Reaper's Vow (16 page)

Isaiah's eyebrows went up. Cole wasn't used to anyone being able to read him the way he could read others. It was damn irritating.

“Shut the hell up.”

An equally irritating smile ghosted Isaiah's lips. “I haven't said a word.”

“She's not marrying that ass.”

“She doesn't have an option.”

“He's a brute.”

“He'd be controlled.”

Like hell. Cole ground his teeth, picturing Wendy and Miranda stuck with Clark, little more than slaves in his home, cowering beneath his anger.

“You said there has to be a mating attraction for a wedding to be recognized?”

“Yeah.”

“And mutual trumps one-sided?”

“Yup.”

Cole jammed his hat down on his head. “Then she's fucking got an option.”

9

The one thing about tossing out dynamite was that it didn't always explode when you wanted. Sometimes it just sat there, fuse hissing, dragging on your nerves. At least that's how Cole felt ever since he'd staked his claim on Miranda earlier that afternoon. Now, hours later, Cole was sitting in front of the barn whittling on a stick, wishing he could turn his mind away from the potential as easily as Isaiah had shaken his head and turned away. But the thought was in his head and wouldn't budge. Every time he saw Miranda that subtle little sense of possession flowed past his control, whispering “mine” in his head, and that sexual pull he'd been fighting just got stronger until watching her walk down the street caused his cock to get hard.

He imagined coming up behind her, sliding his hands around her waist, pulling her back against him, leaning down, kissing the side of her neck, sliding a hand up to her breast through her clothing, flicking his thumb across the nipple, hearing her gasp, feeling her melt back against him and that soft nub harden to his touch.

Damn. He shifted his leg. He had it bad. For a woman who was determined to give herself to another next week. Digging the knife into the stick, he gouged off a bump. Maybe. If he let the son of a bitch live.

As if the thought conjured the bastard, Clark came out of one of the houses and caught up with Miranda. The snarl started in his gut as Clark grabbed her arm. There was nothing in Miranda's body language that said she welcomed the other man's advances. Nothing to say she rejected them, either. She just stood there looking at him. That is until Clark tugged her arm again.

Miranda took a step back, obviously not liking whatever Clark had said. Clark immediately crowded her back against the nearby house. Inside Cole the snarl built.

“He makes her cry,” a small voice said from around elbow height.

Goddamn, Wendy was sneaky.

He looked down. She was looking at the couple. All he could see was the neat part in her hair. “Your mom know you're out here in the barn again?”

Wendy shook her head. “I'm supposed to be taking a nap before supper.”

Supposed to be. He cocked an eyebrow at her. She wasn't paying him any mind. She was frowning at Clark.

“You're going to get a whipping.”

The quick glance she cut him afforded him an excellent view of her outthrust lower lip. “I don't care.”

“Uh-huh.” He had to fight back a grin at the bravado. He continued whittling. “That's mighty big talk from a mighty small person.”

She was back to glaring at Clark. “Mama says he's going to be my new daddy.”

So Miranda had broken the news to Wendy.

“I take it that's not settling well?”

She shook her head. “I don't want him to be my daddy.”

What was he supposed to say to that?

“Sometimes you need to give people a chance.”

“He hurts Mommy.”

Except when it came to that. Still, there was a chance Wendy had misunderstood. Adults making love could look like a fight to a kid. Cole approached even more gingerly.

“Things aren't always as they appear.”

She turned and gave him a pitying look. “She has bruises on her arms. And when he thinks no one's looking, he'll pinch her real hard so she'll do what he says.”

The snarl built to rage. The knife cut deep. The stick snapped in two. “You see an awful lot.”

“Mommy doesn't want me to, but I peek.”

He bet. “You, little girl, do a lot of things you're not supposed to be doing. Rules are made to be followed.”

“I don't like the rules.”

Neither did he, but he wasn't a fairy child.

“It's a not a matter of you liking them or not; it's a matter of keeping order and doing what needs to be done.”

“I won't follow any of
his
rules.” She stuck out her lip farther. “Ever.”

She was back to glaring at Clark. Across the way Miranda was back to retreating. Her flight was hampered by a large wooden barrel. The smile on Clark's face when she realized she was trapped had Cole straightening. He dropped the stick but kept the knife out.

“Your mama's doing what she thinks is best for you, and you don't help her any by breaking the rules.”

“I don't want her to marry him. He's mean,” Wendy added.

Yeah, he was. Meanspirited, mean hearted. Just flat out mean.

“Is there anybody you
would
like to see with your mom?”

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “You don't have a wife.”

“No, I don't.”

“My mama's real pretty.”

Clearly, six-year-olds didn't waste much time on subtlety.

“Yeah, she is. But I'm not.” He ruffled her hair. “If you scoot, you can get back into bed before your mom knows you were out.”

“I'm too old to take naps; she was just worried 'cause I sneezed.”

“You're not too old if your mom says so.”

She didn't have a ready comeback for that. But after a second she came up with, “I can't go back now anyway.”

“Why not?”

“
He'll
see me and get mad, and they'll fight.”

“You're probably right.” Clark didn't look any too happy at the moment. Whatever Miranda was saying was not what he wanted to hear. And knowing the woman's way with words, it was probably time for Cole to mosey over.

“Why don't you go back to playing in the barn?” he told Wendy. “Your mom will come looking for you soon enough when she's done with Clark.”

She pouted. “She never gets to be done. He's always there.”

An irritating revelation. “It just seems like it now.”

Keeping his eye on the escalating confrontation, he reached over and pulled the door open. “Go on inside now. I think that orange and white momma cat had some kittens in the back corner.”

“She did?”

“Be very careful, though. You can peek but don't touch. The mama will abandon them if you touch them.”

“Why would she leave her babies?”

Clark swore loud enough to carry. “I don't know. Cats aren't people.”

“My mama would never leave me.”

He ruffled her hair again. “No, honey, she sure wouldn't.” There was no end to what Miranda would do to keep her child safe.

“Mr. Clark would leave me. He doesn't like me.”

“Well, we don't like him, either, do we?”

She smiled at him, revealing a missing front tooth. “No, we don't.”

“Go on in now.”

She walked slowly through the door, stopping to look back when Clark raised his voice again. The words weren't distinguishable, but the anger was.

He hurts Mommy.

“And don't worry about Clark. He's not going to be a problem.”

“Promise?”

“Yes.”

“Pinky swear?”

He eyed the tiny digit offered and shook his head. She needed to understand he was a man of his word. “I just said so.”

She eyed him right back. “Some people make promises and then forget.”

“Well, I'm not one of them. I keep my promises.” He started to close the door, giving her no choice. “Now, scoot.”

Whatever the argument was about, it looked like it was about to end. Miranda took another step back, and this time Clark didn't follow. It didn't help ease any of the aggression surging inside Cole. He didn't like that man being within a hundred feet of Miranda. Shit, he didn't like that man, period.

Wendy was right. Clark would always be around if something wasn't done about him. She was damn perceptive for a six-year-old.

Picking up a fresh stick, Cole went back to whittling, forcing himself to ease the strength of his stroke and to cloak his energy. That bit Isaiah let loose today about others listening was disturbing. He just might have been a little cocky to think he was the only one in the world that could sense people's energy. It was an advantage he'd taken for granted. It was still an advantage since Reapers saw humans as so unskilled, but it wasn't going to be much of one if he flashed everything he thought and felt. He had to work on banking his emotions. He remembered his encounter with Addy this morning. He might ask her how she did it. She'd gotten real good at hiding her energy from him and likely from others, too.

He was still working on the technique ten minutes later when Miranda came back down the path. He could tell from the length of her stride that she was not a happy woman. He kept whittling, pretending he didn't notice her approach. She kept coming, pretending she didn't know he was sitting there while her anger snapped around him. It ticked him off that she thought she could brush him aside so easily.

“Have you seen Wendy?”

“Good evening to you, too.”

He felt her anger spike before she grabbed hold of it, controlled it, and banked it. She might have even managed to hide her response with anyone else but him. She ran her fingers down her braid before flipping it over her back wirh a long-suffering sigh.

“I'm sorry. Have you seen Wendy?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Where is she?”

“She asked me to talk to you about something first.” That wasn't strictly the truth, but he wasn't above spinning a lie to bring about a good.

“I don't need you to speak for my daughter.”

“She doesn't like Clark.”

“I know.”

“She's afraid of him.”

“I can protect her.”

He shook his head, jabbed the knife into the post behind him, and straightened. Catching her hand, he held her put while he unbuttoned her sleeve. He felt her energy tense a second before her muscles.

“Don't.” She snarled, a short, feminine warning, backed by her equally fierce, “Let me go.”

“Did you tell Clark to let you go?” He started rolling her sleeve up.

She jerked on her arm. “Yes.”

He held her arm still and looked in her eyes. “Did he?”

He took the second snarl as a “no.”

“Then what makes you think you can make me?”

Her energy fluctuated wildly. “I can . . .”

Not before he saw what he wanted to see. He raised the sleeve up over her elbow. Small, dark ovals marred the inner curve. Fingerprints. He touched one lightly before looking in her eyes. Panic and anger warred for dominance in her expression. “You don't heal like a Reaper.”

Her lips pulled back revealing her canines. “I kill like one.”

He caught her other hand as she swiped at his face. She was strong. Very strong. But not stronger than him. Interesting.

He held her gaze. “Do you want me to kill him for you?”

She blinked. “What?”

“Clark.” Releasing her, he asked again, “Do you want me to kill the son of a bitch for you?”

The “yes” was so strong in her face, in her energy, he was actually taken aback when she said, “No.”

“Once you bind yourself to that man, by pack law you're out of options.”

She licked her lips. “I have a plan.”

What was she going to do? Run around the bed until the man wore out? “You can't stall him forever.”

“Long enough.”

“For what?”

“None of your business.”

“China doll, I'm the best friend you have right now.”

“Are you?”

“And I'm not going to let you let that bastard win.”

She shook her head and her eyes glistened. “You have to.”

That wasn't fair. “Don't you dare cry.”

She blinked rapidly. “I'm not.”

She was. On the inside. And had been for a long time. Damn.

He let her go. Satisfaction settled in his gut when she didn't take a step back like she had with Clark. He took her braid in his hand, ran his fingers down it. It was thick and warm from the sun. Her hair was probably beautiful when it was down, framing her face. He slid the braid up her arm, over her elbow, her shoulder, and down her back, and he kept going, tugging on her braid, pulling her head back.