“Really?”
“Un-huh.”
“Did you get caught?”
“Kind of. Lady caught me red-handed.” When he raised a brow, she huffed. “Mr. Hufferson’s bulldog.”
“Mr. Hufferson.” Brushing a stray lock of hair from her temple, he grinned at her. “The owner of the guitar in question.”
She nodded. “I didn’t know it at the time, but the dog always hid in the front flower bed, squishing all the petunias. Funny thing, though, she never told on me.”
“If only dogs could talk.”
“If only.” Her expression dimmed a little. “I felt really bad about it, but—”
“Not enough to return it?”
“No.” As she broke eye contact, a frown pushed her brows together. “It was a terrible thing to do, but I wanted a guitar so badly. We didn’t have a lot growing up. Most days we didn’t have enough to eat, so no way Mom could afford to buy me an instrument, never mind send me to music lessons.”
Her voice cracked, and Wick ached for her. Could see her as an eleven-year-old girl, big blue eyes brimming with tears as her Mom said no to the one thing she couldn’t do without. Her music.
“All I wanted to do was write my songs,” she whispered. “And Mr. Hufferson always left the Bedell beside the rocking chair. I walked by it every day after school, so—”
“The Bedell?” Needing to soothe her, he caressed her back, running his hand over her soft skin, telling her the only way he knew how that he understood.
“The guitar.” Drawing a circle over his shoulder with her fingertip, she cleared her throat. “And that stupid dog. Lady might not have given me away, but she started waiting for me every day after school. Would follow me home, give me the evil eye the whole way… like she knew I was a thief or something.”
“She probably did. Dogs are smart.”
“I’ll say. I’d lock the gate to keep her out, but she’d headbutt the thing open every time. After a while, I stopped shooing her away and started talking to her instead. Sang to her a lot too, sharing the songs I always have in my head… treating her more like a friend than a dog.” Tears threatened, making her eyes glisten. Jamison blinked them away and, with a huff, shook her head. “Stupid, right? But I loved her. And therein lies the secret.”
“The reason you love dogs so much?” he asked, even though he already knew the answer.
His female was easy to read. An open book most of the time. So trusting that when he asked, she shared, opening up to show her true self. Alluring in some ways, scary in others, ’cause… shit. One wrong move, and he’d ruin it. Destroy her trust. Hurt her without meaning to, simply by being himself.
He was nobody’s prize, and as she smiled at him, Wick knew he should thank her for a lovely afternoon and walk away. Cutting ties—doing it quick and with respect—would be best. The kindest thing he could do for her. Despite the enlightening interlude, and the depth of his feelings for her, he wasn’t relationship material. Knew without a doubt he would break her heart, along with her spirit, if he promised her tomorrow. She deserved better than him, a male incapable of letting go of a savage past and the rage that went with it. A warrior without conscience and very little honor. She needed a male that would put her first and think of her always. But as she brushed her mouth against his and whispered “Lady the bulldog’s to blame,” he added selfish bastard to his considerable list of terrible traits and kissed her back.
One more time. Just another hour with her before time and circumstance took her away.
Then he’d do the right thing and let her go for good.
21
With the final “I dos” said, Wick stood on the edge of the sacred circle, beneath the soaring rotunda at the heart of Black Diamond. Colorful wall mosaics, depicting his comrades in dragon form, brushed shoulders with huge white columns. Normally, he loved visiting the ceremonial chamber. Full of color and dimension—architecture and light—the room spoke to the artist in him, soothing him from the moment he mounted the steps and strode beneath one of the four archways leading to its center.
Today, he felt nothing but pain.
Pain for the decision he’d made. Pain for the hurt he would cause Jamison when he told her the truth. Pain for his inability to walk away clean.
And as he watched Jamison exclaim from across the rotunda over the mating mark Tania now wore across the back of her right hand, he choked on self-hatred. He was a first class fool. For so many things. Not the least of which was allowing her to kiss him good-bye. In the fucking hallway. In plain view outside the bedroom her sister shared with Mac. He hadn’t meant to let her get that close again. Had planned to deliver her for the ritual dressing of the bride and then walk away, but…
Hell. She’d surprised him with that kiss. And with her lithe body pressed against his, her small hands buried in his hair and her tongue deep in his mouth, he’d lost his mind, leaving her with the wrong impression. She expected something from him now. A commitment? Something long term? Forever? Wick didn’t know, but he could tell by the way she looked at him. So happy. So excited. So hopeful as she cupped her sister’s hand and studied the intricate silver tattoo that signaled a mated couple with yearning in her eyes.
As though she wanted to wear a mating mark of her own.
The thought freaked Wick out. He couldn’t do that. Couldn’t stand in the center of the sacred circle—as Mac and Rikar had just done with their chosen females—and say the vows that would bind Jamison to him forever. It wouldn’t be fair. Despite his greed for her—and the amazing hours spent in her arms—he refused to do that to her. He wasn’t up to par. Didn’t deserve the privilege of taking her as his mate. Would never be able to give her the kind of life that she wanted. But even as he faced the truth head-on, primal instinct grabbed hold, tempting him to ignore right, embrace wrong, and mate her anyway.
Before he revealed too much of himself, and she came to her senses.
Which made him worse than a fool. It made him an asshole.
Dragging his gaze from her face, Wick turned away. Nothing good would come from trapping her. Or forcing her to stay in his life. He must find the strength to let her go, otherwise—
“I can smell her on you.” Quiet, perhaps even a little pensive, the deep voice came from behind him. “Had a fun afternoon, did you?”
“Careful, Ven.” Wick glanced over his shoulder. His eyes narrowed on his best friend, he curled his hands into fists. “Show her any disrespect, and it’ll be the last thing you do.”
“No disrespect intended. I’m just surprised, is all. Happy for you too, but…” Expression solemn, Venom met his gaze then shook his head. “Everything’s changing. I guess I’m just wondering if you’re okay. If we’re okay going forward.”
The unexpected concern—and Venom’s insecurities—hit Wick like a body shot. He absorbed the blow, stifling his reaction. Jesus. He should’ve known Venom would react like this. He knew the male better than anyone. Understood his best friend’s desire to protect. Venom needed to be needed. It was written in his DNA. Put the major savior complex Venom carried around like luggage together with the history they shared and… yeah. It was only natural that his friend react to the shifting landscape—the one in which he cleaved to Jamison instead of Venom.
Sixty years was a long time to look after someone else. To be relied upon. To sacrifice for another without a thought to the toll it took on yourself. Wick understood. He felt the same way about Venom. They were brothers—by choice, if not by blood—but time didn’t heal all wounds, and habits had a way of becoming chains.