed. Dark eyes blazed up at her. Totally busted.

“Morning.” His sleepy voice was pure gravel.

“Morning. Um, what are you doing down there?”

“Don’t be mad.” He tugged his hair out of his face. “You were crying in your sleep, having a bad dream, I guess. But when I held your hand, you stopped.”

Her heart expanded in her chest. He’d laid there all night? Just to ward off her nightmares? She wasn’t sure how that made her feel, but certainly not mad. “I’m not mad, but how long have you been laying there?”

He eased up onto one elbow. “Came in around two.”

“Owen!” She pushed into a sitting position. “You’re been on the floor for hours? You must be freezing.” Her brain finally moved past his beautiful near-nakedness to the realization that nothing separated his bare skin from the cold, hard wood or the unheated air. He didn’t even have a pillow.

He rose to his feet, yanked at his hair again. “I’m sorry. I’ll just…” He thumbed over his shoulder.

“No. I told you, I’m not mad. I just can’t believe you slept on the floor all night. For me.”

“You needed me.”

Three simple words. She sucked in a breath. So much meaning, so much potential. She’d been alone so long. Her heart pounded against her chest, as if trying to get to him. As he stood, shuffling his feet and looking anxious, her world wobbled, then full-out tilted on its axis. She
did
need him. She knew it was crazy, that she could never explain it to someone who hadn’t been here, but despite only knowing him for twelve hours, they had a connection. She felt it. And his words told her he did too.

She debated only for a moment. “I’m sure the fire’s out by now, so get in. It’ll be too cold out there.”

He gaped. Rubbed his hand over his chest. “Uh—”

“We’re adults. We can handle sleeping in the same bed.” She yanked back the covers and patted the far side of the mattress.

He eyed the bed, then glanced back to her. “You’re sure?” She nodded and he rounded the foot of the wide bed. The lean muscles of his abdomen and back rippled as he moved. He slid into the bed with such grace and ease of movement. Reaching down, he grasped the thin white sheet and pulled it to mid-chest.

“Don’t want the blankets?”

“Nah, this is perfect.” Lying on his side, he smiled and burrowed into his pillow. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Megan murmured as she resettled on her side. facing him. She had to restrain herself from thinking of where Owen lay as “John’s side.” Damnit. She wasn’t betraying him, was she? No. Her mother was right. John would want her to be happy. Megan knew that was true. She huffed out a breath. For God’s sake, they were only sleeping together for a few hours, not walking down the aisle.

Sharing her bed—feeling the dip of the mattress that said you weren’t alone, hearing the soft sound of another’s breath, knowing you could reach out and find the warmth and companionship of another person—it was all oddly nice. That it was
this
person, Owen, well, that was nice, too. She allowed her gaze to cross the bed. Good God, that one lonely bare shoulder was a monument to masculinity. The fist tucked under his chin brought the image of Michelangelo’s
David
to mind, with his big strong hand curled at his side. Who knew a man’s hands could be so appealing?

“What?” he asked.

Her eyes flashed up to his. “Nothing.”

Sleepy humor played at his lips. It was so damn sexy. “Okay.”

She shook her head against her pillow and closed her eyes.

“Hey, Megan?”

She peeked one lid open. “Hmm?”

“Can we have ice cream for breakfast?”

Her mouth curved into a grin. She couldn’t think of anyone, save maybe Kate, who could draw a smile from her so quickly. But he was just unexpectedly adorable. “Maybe. If you’re a good boy.” She cringed. Why the hell did she say that? Was she…flirting with him? Restraining a grimace, she chanced a look at him.

His dark gaze shifted from playful to scorching. “And what would that entail?”

Heat shot through her body, and unfamiliar desire pooled in her belly. Flustered, she kicked off the top cover. “Not asking questions like that, to start. Now go back to sleep. It’s too damn early to be awake.” She heaved a deep breath to calm her racing heart.

“If you say so.” Even with his eyes closed, a smile continued to play around his lips.

Once again, Megan had a hard time falling asleep. She longed for the deep, restorative sleep she’d had earlier in the night, but it eluded her. Then she suspected why. She debated. Chided herself. Minutes passed, her body stubbornly awake. Could it be so wrong to want a bit of comfort? Besides, she really needed to get more sleep if she was going to be able to sort all this out in the morning.

Slowly, so as not to shake the bed, she scooted closer, closer, until she could grasp Owen’s hand where it stuck out from underneath the pillow. She rolled onto her stomach so she didn’t have to get
too
close, but found herself in the middle of the mattress before she could comfortably touch him again. She settled her palm over his palm, laced her thumb around his.