Chapter 14

FOURTEEN

Paris surrendered his brush at sunrise, every detail he could muster about the giant out of his head and onto the wall. Mind and body tired, all he wanted to do was shut his eyes and forget the world for a while. He stoked the fire, made sure Liam's blankets were snug around him on the couch, then crawled into bed with a relieved sigh.

Only for worry to spike when Mac's shivers rippled across the mattress. Not as severe as earlier, and for a good long while there, he'd slept peacefully, but Paris didn't like that the tremors were back. He considered more covers, but all of them in the cabin were already in use, and he sure as hell wasn't going for a walk in the morning cold to fetch one from the witches. Taking the only action left to him, Paris scooted closer and spooned the taller man from behind. Mac didn't wake, didn't even move but for the tremors that continued to ripple through his body. Paris held him close and distracted himself from the mounting worry by counting Liam's snores from across the room. Fifty-six later, Mac's shivers finally subsided, his breaths evening out again, and before Paris reached sixty, he nodded off himself, forehead pressed against the soft fabric between Mac's shoulder blades.

When he woke sometime later, Paris detected no snores, no voices, and no keystrokes, just the sizzling crackle of a waning fire. Opening his eyes, Paris let them adjust to the dim lighting, the late afternoon sun cutting across the cabin. And catching the note on the pillow beside his. Unfolding it, he recognized Mac's handwriting from his case files. Thank you , it read. We're needed in YB. Coven is here for anything you need. Back soon. —M

Two days later, Paris was raring for an argument over the definition of soon, if soon ever came to pass. There'd been no sign of Mac or Liam, no word from any of Paris's own contacts in YB, and no calls that the witches told him about during their lessons or over the dinner Paris made for them last night. While Paris appreciated Mac's trust in leaving him out here alone, while he appreciated the peace and protection of this forest by the sea, not knowing what was going on outside it, not knowing if he could help like he had on the ridge, was driving him crazy. The only things that kept him sane, that kept him from hot-wiring one of the witch's cars like Jason had taught him, were his paints and the unwavering connection he shared with Mac. Mac was out there, doing what his team needed, and the last thing he needed was Paris distracting him. He'd all but resigned himself to not seeing Mac or Liam until after the Rift anniversary tomorrow, so when tires crunched over the gravel outside, he nearly dropped his paintbrush.

Righting his grip on the brush, he flipped it so the pointy end was at the ready. Mac had told him only friendlies could get through the witches' protections and the crows in the trees. He wasn't expecting any witchy visitors, so... He moved to peek out the window, but before he reached it, the door swung open, Mac's tall, rangy frame stepping through, his face shadowed by the setting sun outside.

Paris opened his mouth to have that argument about soon , but then the light shifted and Mac's face came into full view. His tan skin was pale, dark circles underlined his eyes, and his hair was a tousled mess. Add the slumped shoulders under his wrinkled shirt and the tie hanging loose around his neck, and Paris didn't want to know the last time Mac had slept. In his arms two days ago, if Paris had to guess. At least he wasn't shivering this time. In any event, he was here now, and Paris needed to get him fed and to bed.

"How about some potato fennel soup and cheese sandwiches?"

"That sounds great."

"Go take a shower while I get it ready."

Mac didn't argue, just grabbed fresh clothes from the pile Paris had cleaned and headed for the bathroom. By the time he reappeared, Paris had bowls of soup on the table and was cutting the hearth-grilled sandwiches in half.

And nearly sawed his finger in half too.

Barefoot and hair wet, Mac crossed the room in his low-slung pants and unbuttoned dress shirt, more of that long, lean body on display than Paris had ever seen. And more striking than he'd ever dreamed. He took a moment to appreciate the rosy warmth the shower had returned to his skin, then took a longer few moments to appreciate Mac's broad shoulders and solid chest, abs that were toned but not overly ripped, the sprinkling of dark curls on his torso and the thicker line of dark hairs that trailed beneath his waistband.

Paris's mouth went dry, the inevitable supernova finally crashing into him and his dick responding in kind, hardening inside his sweats. Thank fuck he was standing behind a counter where Mac couldn't see.

"I'm sorry I couldn't send word," the raven said, and Paris struggled to focus on his words and not the tempting figure he cut in the firelight. "I meant to make it back last night, but then one of the names on your list flipped, and he led us to one of your father's stash houses."

Mention of Vincent quelled Paris's libido, for now. He finished slicing the sandwiches without injury and carried the plates to the table. "What does that mean?" he asked as he and Mac took their seats.

"Money, weapons, magical beings he used as power sources."

"Alive?"

He stirred his soup, a faraway look flitting across his dark eyes. "Some."

"But not as bad as the ridge?" Paris said, if he was reading the reaper's vitals correctly. "You weren't shivering when you came in."

Mac returned to the present and his food, slurping a spoonful of still steaming soup. Paris was glad he'd leaned toward over-warm. "No, thankfully, and we had another reaper helping."

"I wish I could've been there to help you."

"Me too." He aimed one of his soft smiles in Paris's direction, and Paris flip-flopped again on which expression to paint. He had time to decide, the rest of the picture still coming together in his head, the rest of the world still on fire. He wanted to paint Mac when it wasn't a necessity; when instead it was simply a matter of joy and appreciation.

They finished their soup and sandwiches in silence, jazz music playing in the background, and when Paris rose and carried the dishes to the sink, Mac joined him. "We took the physical weapons," he said. "But the money is yours. We've secured it."

"Use what you need for Nature's cause."

"Paris."

He flung a soapy hand in the air, gesturing at their surroundings. "How much have you spent on paints, on clothes, on food, on taking care of me?"

"That's not even a blip on the radar of what you've inherited."

Paris gulped. He'd known his father—their family—was rich, but he'd purposely looked the other way, ignored the how and why and stayed in his privileged golden cage. No more. "I don't want that money."

"If you don't claim it, someone else will, and not for good."

"Fine," he gritted out, fists balled under the soapy water. "Use what you need for the cause, then I'll find more good uses for the rest. Deal?"

"Deal." Mac bumped his shoulder and warmth rippled out from the simple contact, easing Paris back down from his momentary fuss. Unclenching his fists, he got back to washing dishes, and Mac grabbed the closest dishtowel to dry. "Dinner was delicious," he said.

"The witches have been good to me." Checking up on him, teaching him about auras, joining him in the meadow to pick flowers and other herbs they'd discovered among the weeds. "I wanted to do something nice for them. More than just regular bread deliveries."

Mac gifted him another soft smile, then, once they were finished, wandered out of the kitchen area. "You stayed painting while I was gone. They're so bright," he said from in front of the wall of flowers bursting with color, pretty things his father would never let him have. Belittled him for painting. "You left this, though," Mac said with a nod toward the mural of the giant from the ridge.

"I didn't know if you had enough light or enough time to take a picture before you left."

"I did, and we got a positive ID on him."

Pride swelled inside Paris's chest. He'd done something right, had turned the worst moment of his life into something good, into something he could use to help Mac and the team. He'd been told his entire life he was a fool, that he was worthless, but in this case he'd remembered enough, painted well enough to give Mac a lead. Maybe Icarus had been right when he'd told Paris not to sell himself short. "Have you found him yet?"

"Not yet, but Icarus's sister is digging into his financials and internet history. We're trying to pinpoint where he might set up for Samhain."

"One of the other altars?"

"That's the thinking, but we have to find them first."

"Are there other thin spots like the one on the ridge?"

"More than a few," Mac answered. "But we don't have an insider like we did with Abigail and the last one. We'll have to approach the rest with caution." He gestured again at the wall. "Let's paint over this one."

"In the morning," Paris replied. "You need to go to bed."

"I do," he conceded. "But if I have any hope of sleeping, I need to get out of my head first. Mindlessly rolling paint onto a wall should do the trick."

"Fair enough," Paris said with a chuckle. "You get the paint ready. I'm going to turn up the music and swap these sweats for the paint-stained ones."

A quick trip to the bathroom, then Paris returned just as one of his favorite tunes began to fill the cabin, its cresting and breaking melodies reminding him of the waves he'd gone too many days without again.

The ocean . . .

"Wait!" he called out to Mac who was running the roller brush through the tray of white paint. Mac paused, gaze straying over his shoulder. "I want to start from a different base color," Paris explained. He snagged his tubes of blue and indigo and added several dollops of the former and a single dollop of the latter to the tray. He swirled them into the white, mixing the colors, but it still wasn't quite the shade in his head. He snatched his tube of green off the nearby table, added a dollop of that too, and after several more stirs, the tray of paint finally transformed into the lovely blue-green shade he missed so much.

"The ocean," Mac said, catching on.

"Not just the shore this time." Grinning, Paris made a giant sweeping gesture. "I want a whole wall of ocean."

Mac's answering laugh was worth the dramatics.

Paris grabbed the other roller, and they worked together to cover the nightmare mural with cool blue-green, the rhythmic roll of the brushes, the smooth jazz notes filling the cabin, and the crackling fire creating the cocoon of calm they'd both needed. Paris might even go so far as to say an uplift in Mac's mood, the typically restrained raven swaying his hips to the tune as he ran the roller through the paint tray again. "He dances," Paris gasped, playing dramatic again, hoping for a similar reaction.

Mac rolled his eyes and swiped at the hair that had fallen across his forehead. "He sways because he can barely stay upright."

"I don't believe you." Leaving his roller propped against the wall, Paris gently removed Mac's from his hand and rested it beside his, then just as gently drew Mac by the wrist into his arms.

Around a smile, Mac grumbled, "What are you doing?"

"Dancing." And taking his chance, Mac's walls and defenses down, his limbs loose and body warm. Paris shifted closer, soaking up the energy that vibrated between them.

"Paris," Mac whispered, voice trembling. "I can't?—"

Yes, you can was on the tip of his tongue, but when Paris looked into Mac's eyes, when he saw the desire and terror swirling in the dark depths, he altered course, desperate not to drive whatever had put that fear in his gaze higher. That was the last thing Mac needed. He laid a hand on Mac's chest and ignored his own desire to drag his fingers through the curls there. "I'm not asking for anything, Mac. Just dancing with a friend and helping you get out of your head."

The sound that slipped from Mac's lips was somewhere between a laugh and a groan, and he tilted forward, forehead pressed against Paris's. "You're doing more than that." He cupped the side of Paris's neck, and Paris's heart leapt. Jumped all the way into his throat as Mac angled his face, breath coasting over his lips.

And then gone the next instant, and it took Paris a disorienting second to realize why. Someone was banging on the cabin door, and every muscle in Mac's frame had snapped tight, gone battle-ready, his gaze fixed on the door.

"It's probably just Liam or one of the witches," Paris said, even as his own pulse raced faster, adrenaline kicking in to help him fight or flee.

"If it was Liam, I would have sensed him. And the witches know to signal." He stepped out of Paris's arms and peeked out the side window into the trees. "Why didn't the crows alert me?"

Had someone found them? Someone who wanted to kidnap him for his inheritance? Or someone who worked for Chaos? Was it the giant coming back for him? "Mac..." he whispered, his voice trembling now.

Mac grabbed the bread knife off the counter and slapped the handle into Paris's hand. "Take this and go hide in the bathroom."

" What? "

"Paris, please ." When he lifted his gaze, his eyes were glowing violet, all trace of desire gone, nothing but terror now. He had no idea who was on the other side of that door, and he feared the worst. Paris grabbed hold of that imaginary rope inside his chest and tugged. Mac tugged right back. "Go."