North of Need (Hearts of the Anemoi, #1)

  Shame and guilt soured her stomach. She wept into the arms of her sweater. When she’d placed the battery-operated clock on the hearth, her pulse had raced in anticipation. And then the fire had flashed off the ornate brass face. The curling arrows of the hands pointed out 6:59. Her breath stuck in her chest as she clutched the glass casing in her hands. No. She couldn’t have missed it. But the big hand snapped into its most upright position, chiding her as it signaled the top of the hour. And she’d lost it.

  She’d missed the anniversary. For more than an hour, she’d forgotten it altogether.

  Big hands squeezed her shoulders. “Megan?”

  Her lips formed words, but she couldn’t quiet her sobs enough to muster a response.

  A thick thigh brushed her own as the stranger settled beside her. A large palm smoothed soft circles over her upper back.

  I’m sorry, John. So, so sorry. I will never forget you. Never.

  “I know,” he said.

  Megan whipped into a sitting position with her butt on her heels. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing.” The man dropped his hand and leaned an elbow back against the hearth. “I wasn’t trying to be forward, I just hated seeing you cry after you’ve been so kind—”

  “No, you said ‘I know.’”

  He shook his head and held up a hand. “I didn’t say anything. Promise.”

  She buried her face in her hands, mumbled against her palms, “Oh God, I really am losing it.” No. Wait a minute. She gasped and slapped her hands against her thighs. Her heart beat in her throat. “You said my name.”

  His red lips twisted. He narrowed his gaze, appraised her. But he didn’t speak.

  She scrambled to her feet, stepped back, fists clenched. “How do you know my name?” Her grief bloomed into rage, a white-hot maelstrom swelling in her chest.

  In a blink, he stood. She wasn’t short, but he towered over her. Dark eyes peeked out between his long black bangs. He held out a hand. “Megan—”

  “No!” She skidded backward until she put the length of the leather sofa between them. “Were you...” She pointed toward the door. “How did you…I mean, what are you doing here? How do you know me? There’s no way you just randomly appeared at my door, not in this weather.” God, this was exactly what she’d worried about before she’d opened her door and dragged his sorry stalking butt in.

  “You’re right.”

  She gasped. “Oh, shit.” She’d let a strange man into her cabin. A man who knew she was here, probably knew she was alone. The weather had her trapped, the power outage left her unable to call for help. Jesus, he knew her name. It was horrible to admit, but over the past two years she’d more than once flirted with thoughts of death, of joining John wherever he was. But now that her life was in danger, her soul screamed to survive. “What do you want?” Her voice trembled, cracked.

  He shook his head, moved slowly toward her. “Please don’t be frightened. I would never harm you.”

  She scoffed, circled the couch in the opposite direction. “I’m sure that’s what all the serial killers say, right before they slam a bag over your head and stuff you in the back of a nondescript van.”

  They continued their tense dance around the couch until she stood closest to the fireplace. Blood pounded through her veins, whooshed through her ears. The fire popped behind her. The sound gave her an idea, and she whirled and grabbed the iron poker from the rack. She gripped it tightly to hide how much her hands trembled.

  He held his palms up in the universal gesture of reassurance, but continued toward her. “I don’t blame you for your fear, but tell me what I can do to allay it.”

  She brandished the poker in his direction. “Don’t come any closer.”

  He didn’t listen. “I’m here for you.”

  “What? Why? What does that even mean?” Poker held high, she stepped backward toward the couch.

  His dark eyes blazed in the fire light. Their depths flashed with wisdom, purpose, setting off butterflies in her stomach. “You’re not ready for the rest yet.”

  She snorted, stepped backward again. “You suck at allaying fear.”

  One corner of his lip quirked up. He raised his shoulders. “I’m new at this.”

  “Whatever. It’s time for you to go.”

  “You don’t want me to go.”

  “Yeah, I really do.” Wielding the poker with one hand, she pointed at the door with the other. “Out.”

  “Megan, if you’d just let me—”

  “Out!” she shouted, waving the poker as she retreated from his continued advance. Her calves backed into something low. Her knees buckled and she waved her arms to maintain balance. The poker dropped, clanged against the hardwood.

  Big hands wrapped around her waist, catching her from falling over the coffee table. Her heart thundered against her breastbone, making it hard to breathe. “No. No, no!” She pounded the man’s broad chest. Forceful though her blows were, they made little impact against the firm muscles under the thin shirt. John’s shirt.

  “It’s okay. It’s okay.” One arm still around her, he grabbed for her hands to prevent the pummeling.

  She squirmed and pushed against him, punched, swatted her way out of his grasp. Her hand gripped the placket of John’s shirt and wrenched at it. If he was going to hurt her, kill her, he wasn’t going to do it wearing John’s clothing. Two buttons popped off as the fabric gave way. She grunted and yanked again, feeling near crazed with her determination to get that shirt off him.

  “Stop. Stop, it’s okay.” He released his grip on her waist and, with two hands, finally captured her wrists. She continued to struggle. “Please stop fighting me. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  It’s okay. The words curled around her body.

  Megan whimpered. Her eyes locked onto the man’s unmoving mouth. She’d heard the words, just like before, but this time she knew, she’d seen, that he wasn’t the one who’d said them. The fight drained from her body. Grief and confusion swamped her. What was happening? Maybe you really could go crazy from grief. A sob tore from her lips just as her knees gave out.

  The man caught her and lowered them to the floor.

  §

  As he cradled her in his lap, Owen was torn between the intense pleasure of holding this woman close and a soul-deep yearning to ease her devastation. How could he make her understand?

  He only knew he had to. It’s why he was here. Why he’d been sent. Her acceptance was his greatest need.

  He laid his cheek against the soft waves of her hair. “I’m here for you,” he whispered. “Let me help.” Her body heat felt like life against him, especially as his own body in this form possessed the same warmth—so unusual for him.

  “I…don’t…understand,” she stuttered between shuddering breaths.

  “I know.”

  “I thought you didn’t remember anything.”

  He sighed and rubbed her back. “Talking to you, touching you, I’m starting to remember.”

  She leaned back, looked up. Her gaze scanned his face for a long moment. He hoped she found the sincerity he felt. “This is…I don’t…” She shook her head. “You have to explain all…this.”

  “I know. And I will.”

  His chest swelled at the cautious hope that framed her lovely face. “Promise?”

  He nodded. “Yes. In time.” He gently wiped the wetness from under her eyes, the simple act of providing care for another felt so odd, yet so welcomed. Her tears tingled against his skin, and he curled his hand into a fist, wanting to hold onto the curious sensation. As he studied her heart-shaped face framed by all that wavy gold, his lips twitched at the thought of kissing her wounded cheek. He wanted to make it better. To make it all better, for her.

  Her gaze drifted down to the stretched and torn flannel
. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It was your shirt anyway.”

  “Yes, about that.”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “It was there.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You are the master of the vague. You realize this, right?”

  “If you say so.” Her unexpected playful chiding appealed to him, made him want to push her so she’d keep pushing back.

  “I really do.” Her gaze fell to his chest. A blush colored her cheeks a sweet, sensual pink. “Um, sorry.” She pushed off him, attempted to rise.

  He helped her to her feet, his eyes trained on the pink, and yearned to know the meaning of it. The relaxed atmosphere between them disappeared. She crossed and uncrossed her arms.

  He sighed, eager to ease her. “I will leave the cabin if you still want, but I won’t leave you. I’ll wait on the porch until you’re more comfortable with my presence.”

  “You’re not going to hurt me.” Her tone was a mix between statement and question.

  “Never.”

  “But, if you do, I reserve the right to make use of that poker.”

  “If I ever hurt you, I’d use it on myself.”

  Wary amusement played around her expressive eyes. “And you’re going to explain… all this?”

  He nodded and hope filled him with a wonderful feeling of levity. “Soon.” Once he figured out how to explain it.

  She groaned. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you can stay.”

  A small victory. His first. “Good. I’d rather be with you.”

  She looked away to the fire. “M’kay. Well.” She shifted her stance, once, twice, then stilled and cocked her head. “Since you’re going to be staying and all, any chance you got a name?”

  “Owen. Owen Winters.” He stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets.

  “Owen Winters.”

  He was immediately in love with the sound of his name rolling off her tongue. “That’s me.”

  “All right, then, Owen, how about I get you some dry and, uh, not torn clothes?”

  He nodded, enjoying the repetition of his name and taking in every small movement of her body, all long lines and curves where they counted. “That’d be great.”

  She grabbed a flashlight from a kitchen drawer and disappeared into the dark room where she’d found the clock. Her muttered musings warmed him with good humor, an unusual sensation in its own right. Gods, she made him feel so alive.

  For good reason.

  Chapter Five

  Not letting herself think too much about what she was doing, Megan returned to the great room with a pile of clothes. Now that she was making nice with the guy, an unsettled flutter rippled through her stomach.

  He accepted the items and looked around. “Thanks. Um, where—”

  “Oh, right. Sorry. Here, take the flashlight. That door over there is the bathroom. I grabbed a bunch of stuff, not sure what you might want.”

  “Sounds good.” The yellow glow of the flashlight swung back and forth as he crossed the great room to the single bathroom in the cabin.

  As soon as the door closed behind him, she threw her head back and whispered to herself, and to who-the-heck-ever-else was listening, “What the hell is going on here? What the hell am I doing?”

  This time, she listened for a response, but the oh-so-helpful voice she’d been hearing, the one that encouraged her to accept the stranger, remained quiet.

  “Got nothing to say now, huh? Figures.” She snorted. Hearing voices was one thing, but talking back to them probably hiked her up to a whole other level of psychosis. Awesome.

  Across the room, the fire had settled into low-burning embers. Since it was their only heat and light for the foreseeable future, she piled on more logs, then sat back and stared as the low flames erupted into a great blaze. The heat eased her aches. Her muscles were still sore from yesterday. She was just weary.

  Two years without him. Two-plus years without him, now. But she was still here.

  The bathroom door clicked open, and Megan turned her gaze to find Owen in clean jeans and a short-sleeved black shirt. The shirt was tight through the chest and shoulders, in a totally good way. Jeez, did he look hot in black. Skin fair but not pale. The dark eyes and long-layered jet hair swept over to one side gave him a dangerous vibe. Though, he’d already proven he wasn’t. She was completely mystified by his presence, but there was no denying he’d been gentle and respectful.

  “Find something?” she asked.

  He walked into the firelight and held out his hands. “Yes. Thanks.”

  She pressed her lips together to restrain her smile.

  “What?” He looked down at himself. “Oh.” He stuck out a white foot and made a face. “Little short.”

  “Yeah, just a bit.” The jeans were about three inches too short. John had been trim through the middle like Owen, but definitely not as tall. “You didn’t want the socks?”

  “Nah, I’m good.”

  Megan pushed up from the hearth and stretched. “Can I get you anything? Are you hungry?”

  Owen rubbed his stomach. “I could eat.”

  Megan nodded toward the kitchen. “Let’s see what I have. I can get the camping stove from the garage if you want something hot.”

  He followed her into the kitchen. “Don’t go to any trouble.”

  Megan opened the refrigerator. She felt Owen’s presence behind her, looming over her shoulder. “Uh, hand me the flashlight?” He pulled it from his back pocket, and she shined the light into the fridge. “Well, I can make turkey and cheese sandwiches and a salad. It’s not fancy, but it’s quick and easy.”

  “Sounds great.”

  Megan piled all the fixings onto the breakfast bar and collected plates and utensils. Busying her hands took her mind off how damn weird this all was. “Have a seat. More water?”

  He settled onto one of the stools. “Yes, please. Can I help?”

  “Sure.” She poured them both glasses of water, lit a few candles on the bar, and sat on the stool next to Owen.

  Outside, the wind howled against the side of the cabin. They prepared their meal in relative silence as Owen built the sandwiches and she chopped some veggies for the salad, only exchanging words to ask what the other wanted or liked. After a few minutes, working with him felt more comfortable, which was totally absurd given the situation. Something in her gut said to just go with it, so, for now, she would.

  “Looks good.” Owen lifted half a sandwich, took a big bite, and moaned.

  The sound of his pleasure drew Megan’s eyes. She swallowed, hard, and she hadn’t even eaten anything yet. His obvious enjoyment of the food sharpened the angles on his face. Jeez, he was hot. She could hardly believe her own reaction, but there it was. This whole situation was so bizarre. “Glad you like it.”

  Owen finished his turkey and cheese and moved on to the salad before Megan had finished her first half.

  “Hungry?” she asked.

  “Starving.”

  “Been a while since you ate last, huh?” The words resonated with her. Having put the chili away earlier, this was actually her first meal of the day. God, her aborted lunch seemed like days ago, not hours.

  Owen froze, his hand midway between the salad bowl and his mouth. “Huh. That, I can’t remember.”

  Megan finished her sandwich, sneaking glances in Owen’s direction every so often. Aside from eating a little fast, he was perfectly polite in his table manners. But for all the little moans and words of appreciation, he acted like he was dining on filet mignon. Megan’s stomach flip-flopped. Having provided him with a meal he so obviously enjoyed set off a warmth in her chest. It had been a long time since she’d fixed a man a meal and watched him devour it, a long time since she’d felt that kind of satisfaction. A wave of guilt immedia
tely washed away her pleasure. What was she doing?

  When not a speck of food remained, he pushed his plate away. “Thank you for a great dinner.”

  She nodded. “You’re easy to please.”

  “Just appreciative.”

  His intense gaze brushed over her face like a caress, raising the hair on her arms. The candlelight played games with his eye color. She couldn’t quite make it out. But she didn’t need more than the candlelight to admire Owen’s rugged handsomeness. Her eyes couldn’t decide whether to focus on his thick shoulders or smooth, square jaw. Her fingers nearly twitched to learn if his hair was as soft as it looked. She gripped her plate. She was lonely, just lonely. That’s all this was.

  “Now, you eat.”

  “I’m eating.” She made a show of picking up her fork and taking a bite of salad.

  “Good.”

  Under his intense observation, her face flamed hot. “You’re watching me.”

  His eyes fixed on her mouth. “Mmhmm. You’re nice to look at.”

  She shook her head and took another bite. All of a sudden, the candles made the dinner feel intimate, charged with some unnamed energy. It took concerted effort to stay on that stool, to not flee from his straightforward compliments, from her enjoyment of them.

  “What happened to your cheek?”

  “Oh, uh.” Her fingers grazed the mark, which still tingled and was starting to itch. She waved her hand. “Nothing. Stupid.”

  He frowned. “I sincerely doubt that. Does it hurt?”

  “Not too bad.” She emptied her plate, tilted it toward him. “You approve?”

  “Mmm. Very much so.”

  His words made her stomach flutter. What was wrong with her? She hopped off her stool and rounded the breakfast bar to escape his intensity. Grabbing the empty plates and perishables, she asked, “You have a sweet tooth?”

  He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes.

  His quizzical expression was so damn adorable. “You know, do you like sweet stuff? Desserts?”

  “Oh. Like ice cream?” His dark gaze brightened.

  Megan smiled, the rare expression drawn out by the sincerity of his enthusiasm. “For one, yes.”