Chapter 22

Chapter

Twenty-Two

We sit in the car, not moving, both of us hesitant to leave. My nerves are on edge. I'm as eager as a bookish freshman being invited to a senior prom afterparty by the football captain. I want to be with him, but I'm suddenly anxious now that the moment is before me. My hands shake, and I hope he doesn't see it.

The hotel looms like an unspoken question neither of us will ask, even as it silently beckons us to enter. The growing sexual tension between us is palpable.

"I guess I'll start," Paul says with a deep breath.

"Let's get a room," I say at the same time. I know he thinks we need to have a deep conversation right now, but that's the farthest thing from my mind.

"Here?" He frowns and leans to look at the building. He shakes his head. "Let me take you somewhere else."

"It's here. We're here. No one will think to look for us inside." My heart is beating fast, and I feel breathless. We're adults. We both know what I'm after.

For a torturous moment, I think he might say no.

"Okay," he answers.

The word is soft and not as confident as one might hope after such an offer. I imagine he is silently fighting with himself, trying to talk himself out of this. There are so many reasons why we shouldn't.

I know what I want. It's the same thing I shouldn't have.

One taste. I make myself promise that it will only be this once. Then I will leave him alone.

My hand continues to shake as I reach for the handle. My senses are on overdrive. As the door opens, the smell of the city hits me in the face. It reminds me of the inside of a parking structure with a combination of car exhaust and old motor oil mingling with a fragrant bush in a concrete pot near the street.

My eyes turn downward to a section of wet parking lot where a tiny stream flows from a leaky hose. It runs over chipped concrete and loose gravel. A beetle runs toward it. I step over, feeling like a giant towering above a tiny village. A butterfly starts to land. The door slams shut behind me, startling the insect and sending it fluttering away.

As I join Paul at the back of his SUV, I glance to ensure no symbols are drawn in the dust. If supernaturals wanted to track the car, they could use the license plate, but I have a feeling the symbols were more of a taunt. Some creatures like to play with their food.

A feeling of dread lingers on the edges of my thoughts, plaguing my mind with a suffocating sense of foreboding. It's a thick fog, relentlessly swirling like invisible ash from the raging fires I'm trying to escape. Even now, the memory of the scorching heat lingers on my skin. Flashes from my childhood try to surface, just random moments when I've felt alone and unsure.

"What is that look?" Paul reaches to touch my face. "Where did your mind go just now?"

I blink as I focus my gaze on him. His kind eyes are filled with concern.

"Please, tell me," he insists.

"When we were kids, my oldest brother Anthony and his friends invited Conrad and me to play with them in the woods. It's a game magical kids use to hone their skills called Hunter and Hunted. It's like Hide and Seek, but we draw cards, and then everyone searches for their particular thing. Anyway… Part of the rules is that the woods are enchanted, and you can't leave them until you find your target. We got split up. It felt like I was lost out there for days. The forest was so dense, and the branches kept scraping my skin like the trees were reaching for me. I could barely see the path, let alone know where to follow it."

It's a stupid story that has nothing to do with anything. I want to stop telling it the moment I start.

"What made you think of that?" he asks.

I give a small shrug. "Because I have never again felt that alone and helpless until now."

And terrified. The dark woods with those grasping trees gave me nightmares. The heavy weight of fear on my chest is oppressive.

He stands by the SUV, not trying to hurry me inside. His hand remains on my neck, strong fingers curled around my nape, simply holding me. I feel his rough calluses against my tender flesh.

Paul leans in, looking like he wants to kiss me. "You're not alone."

But I am alone. This is only a stolen moment.

And yet, the movement of his hand brings with it a sense of relief and connection.

"I know you're scared, but you found your way out of the forest. You'll find your way out of this." He gives me a comforting smile. His stroking fingers stir my pulse to racing.

A driver blasts their horn as two cars zip through traffic, nearly causing an accident. The sound amplifies my uneasiness.

I take Paul's hand and hold it as I pull him toward the hotel entrance. I want to get out of public sight. My heart is beating so hard that it nearly chokes me. I feel tiny vibrations joining our hands as if his life force is slipping into mine. I know that's not a real thing, but I feel like it is every time I touch him.

It's a surreal feeling walking into the hotel with Paul, like I'm not really me, and I'm not really here. But I force myself to remember each passing detail. I don't want to forget him or this moment.

The lobby is surprisingly clean, even if it is run down. The small black and white hexagon tiles on the floor look like they've been there since the 1920s. They create the kind of pattern that will make a person dizzy if they stare at it for too long. The textured walls are uneven, but the chips in the paint have been brushed clean so they don't curl from the surface.

A man with a cloth rag twitches as he rubs it in jerky circles against a small window. His green sweater has patched holes. With each stroke, he blows from tight lips to make a soft whooshing noise. For a second, I worry he's supernatural, but one look at his face tells me it's more likely he's on meth. Sometimes, it can be difficult to tell the difference.

I go to the front desk. Without looking up from his car magazine, the clerk waves his hand over a clipboard and says, "Eighty bucks. Sign in."

The varnish on the wooden counter has been worn clean in spots. On an old clipboard, I see several Mr. and Mrs. Smiths staying at the place. A pen is attached to it by a yellow string. I release Paul's hand to write the same sign-in names. There's comfort in knowing this place values secrets.

Paul places cash on the counter.

"Rob, you're done," the clerk says as he turns to grab a key out of a basket next to him without getting up.

The meth addict swipes forty dollars and drops the rag over the rest before darting out the door. The clerk tosses a key next to the rag.

"Up the stairs. Number's on the key." The clerk flips his page and sighs like he was forced to run a marathon. Almost as an afterthought, he mumbles, "Check out is at nine."

Paul takes the key and stares at it in his hand. "You deserve nicer."

It's sweet but unnecessary. We all deserve a lot of things that we're not going to get. That's life.

Scratch that thought. He's more than I deserve.

I can't help but be captivated by the exquisite details of his face. A hint of beard shadows his jawline, giving him a rugged masculinity. His hair is messy from being blown around outside, but he doesn't nervously fuss with it. His lips are slightly parted in breath. His mouth is beautifully chiseled and perfectly firm. Whoever crafted his design had the talent of a classical sculptor. I imagine godlike hands molding him with the sole purpose of tempting me.

None of that compares to his light brown eyes and how they make me feel when they penetrate me. All I want right now is to be alone with him. I put my hand over the key to hold his. The rough calluses on his palm tell me he's good with his hands.

I don't see an elevator, so I lead Paul to the stairway. His eyes stay on me as if he's also trying to memorize the moment. It's as if he sees through me, down to my very soul, and he's not turning away from what he finds there.

I hear movement on the floor below as the front door opens and feet shuffle. A strange groan greets us from above. Tortured human in the grips of addiction? Or a grumbly goblin hiding out until dark falls over the city?

I step faster, exhilarated and terrified all at once. I wish I knew the supernatural population of Kansas City so I would know the odds of running into something, but the truth is I never bothered to wonder about it until now. The thing about being a New Yorker is you tend to think New York City is the center of the universe. And not to be elitist, but it kind of is.

Is this finally happening?

I say a silent prayer that this building doesn't catch fire, at least not before I quench the flames inside of me.

Is that wrong? It feels like that comparison might be a little wrong.

Who cares. I can't feel bad about that now. Desire aches deep inside me, swimming in an empty cavern, desperate to be filled. I need this to happen.

Anticipation builds as we near the top of the stairs. The air feels electric against my skin, snapping with the unspoken desire pulling us together like two magnets. I can't help but stare back at him, barely watching where I'm going.

Someone passes us on their way down, grunting with each step, but I don't see a face. My mind has stopped clinging to the details of our surroundings and is now focused entirely on Paul. All that matters is getting him alone so that our desire can completely consume us.

Fuck, I want him.

I want him so badly that every piece of me hurts with the longing.

I'm not a virginal wallflower. Sex has never scared me. I've never seen it as scandalous. Trust me, there is plenty in this world that should frighten us. Maybe it's because supernaturals tend to be a little less puritanical compared to most humans. Old fashioned in their ideas, yes. Discreet in their affairs, sure. Puritanical about bodily functions, no. I should know. I'm a product of my parents' apparently open marriage. As long as public image is maintained and we do what is expected of us, no one cares what vices a person has in the bedroom.

But this feels like more than an animalistic connection. Paul is different than other men. I care about him.

I feel the hard keychain in our clasped hands as our shared body heat makes them sweat. We reach the second-floor landing, and I can't contain myself. I swiftly turn to face him. I use my free hand to pull his neck toward me. My body melts to his, and each inch of contact sends a shockwave through me. Our lips meet in a fury of movement.

Nothing is stopping this from happening.

All the voices in my head shut up except for one primal creature that propels me onward. The world falls away until nothing matters but this, us, him. Paul.

"Paul." His name escapes my lips only to be swallowed by our kiss.

My heart races. His back comes up against the hallway wall. Painted red doors offer privacy, but I can't be bothered to open them. His chest is hard to my soft, molding my breasts through our t-shirts. Fingers splay my lower back. I want to feel his hands where they belong, gliding warmly against my naked skin.

I feel my body turning, only to become trapped between Paul and the wall. Someone clears their throat, but we ignore them. They don't matter.

Raw hunger and need consume me.

"I call next ride," a man says as he passes.

Paul reluctantly breaks the kiss and glares after the guy. I grip him tighter to keep him from defending my honor.

Our labored breathing fills the narrow hallway, the harsh sound a testament to our passion. He releases my hand, and I feel the hard edge of the key gliding up my wrist before skating along my arm, causing me to shiver. The sensation of his kiss lingers on my lips, and I can still taste him.

Paul leans to study the door next to us. He lightly touches its room number before pulling back and glancing at the key in his hand. A sense of urgency brews between us as he grips my arm and leads me across the hall.

Paul unlocks our private sanctuary. My hands roam over his back, urging him to hurry. The wood creaks open on loud hinges, revealing a room suffused with warm, soft light.

This place isn't pretty. Melancholy clings to its walls like barnacles on a sinking ship, but I can think of nowhere else in the world I'd rather be.

Dust particles lazily swirl in the sunlight that streams through the parted curtains, casting long, slanting rays across the room to illuminate the sparse decoration. The walls are painted a yellowed white with lighter squares left over from missing paintings. The empty nail holes are still burrowed into the wall. There is a strange silence, punctured only by the sound of our breath and the swish of our feet on a worn brown carpet.

He shoves the door shut, and it reverberates with a decisive thud that amplifies my growing desire like a playful slap on the ass. I feel my insides jolt in excitement.

Paul sucks in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. It's sexier than anything he could have said.

He crosses the distance to me, and we crash together in a passionate embrace. He's everything I've ever wanted—sexy, kindhearted, mortal like me.

I cling to him like I cling to this moment, pulling at our clothes to get them out of my way. I hook the heels of my shoes with my toes to kick them off. My shirt lifts over my head, trapping my arms briefly. Warm hands on my waist steady me as I struggle to toss it aside. My mind wants to savor, but my body doesn't listen. It needs to end the ache that has been simmering below the surface since the first time I saw him at the cemetery.

As I toss my shirt onto a small table and begin work on my bra, Paul follows suit. He's more graceful than I am. Muscles move beneath his skin, beckoning my fingers to their peaks and valleys. I see the tiny scars attesting to an active life. His strong hands move to his waist, and I watch him unbutton his jeans. I can barely stand the anticipation of this moment. I love his confidence. But why shouldn't he be confident? He's beautiful.

When he comes to me, I push my pants down my legs, taking the underwear with it. Paul walks me back toward the bed, pausing only to pull the covers back to inspect the sheets. They appear clean, and I fall back onto them, pulling his arm so he comes with me. Nothing about this moment represents my normal life. That makes me love it more.

I want this. I want this more than anything. I would give up all the money, power, and knowledge I have for a life with Paul, even if that life was spent in hotel rooms like this one because he would be with me.

I want to ask him how Nancy could have cheated on such a perfect person. There's a small fear that wonders if she saw something I'm not seeing. My judgment with men hasn't always been stellar in the past. But that's the last thing that I'm going to ask about. It's the last thing I want to think about.

Knowing this is my only chance to be with him creates a strange urgency, as if I need to fit in as much as possible into the short timeframe. We're all hands and scratches as we claw at each other. Our mouths move in a frantic rhythm. I can't tell who is trying to devour whom.

I want to absorb him into my skin. I want to remember his smell. I want to lock this moment into eternity.

Why does life have to be this hard?

Why can't I have this one thing for me?

The ache is almost too much to bear as it wars with the desire inside of me. My mind keeps trying to skip to the end as if bracing itself for the pain that is sure to come. I force my thoughts back into the moment. I notice the way his hand cups my breasts and how his thumbs tweak over my peaked nipples. I feel the threads of passion weaving from those movements.

Threads of passion? Did I actually think that? Suddenly, I'm in a cheesy romance novel.

A tiny laugh escapes me, and Paul pauses to pull back and look at my expression.

"That tickled," I lie.

Paul grins and rubs his thumb over me again, sending a tiny shiver over my body.

His head nudges mine aside. His mouth finds my neck and ear. He braces his weight as his chest presses against mine so as not to crush me.

I explore his back and waist before my fingers roam lower to cup his ass. My legs are intertwined with his, and I wiggle them free to open myself to him. I pull his hips forward, begging for more. I can't take this damn empty ache.

"Shit," he whispers.

The comment takes me by surprise, and I freeze.

"Condom," he mutters.

The departing weight of his body leaves mine cold. For a shocking moment, I worry he might not come back. I lift up on the bed to find him digging through his jeans for his wallet.

I guess I should be grateful that one of us is being practical. I'm ashamed to admit I didn't even think of it—not that a baby is a great idea right now or ever.

"Please, please, please," he says to himself as he searches the clothing for his wallet.

I start to feel self-conscious and draw my limbs close to cover my nakedness. Sexual denial stings each oversensitive nerve ending. If fate cock blocks me in this moment, I will never forgive the bitch. It would be beyond cruel.

"Yes. Got it!" Paul displays the small metallic packet in victory before rushing back toward me. In obvious relief, he says, "That was a close one."

He sits on the bed and tears the package open with his teeth. I reach for his back, rubbing it as I watch him put the condom on. With a small moan, he rolls back on top of me to resume where we left off.

He's breathing heavily, and I can see the effort it's taking for him to remain in control of himself. His hips settle between my legs. I feel the cool, intimate brush of a condom along my thigh. I can't contain the shiver of anticipation that runs over me. He draws his arousal confidently against me, and I stiffen in the seconds before he thrusts inside.

I pull his hips with my legs. He glides deep to fill me completely. I cry out at the pure pleasure.

This. This is what I needed. Him. Deep inside me. Connecting. Being. Here. Now. More.

The deep ache only gets worse as the hunger grows. My body wants to fuse itself to him so he can never leave. His kiss is tender as he thrusts his body against mine. Lids partially cover his eyes as he watches my reaction. I've never felt more connected to another person. He wants me, no games, no manipulations, no ulterior motives. He's here despite all the reasons he should run away from me.

There is something fragile and perfect about being with another human. There are no aggressive power games or magical restraints. It's more meaningful because we're both temporary.

Paul's hand wraps my wrist and holds it against the mattress.

Well, okay, now. Maybe there is a little aggressive restraining. I'm definitely here for it.

Time. It haunts us. It takes and takes and rarely gives. And right now, I will take every single second fate will let me have.

I want to go slow, but my body doesn't listen. We come together in frantic, desperate thrusts. He grips my hair. I bite his lip. Our limbs are a tangle of movement. I shift my weight, pushing him onto his back as I ride him onto the mattress.

Pleasure comes too fast, taking siege of my body. My fingers dig into his chest as his hands grip my hips to hold me to him. I want to cry out, but my breath catches in my throat. Warm gratification floods me, stretching over my core to my limbs as I tremble with release.

For the sweetest of seconds, we are perfection.

A loud, sharp rasp sounds as I finally manage to pull in a deep lungful of air. Heart hammering wildly, I try to catch my breath. His harsh pants match mine in a beautiful melody that only lovers can appreciate.

The tremors of my climax take time to settle, and all I can do is stare down at him. I know when they stop, reality will come crashing in, and I don't want it to.

This can't be the end of us.

This can't be our only moment.

Fuck. There it is. Reality.

Fucking reality.

I struggle to hold back my tears as I move to curl up next to him, seeking comfort in his nearness. As I settle in, I can feel the cool sheets against my skin, the scratchy texture creating a sharp contrast to the comforting heat emanating from his body.

My fingers skate along his chest in lazy motions, and I watch where they make contact. His hand covers mine, pressing my palm down to stop the movement.

"I hate that I brought you here." Paul sighs as he stares upward. I follow his gaze to see the stained acoustic tiles of the drop ceiling. Someone had launched a pencil into a panel, which now hangs stuck overhead.

"I hate that I brought chaos into your life," I counter.

His brow furrows, and he turns onto his side to study me. "I have to ask you something I've been wondering about."

My stomach tenses. "Ask."

He cups my cheek. "What particular thing were you supposed to find in the enchanted forest game?"

A tiny laugh escapes me. "A fairy ring. I thought it was jewelry. Turns out it's a ring of mushrooms."

"How did you get out if you didn't know what you were looking for?"

"My grandfather ended the game when I didn't come home. He came to get me." I briefly touch my necklace. This isn't exactly what I want to be talking about right now. "I think he would have liked you."

"I take that as a high compliment." He lightly taps the stone of the amulet before jerking his hand back with a laugh. "It shocked me."

"That's weird." I touch the stone and don't feel anything. "We must have worked up a static charge."

He traces his finger along my cheek and jaw before gliding down my neck. "Not surprising. You're electric."

I chuckle at the compliment and swat at his hand. "You're a little cheesy."

He shrugs. "I'm okay with that. You're a lot beautiful."

I enjoy the intimacy of being next to him like this, but it can't last. I'm only making it harder for myself. He's looking at me with such an open expression.

"I think Diana might be right. This stone is magical like your grandfather said." He smiles but avoids touching the amulet again.

I bite my lip, widen my eyes, and shake my head in denial. I firmly believe I would know if that were true.

He sighs in frustration. "Gah, you are a frustrating woman sometimes. Something has been keeping us safe. Haven't you noticed how the light changes with a blue tint when danger is near?"

"It's…" I try to think of a way to explain it. I force myself to sit on the bed and turn so my feet dangle over the floor. "Dumb luck."

I'm not magical. I don't have magical things. I can't cast spells. I'm not supernatural. It's the one fact that has been drummed into me since birth.

He touches my back. "Did I say something wrong?"

I have to be firm about this. "No, we just did what we came here to do."

Ick. I want to swallow the words back into my mouth. I sound like an insensitive ass.

"I came here to have a conversation." The bed moves behind me, and his hand continues to roam over my back and hip. "The sex is great, don't get me wrong, and I'll gladly do that anytime you want, but there are some things we need to talk about."

"Like what?"

"Us." The word comes out a little too quickly. He didn't even need to think about it.

"There is no us, Paul. We can't allow ourselves to pretend that this has a future. We're just a moment in time. This one moment. When I leave tonight, that's it."

His hand drops away, and I instantly want it back.

"What if I don't see it that way?" He sounds irritated. I can't say I blame him. I'd be irritated dealing with someone like me, too. "I'm not going to freak you out by saying that this is true love, but I mean, we could be…something…you know? Tell me you don't feel it, too. Tell me you didn't feel it in that first moment at the cemetery like we were being pulled toward each other. I know it's not the romantic story that every girl dreams of, but you're not every girl."

"The fires? The vampires?" I whisper before I glance back at him. "You have all the evidence you need about my life."

He lightly touches my waist, tracing the curve. "I like you."

"I like you, too, but?—"

"But what? That should settle it." He gives my hip a light slap.

It seems letting him down gently is not the way to go. Or doing it rationally, for that matter.

"What more evidence do you need?" I stand, frowning. "Everywhere I go, something explodes. Hell, this hotel might catch on fire soon."

He glances around. Why is he not scared?

"To be honest, I'm more worried about germs and junkies," he says.

"Three fires," I state, hands on hips. His eyes dip over my naked body, and I realize I should probably get dressed. I start looking for my clothes as I continue, "and a vampire attack. That's not normal. I know I'm not blowing shit up. I don't have that kind of pyrokinesis power, but something is happening. I'm cursed. It's not safe for you, and it sure as hell isn't safe for your daughter."

I find my underwear and pants. Shaking them out, I pull them on at the same time.

The mention of Diana changes his expression. Good. Finally. I seem to be getting through to him.

"Let's think about this logically." He sits up on the bed. Sheets cover his lap, but barely. The sexy indent by his hip shows. My hand flexes, and I want to touch him there so badly. "Who would want your family dead?"

I shrug. "They were some of the most extraordinary magics in the world, but feared and loved are not the same thing. They probably have enemies I don't even know about."

"Who would want you dead?" He looks at me like he already suspects an answer.

I find my bra and turn my back to him as I wrap it across my back and fumble to latch it against my stomach. My hands shake. "No one. I'm nobody."

"Who had the addresses for all three fires?"

"No one," I dismiss.

"Who knew you'd be at the motel?" he persists.

I hate his tone. It's know-it-all, and it's pissing me off. "We didn't even know we would be there."

I hear a loud sigh as he moves on the bed. I keep my back to him. Why won't this stupid bra latch?

"The first fire was my birthday party. Everyone knew about it. Lady Astrid invited a who's who of the supernatural world." I finally get one latch to hook, and I twist it around so that I can loop my arms into the straps.

"And the second was where?" He sounds a tad condescending now.

If I were a puncher, I'd hit him. "Conrad's birth mother's house. No one knew about her. He kept her a secret."

"And the third?"

"Conrad's foster parents," I mutter the words, not wanting to say them.

"And who did you tell we'd be at the motel?"

Damn Paul. Damn him to hell.

"It's not my brother," I yell, twisting around to glare at him. "Get that out of your head right now. You don't know. You don't understand what our life was like. You can't just go accusing him of-of… Of things!"

"Then who else knew?" Paul stands naked by the bed, utterly unashamed that he's dangling for the world to see.

Well, for me to see.

I avert my gaze, refusing to be distracted. Even angry, I'm attracted to him.

He holds up his hand and begins listing off his evidence with flicks of his fingers. "Conrad's family. Conrad's remaining sister. Conrad's birth mother. Conrad's foster family."

"So you think someone wants to hurt Conrad?" Even I don't fully believe my conclusion. "Like he made someone mad, and they want to hurt him in retaliation?"

"Why would he tell someone who is mad at him where to find you all those times?"

I realize this is the reason Paul insisted on being alone with me to talk.

"It's not…" I shake my head. Part of me hates Paul for even putting this doubt in my mind. "He's my brother."

"Did you text him where we were staying before the vampires came?"

I give a half nod. A hot tear slides over my cheek before dripping onto my chest. I did tell him. He worries about me. I wanted someone to know where I was.

"Do you think your phone is compromised?"

I want to say yes, but all our phones are magically protected from hacking. I can barely get the admission out. "It's not likely."

His expression says more than he ever could. I can't meet his gaze.

"And if you're out of the way, who gets all that Devine power and money?" Paul's tone softens at my tears. "Who is there now making all the decisions regarding the estate? Who is dealing with the lawyers? I know you don't want to see it because you've lost so much, but I say this because I care. Often, the simplest answer is the right answer. Tamara, I'm sorry, but I think your brother is trying to kill you."