Page 15 of Whispers of Torment

“Lillian.”

Her head snapped up.

John gripped her. “What’s happened?”

She pulled her stone draperies about herself and firmly shoved her feelings inside.

“Lily, please talk to me.” He shook her shoulders, causing her teeth to chatter. She suddenly realized she was crying.

“N…nothing’s happened.”

“You’re frozen.” He tugged her into his arms and chafed her hands. “Is it the memory from yesterday? About when you were Made?”

“Something like it.” She lifted her face to the sky, pinpricks of hundreds of stars witness to her lie.

“I think we should go.”

She knew he didn’t mean the cemetery but the city. Lillian allowed him to swing her into his arms and carry her away from that place, wondering how he could carry her so easily if she was veiled in granite.

Goddammit, Nathan thought. I’m in Seattle, probably feet from my immortal mate and I am stuck in another traffic jam.

His chest welled with frustration and he gnawed the inside of his cheek to keep from growling.

He dumped a pile of bills over the seat, leaped from the cab and into a cloud of exhaust fumes. The day was dim and dreary, the traffic screaming. He shot between vehicles, running. He passed shops overflowing with outdoor equipment, bookstores, flower stands and clothing boutiques. As he ran, he allowed the music of the city to fill his head. Deep in his soul, he felt the throb of Lillian’s heart.

A great cloud of blue smoke roiled from the tailpipe of a van and Nathan bounded through it like a boy in a puddle. He bumped into a woman, steadied her with a hasty apology and kept running. Dogs barked and a saxophone sobbed. His muscles burned with the release of running.

Running toward Lillian felt good. Running toward her felt right.

He followed her footsteps to the restaurant where she had sat across from John LeClair, smiled into his eyes, toasted with wine.

Had the wine sucked from her fingertip.

Nathan braced his hands on the table, wanting to flip it over. A quiver that had nothing to do with his need to bind himself to Lillian gripped him. When he got his hands on fucking John LeClair, he would break his jaw.

Breathing heavily, he turned on his heel and stomped through the maze of tables. Outside, he was deluged by images of Lillian. Her hand in the crook of John LeClair’s arm, high heels splashing through the streets, the sway of her hips, hair floating loose about her torso. Nathan stumbled along in her wake, unable to move fast enough through the crowd.

He caught her womanly, lavender scent and nearly came to a dead stop. His body reacted instantly, his cock hardening, pushing against the zipper of his jeans. His hands clenched.

Push on, Halbrook. She’s near. And no matter what, she is yours.

He trailed the invisible length of ribbon created by her step, leading up the stone steps of a cathedral. He placed his palm against the smooth, old wood of the door, pushing it inward. His heart thumped his chest wall, a feeling of dread washing over him.

The vestibule was still and the silence sharp. Here, John LeClair had touched the sweet curve of Lillian’s lower back, fingers kneading the bottommost flower of her immortal tattoo.

Nathan moved farther into the space. The room closed in on him, suddenly confining and dark. He touched the back of the pew where she had sat with John LeClair. He didn’t want to be here, but he had to follow her.

Possess her.

Or die trying.

When he sank to the gleaming wood seat, he sprung up as if doused by hot tar. At the close of the Revolutionary War he had seen men tarred and would never forget the bodies writhing beneath the boiling liquid. This was infinitely worse. This was anguish of the soul.

John LeClair’s hands skimmed Lillian’s smooth abdomen, up her ribcage like keys on a piano. His mouth was open upon hers, devouring her gasps. Her golden flesh shimmered in the shadows and quiet pressed around them, enclosing them in a lover’s embrace. Her slender fingers tangled in his dark hair, trapping his face against her bare breast.

Enough-fucking-nough.

Nathan stumbled from the pew and into the aisle, breathing like he’d outrun the British troops. He trudged toward the doors, his throat closed around a bellow. His brain was searing agony. He wished he could find that vat of tar and burn out the images.

---