Page 73 of Caelum

And yes, it hurt.

It hurt so badly that it was worse than the stitch I sometimes got in the gym.

Reed cut me a look, then, as he glanced over at Stefan and Becky who had, yet again, moved closer to him, advised, “In this world, if you don’t take, you don’t get. Trust me on that.” He smiled at me, and though it was a beautiful smile, there was something in its depths that reminded me he was a Hell Hound.

No matter what soul was in control today, the Hell Hound was in charge.

It surprised me to recognize that I wasn’t frightened of him. I had expected I would be, but I wasn’t. I could sense the heat simmering away under the surface, but it didn’t scare me.

If anything, it warmed me. Like it was a cold day outside and he was a fire in the hearth set to burn the chill away.

That notion, more than what he made me feel, put me on edge. “What do you want from me, Reed?” It was an intense question, but it was a surprisingly intense moment.

He hadn’t just come here to warn Louisa off.

Was it because of my conversation with Frazer the other day?

I wasn’t about to complain or to knock the chance to make new friends, but neither was I going to put Stefan, Nestor, Eren, or even Dre, the jerk, in danger. That might have sounded extreme, but there was danger here.

I recognized that just as much as I recognized the fact I wasn’t frightened of him.

The latter was because I knew he wouldn’t hurt me.

My friends?

I didn’t have that assurance.

“Just to be friends,” he answered simply, but I didn’t trust him. Didn’t trust that banked heat that was, once again, warming me from the insideout. He tilted his head and turned away from me, toward the wall of windows and the door that led to the extended patio. “Do you ever wish you were back at the compound?”

“There’s no point in wishing,” I said sharply then, softening my tone, mumbled, “And if there was a point, I wouldn’t waste it on going back there.”

“No? What would you wish for… if you believed in them,” he conceded.

“To understand this world better. To know why people say the things they do.”

“Give it time. We’ve been around for close to two decades—half in and half out of the outside world. You haven’t.” His smile was gentle,sympathetic. “And in between then and now, I’ll help whenever I can. If you need a slang tutor, that is.”

His grin was contagious, and I found myself sharing one with him. Because his words had helped me relax, I found myself strangely curious as I asked, “What would you wish for?”

“It’s a stupid wish,” he stated drily.

“So? And mine isn’t? Learning a language that’s already my own?”

His mouth quirked to the right, and a dimple popped up. “When I was twelve, my mum took me to the Gold Coast. I’d just had my first real attack with my souls. They’d diagnosed me as schizophrenic, but she wouldn’t believe it. She refused. Said I needed some R&R, rest and relaxation,” he clarified when I stared at him blankly. “I love surfing. I’m a stereotypical Australian in that, and she took me to Coolangatta Beach for a week.” He whistled under his breath. “I loved it. It was great to get away from my dad—they’d started arguing a lot. Stress from my diagnosis, I figure.

“Anyway, we went there, and my souls behaved for once. I think it’s because I was free. I was out on the water as much as I could be and only came in for food and to sleep.

“She bought me a key ring,” he said with a smile. “It was only a crappy little thing. A picture of the beach in a plastic case on one side, a picture of me and her on the back.” He shrugged. “Took it with me everywhere, though. Even surfing as I got older. Put it in this little plastic pocket thing I’d wear around my neck. Got caught in a bad riptide, though, a year before I came here. Lost it. Lost the key ring. I wish I had that back.”

Surprised by the story, and surprised even more by the sentiment behind it, I asked, “To remind you of the beach?”

He shook his head. “To remind me of my mum that weekend. She died a few days later.”

My mouth dropped open. “What? How?”

Reed turned away from me, his gaze dropping to his hands. “When we got in the car to go home, my Hell Hound was in control. I didn’t know it back then, of course, but now I recognize the signs. I had a tantrum. Didn’t want to go back home to where I was confined. I-I threw something at her as we were getting into the car. Thought nothing of it, to be honest. She was used to that—I was a little bastard,” he admitted with a rasp, but I could see from the shaking of his hands the tension he was under. “She set off, we got to a good speed, but the toy I’d thrown at her had lodged itself under the brakes.”

“You crashed?”

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