Page 13 of Untraced Magic
I needed space. A fresh breath. Air not tainted with her strangely overwhelming scent.
She was human, and I knew first-hand how that scenario played out.
I wouldn’t make that mistake again.
My gut twisted into a knot, knowing I had to pull the asshole card.
“I think Skye needs some help inside,” I said bluntly, so she got the hint.
I knew I sounded like a jerk, but it was better than the alternative begging for mercy in my pants.
She remained silent, and I shifted my gaze to hers to be sure she’d heard me.
Her lips tightened, and an expression clouded her face I couldn’t read.
Finally, she muttered, “Sure,” then walked away.
The evening seemed to drag, maybe because I was in the same room as a human who had managed to awaken every cell inside of me. My calm exterior was nothing but a façade, a carefully curated mask of indifference I’d mastered to perfection.
But beyond that, blood scorched its way through my veins, my nerves misfiring it seemed at her mere presence.
Leaning against the back of the couch, Morgan stood deep in conversation with Scarlet, her long hair falling over her shoulders in subtle waves. Every so often, she adjusted herself, capturing my attention, before I had to turn away.
Beside me, Reid sat perched on the edge of a lounge chair, his elbows resting on his knees. “What’s the go with the new girl?” he asked, low enough to keep the conversation between us.
“Human,” I answered, just as low.
Hearing the word aloud hit me like a punch to my gut.
Reid took a swig of his beer. “Pity, she’s hot.”
I huffed a laugh, running my palms down my jeans. “Yep,” I muttered.
At that moment she caught my eye again, and my insides fucking crumbled. Her curious irises captured mine, holding our connection. This time, I couldn’t look away.
She stared at me like I was an artifact to decipher. I stared back pokerfaced, when all I could think about was the taste of her perfect-as-fuck lips.
What was wrong with me?
Our eyes remained anchored in place, like some magnetic form of torment as the corner of her lips lifted into a tight smile. I lifted my beer to my mouth, absorbing her intensity.
Reid let out a quiet whistle. “You’re in trouble.”
“Fuck off.” I grumbled.
He clamped a hand on my shoulder. “Keep that one in the ‘look but don’t touch box,’ Ty.”
I dragged a hand down my face. God dammit, I was going straight to hell.
Morgan
Inthespareroom,dust settled on boxes, and I ran my hand through it, the pads of my trembling fingers collecting its remanence. They cut trails over a large box that held memories I couldn’t yet swallow or bring myself to face.
It held my easel and brushes, the smaller boxes full of colors waiting for a new identity on paper.
I had a special love of painting. When I was three, my father set a paintbrush and bucket in front of me. I remembered it so clearly, like it was only yesterday. I never knew I was only painting the fence with water, but the paintbrush stoked my imagination, and I painted in lines, splotches, and swirls until there was no more water in my bucket.
Retracing my steps, I shut the door behind me, resting my head against the timber frame. My eyes lazed shut as I let out a deep breath, trying to lull my aching heart.
