Bound to His Redemption Page 6

  “It’s vastly superior but similar enough your food shouldn’t be poison to me.”

  “You’re very haughty, aren’t you?”

  “I merely speak the truth.” Eamon took one of the sticks and delicately sniffed at it. The aroma was strong but not —

  Caralyn burst out in laughter, so he glowered at her. “What?”

  Shaking her head, she said, “Sorry, you looked like some wine fanatic who takes every sniff very seriously. I’ve never seen someone do that to garlic bread before.”

  “My people have very refined tastes, and our sense of smell can tell us much.” So what if some of his people ate little more than slop? They could use their noses to lead them to more cultured food, if they so choose.

  “So your sense of smell is better than that of humans?”

  Though it grated on him to admit it, he found himself telling the truth. “Somewhat, but we have the years to refine the connection between scent and how we experience it.”

  “A mind-body connection type of thing?”

  He’d never heard it called that but supposed such a term was apt. At least this human wasn’t stupid. Thank the Green Mountains for small mercies. “We call it refining our senses, but it seems you humans have a different term for it.”

  She shrugged and served herself. “Most people probably don’t use that phrase for it.”

  As he reached out his right hand for the sauce spoon, Caralyn gasped.

  He scowled. “What?”

  “Your palm — what happened to it?”

  He resisted the urge to clench his hand into a fist and instead took some sauce. “A dagger happened. I thought that would be apparent.”

  Caralyn nodded her head shakily and fortunately didn’t press the subject further.

  Raising his fork to his mouth, he looked at the lumpy red sauce that coated the spaghetti. His stomach prodded him to eat, but his mind urged caution in tasting the food. Though he knew it wasn’t poisoned since she’d taken hers from the same bowls, he didn’t trust the quality or flavor of this spaghetti. Which was silly because he’d eaten far worse in the last three weeks. However, no human had seen him eating that swill and gagging on it.

  If he hated this food, he refused to embarrass himself before Caralyn and have what little dignity he had left desert him. Some snide voice said what dignity? But he’d learned a long time ago to ignore what he didn’t want to hear. No human — or her food — would get the better of him. So he shoved the fork into his mouth before he could change his mind.

  Taste exploded on his tongue. Garlic, tomato, beef, spices — it was all there, but it meshed surprisingly well. He didn’t gag or even want to spit his mouthful out. In fact, he chewed with more haste than was seemly and swallowed, forcing himself not to fall on the food like a wolf. Another bite, then another, quickly followed in the same fashion until the weight of Caralyn’s bemused stare drew him back to the fact a human sat before him.

  He put the fork down self-consciously, even though his stomach screamed for him to shovel more food in. “What?”

  “You were very wrapped up in your food.”

  “I was hungry.”

  “Yeah, I could see. How long has it been since you had a proper meal?”

  The words ripped from his throat against his will. “Three weeks.” Why had he told her that?

  Something that looked disturbingly like sympathy flashed across her face.

  He couldn’t allow that. A human feeling sorry for him? He was far above her pity and not a weak thing like her. “It is of no consequence and probably deemed a small pittance for my crimes.”

  She shrunk back against her chair. “Crimes?”

  Her fear was like balm to his pride. He smiled, showing his teeth. “I was banished to your paltry Earth for trying to better my world.”

  “Wha-what did you do?” Her question came out a whisper.

  He lifted a shoulder. “Nothing much. I was merely accused of subverting magic and twisting some of my people. And murder, but it was war. People die.”

  All color fled from her face. “Magic ... what? You’re a war criminal?”

  “Semantics. A criminal to same, a hero to others.” Unfortunately, most people back home now regarded him as the first. Though he’d had his supporters, they’d turned on him to save themselves from any accusations of collusion. And his father ... The old elf was as crafty as they came and was still surely acting behind the scenes, stirring up his own brand of trouble.

  She pushed away from the table slowly. “You’re a ... a ... get out.”

  FEAR PROPELLED CARALYN to stand. With a shaking hand, she pointed toward the front of her apartment. “Leave.”

  He was a psychopath, a certified psycho. One who could apparently subvert magic — whatever that meant. And he was sitting at her table, eating the meal she’d made, and calmly telling her about his crimes. What the hell was she doing? She didn’t know what sort of monster he was, other than not a human one. He wasn’t some lost puppy that needed saving, and she shouldn’t forget that. And talking of dogs, Archie was no help. He still slept like a doggie log.

  She glanced back at Eamon. The psycho didn’t appear angry. Instead, he looked ... amused and satisfied? And his aura changed to reflect that, a reddish-pink tint that tasted like bubblegum on her tongue. His moods switched faster than a spigot could be turned off and on. That kept her off-center and twitchy, especially with her synesthesia acting so strange around him. From what she knew of synesthesia, hers wasn’t acting the way it was supposed to. Every person and object that brought out her synesthesia had always had their own stable smell, taste, or color — until Eamon. His aura changed so much within the course of a day it freaked her out.

  That sense of superiority dripping off him drove her mad. If he kept it up, she’d be able to bathe in it. She hated that sensation almost as much as the fright that pounded through her veins. “Leave,” she said again, trying and miserably failing to keep her voice flat.

  “I don’t think so.” He lazily raked his gaze up and down the length of her. “You owe me, remember? Anything that I may want.”

  His audacity ripped a gasp from her. She felt stripped and naked before him. “I never agreed to that.”

  “You didn’t have to. I saved your life. Now you’re in my debt. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “You may have saved me from rape, but that certainly doesn’t sign over my life and soul to you.”

  “I’m not going to be here for long. So you’d repay my kindness by denying your debt?”

  “You’re anything but kind.”

  “You might be right, but I’ve been quite ... nice to you,” he said, his tone laced with disgust over his apparent softening.

  “There’s nothing wrong with being kind.” Unless I’m dealing with a jackass like you. Still, it disturbed her that even with him she was being so tenderhearted. But unless she was furious, she couldn’t force herself to be any other way.

  After Eamon finished polishing off his bread stick, he responded. “It has its place, but being perpetually kind is a weakness.”

  She scowled. “It’s served me just fine.” Most of the time.

  “Has it now?” he asked, quirking a brow. “Then why am I sitting here now?”

  “Because I’m not strong enough to throw you out. And you didn’t give me a choice. It wasn’t like I could escape you. I tried.”

  “That’s true.

  Good, he agreed with her on something. “So this has nothing to do with kindness.” Why didn’t she believe it, then?

  “If that’s what you want to tell yourself.”

  Argh. How was she going to put up with him? Why was she putting up with him? Oh yeah, for the reasons she’d already stated — because he’d saved her and could easily crush her like a bug. And probably smile while doing it. In fact, she was sure he’d grin.

  If he was going to do what he wanted, no matter what she said, she might as well speak her mind. “Look, I don’t like or trust yo
u. You’re an admitted criminal, a murderer.”

  He shrugged and gave a smirk. “I’m not representing myself to be anything I’m not.”

  His gloating words struck a cord. “I think you took great satisfaction in telling me.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “That’s it, isn’t? You were trying to intimidate me, trying to instill fear.”

  The amusement vanished from his face, and his gaze zeroed in on her with an intensity that zapped right down to her bones. She gulped. What was it they say about not poking at a beast? That it could turn on you? Yeah, she understood that now in a way she had never before.

  Eamon slowly wiped his mouth and fingers with a paper napkin. She found it nearly agonizing to watch. Each finger received the same amount of care as the one before, but the whole time, he kept his gaze on her. Then he rose in one fluid motion. The power and energy coiled in his lean, muscular body cloaked him in shades blue and purple, though the yellowish edges of his aura remained the same. Most worrying was the gray slithering through the other colors. It felt evil in a way the other colors didn’t and tasted like tar. Potent fear shivered through her. What was he?

  Prowling around the table, he circled her like prey. In a distant corner of her mind, she recognized this was a favored move of his, and it meant he was predictable in some ways. Boy, did it ever work. Even now, terror was swelling in her throat.

  He stopped behind her, and she stiffened further, if it was possible. Her lungs froze, and though she wanted to whirl around, her feet felt like lumps of concrete.

  His breath fanned over her ear. She shuddered at the sensation. He made no move to touch her, though. Thank God.

  “I don’t have to try to instill fear, little human. I succeed without even attempting.”

  She took a step away and wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of her turning to face him. Though she swallowed in an effort to loosen up her tight throat, her words still came out nearly a croak. “I get that you’re creepy and that you take pride in it. You use it to control and keep people at bay. But if you’re going to stay here, I need you to tone it down. I have a feeling you’ll need my help in more ways than one, and I can’t do it if you give me a heart attack.”

  “Oh, I don’t plan on giving you a heart attack. But death from pleasure could be arranged.”

  Oh, God, he hadn’t just gone there. But he had, and after just scaring the bejesus out of her. She didn’t know whether to laugh in despair, pee her pants, or scream at him. All three seemed likely choices right now. He was still right behind her, like a phantom on her back. She needed distance, now.

  After going over to her counter, she leaned against it. Though it was a seemingly casual pose, she knew she was fooling no one. He stood about three feet away, which was still way too close. “I don’t think anything about your last sentence is appropriate or wise.”

  His mouth quirked up into a sexy smile, which made her heart thud against her ribcage, damn it. “It sounded like a delightful prospect to me,” he said.

  She couldn’t believe she was going to ask him this, but she’d apparently lost her mind. “I thought humans disgusted you?”

  His lip curled. “They do, but since I’m stuck among humans, I have little choice. And I find you the most palatable of them all.”

  A hysterical laugh nearly ripped from her. She, who was no great beauty and sometimes scared shitless of him, was the most palatable? Why did she suddenly feel like food? He really was a crayon short of a full box. “I don’t know whether to be offended or flattered. That was a backhanded compliment, if I ever heard one.”

  “Most women would be flattered.”

  “I’m not most women. And I don’t like being hit on by strange males, especially ones who admit to being criminals.”

  He closed the distance between their lower bodies to a hair’s breadth. “I don’t think you’re as immune to me as you say you are.”

  She went still. Even her heart felt like it skipped a beat. Though not one inch of his body touched hers, her skin tingled as if small electric charges flew between her and Eamon. Shit, he didn’t even have to lay a hand on her to make her knees weak. Were they weak from fear or desire? Both? Yeah, probably.

  Crossing her arms, she hugged herself. She was so screwed. His presence was terrifying and nearly overpowering, but it did weird things to her body that no other male’s had.

  After she remembered how to breathe and think, her tongue swiped over her dry lips. She couldn’t let him know how he affected her. “You’re dreaming.”

  He leaned his upper body over hers. “Shall I prove it to you?”

  She twitched and attempted to slip from underneath him, but he placed his hands on either side of her on the counter, effectively caging her. They stared at each other until she looked away first. His gaze, it was too much. Too much passion, hate, pain, and loss burning in those eyes. Caralyn swallowed. Did he even realize how they poisoned his soul? “Please let me go.”

  “Not until I see something.” His voice held a distant yet fascinated note, as if he’d discovered a particularly interesting new breed of animal. And she had the discomfiting notion that was just how he viewed her. She wasn’t a person but a thing to him — to be used, to be studied.

  Before she could think any further, he reached out and trailed his fingers down her cheek. “So soft,” he murmured. “Sometimes, I think I could touch you all day and never grow bored.” A frown formed between his brows. He cocked his head to the side as he stared at her. “And I don’t know why. You’re like a sickness — most humans are — but you’re a different kind infecting my blood.”

  Her stomach knotted itself into loops, and not only because of the whisper of fingertips over her skin. Though some might find his words romantic, she read the true meaning behind them — he desired her but considered his lust, and her, a poison running through his veins. Like most poisons, he’d seek to get rid of her, in one way or the other. Maybe through murder, but that seemed unlikely while he needed her help. So the most obvious choice would be to sleep with her as many times as possible and then move on once his desire had slackened.

  How she knew this, she couldn’t be sure. His aura told much, but it didn’t turn her into a mind reader. Right now, however, it was as if she could guess his very motivations. So when he lowered his mouth to her neck, it wasn’t a complete surprise. But nothing that had ever come before seemed to prepare her for the heat he lavished to the hollow of her throat. The protest on her lips faded away as his tongue and mouth worked in a perfect dance. Even her pulse fluttered in synchronization to his movements. Warmth pooled in her belly.

  His right hand curled around the back of her neck before slipping under her shirt and down to her shoulder. The ridged scar on his palm dragged along her sensitive skin. A shiver worked its way over her. She’d never imagined that a scar could feel erotic.

  As he kissed and sucked at her throat, little moans of pleasure came from him. The sound sent more desire crashing through her. And the crazy idea of sleeping with him suddenly didn’t feel so crazy, no matter that he wasn’t human, or nice, or that she didn’t engage in casual sex.

  She slid her hands into his hair. Her fingers ghosted over his ears, and what she discovered there gave her pause. Were his ears pointed?

  As soon as she’d touched him, though, it also apparently gave him pause because he stiffened. Then he lifted his head, leaving her feeling stupidly, insanely bereft, but still kept her pinned in between his arms. The lust in his eyes died, and anger took up residence.

  He growled, actually growled at her before saying, “Don’t touch me without permission.”

  Taken aback by his vehemence, she struggled to find her voice. And even when she found it, her words came out croaky. “Why, because a dirty human is doing so? Or is it because you don’t want your ears touched?”

  “While you may be an odious human, I don’t allow anyone — elf or human — to touch any part of me unless I deem it acceptable.”

  There wa
s so much said, and unsaid, in his words that she could mull over the various connotations for hours, but something stood out as if it’d been written in bold letters — elf. Was that what he was? With the pointed ears, it made sense, but weren’t elves little creatures? And why was he hung up with not being touched? When was it “acceptable,” as he termed it?

  Some of the drawings of him flashed before her eyes, and she winced. Unfortunately, she might have her answer. No, she knew she had her answer. He’d been abused. Any hope that those images being BDSM scenes disappeared. A slight welling of sympathy sprung up, but she crushed it as quickly as possible. He was still not to be trusted, and he wouldn’t take kindly to pity, anyway.

  Flustered, she didn’t think before she opened her mouth, and out popped the most idiotic thing she could’ve said, given the circumstances. “Well, if you want to sleep with me, how can you expect me to avoid touching you? That doesn’t mean I am going to, by the way,” she added when a bit of satisfaction replaced his ire. Smart, Cara, a great way to really discourage him is by asking sex questions.

  “Oh, I won’t mind your soft skin against mine. It’s what your extremities and mouth do that concerns me.”

  A flush crept up her face at the picture his words created. His voice should be outlawed. It was a weapon that left her feeling particularly vulnerable, and considering how the rest of him affected her, that was a very bad thing.

  “I don’t think you have to worry about any part of me touching you that way. I know how to keep my mouth and hands to myself, and ask that you do the same.” She cringed. Good God, had she just really said that? Her mouth moved faster than her brain — that was for sure.

  A positively devilish look played over his face. “Are you sure about that?”

  “Yes.” Dang, why had that come out more of a question than a statement? She needed to get off this subject before she agreed to something without meaning to. Her brain didn’t seem to be working correctly — and hadn’t since she’d met him. Glancing longingly toward the living room, she said, “Please let me move.”