Tiger's Prey, page 14
part #3 of Northbane Shifters Series
I’d peeled off my last layer of outer clothes, had shaken out my hair, and was working on getting my second boot off when I heard a faint snore. Looking up, I saw that Tristan had fallen asleep sitting up.
“Oh, boy,” I murmured.
Pulling harder on the laces and making the second boot situation worse, it took me a minute to get free of it and dart over to him. Tristan was now sagging forward, and I caught him against me, staggering under his solid body mass.
“Wake up, you idiot. You need to get these wet clothes off,” I panted.
Tristan stirred and blinked up at me. I was disconcerted to see that his face was only inches from mine as he gave me a dreamy, delirious grin. “Hey, I know you.” Before I could respond or say a word, he laid his head on my chest and wrapped his arms around my waist. “I found you.”
Sighing, I tugged off his hat, and he let out a contented sound, rumbling into my ribs. Unable to resist, I let my fingers drift through his hair and then made a face at the dampness. I tugged on his hair, and Tristan’s arms became tighter.
Wow, he’s seriously out of it.
“Okay, first we have to get you out of this jacket,” I said and pulled away.
That seemed to rouse him. His arms fell to his sides, and he nodded, getting up. Wincing, he shucked off his jacket and struggled to get his outer layers off. I helped, and he gave me a tired grin.
“Thanks,” he said huskily. “Sorry, the room is spinning. Just need a quick nap.”
“Why don’t you change into comfy clothes, and I’ll get the futon?” I suggested, bending down and tugging on the outer frame. With a squawk of metal, it settled into a bed. “Pillows, blankets…”
I walked over to a cabinet and found a heap of blankets that were clean and smelled fresh. I heard Tristan rummaging through his bag, every sound magnified in this tiny room. To keep myself from turning around and sneaking a peek, I focused on this safe house and the supplies stashed here. Did some kind of Riftborn magic keep them fresh and clean like this? Grabbing a fluffy blanket, along with some pillows, I brought it back and tossed them on the bed.
“Thanks,” Tristan said, and I turned to see him next to me. He was wearing a flannel shirt that showed off his physique and a loose pair of sweats that hung low on his hips. “Wake me up before sunset, okay?”
The shadows under his eyes were like smudges of ink, and I shook my head. “Tristan, you look like you could sleep for days. Why not stay here a bit?”
“Not sure how secure the protections are,” he said with a tired smile and squeezed my shoulder. Tristan stared at me for several seconds, then blinked. “What was I saying?”
“Bed,” I said and pointed.
He sat down and rubbed his neck, then nodded. “You’ll be okay?”
“I’ll be okay,” I said, and Tristan rolled over with a sigh, angling himself across the bed, a pillow stuffed under his head. Waiting until his eyes were closed, I tugged up the blanket and bit my lip, wondering if I needed another one.
“I run hot,” Tristan murmured, and I jumped. Looking back, he cracked a grin at me. “Like it when you worry about me, though.” He sighed deeply. “Sorry, you have to. Shouldn't be like this."
Perching on the edge of the futon, I leaned over and patted his shoulder. “Let me have my fun.”
“You should’ve been in Winfyre,” Tristan said, so softly I almost didn’t catch it. “My fault.”
“I’m the one who ran off,” I said. “Now, go to sleep. When’s the last time you even slept? Two days ago?”
“Five years ago,” he murmured, and I sucked in a breath.
But when he didn’t say anything else, I shook my head and told myself he was out of it. It was nothing. I was reading into things.
Then his name slipped off my lips, and he stirred. “Sorry, forget it. Go back to sleep.” I bit my lip as he squinted at me. “Hey, what did Orion mean by those rumors again?”
“It’s too late,” Tristan said. “I shouldn’t keep hoping it’s not.”
“Too late?” I echoed. “Why?”
“I can’t find her.” My entire body tightened at that pronoun. “She’s gone. I lost her.”
I was about to ask who, when my mind flashed back to the letter I’d found in his jacket.
You’ll find your mate.
I’d thought that had been meant in a nebulous, you’ll find someone, someday way. Not that Tristan had an actual woman he was looking for. Is that what he’d needed my help for?
Suddenly, I thought about the look in his eyes—he’d thought I wouldn’t help him because I hated him. My throat seemed to close, and I had to stand up, had to give myself some space.
I recalled what that cowboy drifter Dare had said.
Makes me miss my girl. My mate, my world. She died a few years ago.
You should cherish the time you’ve got together.
Never know how much you got left.
Or had she died? Was it because of the crian shard? Is that why Tristan was all over the Tiselk, roaming around and trying to set things to rights? Had he needed my help with that?
Suddenly I was conscious I was holding myself around the middle. It made sense, didn’t it? That explained the reluctance to kiss, the pent-up desire while kissing me.
Later, in my many musings about this man’s inordinate kissing ability, I’d sensed it had been a while. Not out of a lack of technique—lord, no—but out of some desperate hunger conflicting with something. Something that held him back.
Looking over at Tristan, his sleeping form, his face finally relaxed, a pressure built up in my throat. But I forced myself to smile. He’d saved my life, and he’d patiently become my friend.
I’d do anything for him.
A creak from the hallway startled me out of my stupor of staring at the ceiling. There was only a small window in the corner, shaded over by trees and crusted with snow. Other than that, we might have been in a basement, the room was so dim. The only light came from the candles, and I shivered on a chair, fingers too numb to sketch and brain too tired to read. It was all I could do to focus on staying awake and checking on Tristan.
Another creak came, and I jumped. Though this was the sixth or seventh time this had happened and I knew it was nothing, I tugged the blanket up around my ears, got up, and scurried across to peer into the dark hall. Empty except for one slim band of light illuminating the stairs we’d come up earlier. Even our footprints had dried.
Closing the door, I leaned against it and sighed. Reaching down, I locked it this time. I knew Tristan had blabbered something about protections, but this building was so damn creepy. I couldn’t stop thinking about the empty classrooms below us and the unused rooms all around.
In the back of my brain, too, I'd started to wonder if it was haunted by the ghostly children. Why I did this to myself, I didn't know. But I did know ghost kids were somehow scarier than ghost adults. The first time I’d heard a creak, I’d leaped up and shifted without thinking.
Now I knew it was just the building settling or something, but there was something about the still air of this place that had me crawling out of my skin. It had the hush of a forgotten, desolate place. Huh. Maybe I was relating too much to it.
Or maybe I was absolutely exhausted and lonely.
Only the fact that Tristan had been as delirious as sin when he’d fallen asleep prevented me from waking him up. And the fact that I wasn’t sure he’d wake up if I tried.
Never had I seen someone so deeply asleep. He hadn’t moved from his position, sprawled out, his breathing deep and even. Still wrapped in the blankets, I moved over to the futon and quietly sat down. Immediately, my back cramped from the awkward angle.
Taking that as a sign, I hastily got up and took my place in the chair again. This time, though, I put my feet up on the bed and sat back. All I had to do was sit here and not fall asleep, right?
Since when do you take orders? asked the snide voice.
Wait, should you be doing perimeter sweeps? Checking the windows? asked the worry-wart.
Slide in next to Tristan if you’re cold, said the minx.
“Oh my God,” I muttered and put my hands to my temples. This inane mental chatter only happened when I was exhausted out of my mind, even though I’d slept for a good six or seven hours last night. However, as generous as Tristan had been to carry me, I didn’t think I’d slept all that deeply. Thinking back, my brain was full of snowy avenues, cold air biting my nose, and Tristan’s hard, labored breathing. His hard body moving under me, muscles straining through the snow.
Not in a good way, purred the minx. But close enough.
“Mother—” I snapped out loud and then stopped, sucking in a breath as Tristan stirred. But he only seemed to be snuggling more deeply into the blankets. However, I didn’t move until I was sure I hadn’t woken him up.
Rousing myself, I decided to take a shower. If the goddamn Bloodfang were going to attack, so be it. I was going to fall asleep if I kept sitting there. I went to get clothes out of my bag when my eyes fell on a dresser in the corner of the room.
Curious to see if they kept gear here, I silently padded over and eased a drawer open. Inside, there were warm shirts and t-shirts, in simple blacks and camos. Rummaging through, I found a soft, long-sleeved shirt that looked like it would fit and a pair of gray camo pants.
A bit more energized, I took a quick shower, scrubbing off the Grinner betrayal and Bloodfang basement with vigor, and letting the hot water blast away my exhaustion. Done, I even did my hair in two neat French braids so as to keep that mess out of my face for travel.
Clean, dressed in new clothes, and more alert, I settled down to draw. Of all the things I’d been worried about in that basement, my sketchbooks had been one of them. It was probably foolish to weigh down my bag with them, but I couldn’t let them go.
Pre-Rift, my days had been spent in the company of pencils and blank pieces of paper, except for when I got called in to help sketch criminals. A friend of mine had been a detective and had convinced me to become a forensic sketch artist. Since I had a gift for remembering faces, it was a job I’d excelled at.
Still, sometimes it had gotten to me. Hadn’t always been a cheery job, drawing the guy who’d mugged some old lady for her purse, or the asshole who’d knocked over a liquor store.
But Tristan had gotten my stuff back without a single item misplaced. Gratitude swelled in my chest, and I glanced over at him, biting my lip. I wondered if I should confess that when I’d seen him in Fellknife, my feelings had been the complete opposite, and I’d given in to a manic moment of impulsive revenge.
For years, I’d blamed the Northbane for not getting to Penticton faster, for not preventing the fire at Building Seven, and the loss of lives in the Zoo. I’d always imagined telling them off for it, either Tristan or Xander or Kal. Mainly because I knew their names.
And mainly because I was furious they’d saved me and not my family.
My mother had been a literature teacher, and one of her favorite poet’s sayings came into my mind: Bitterness is like cancer. It eats upon the host. But anger is like fire. It burns it all clean.
I’d thought I’d been angry and clearheaded.
Now I knew I’d been bitter, chewed down to the very the core of my soul.
Fingers smoothing over a fresh page, I found a bitten-down pencil and began to sketch. I sank deeply into myself and let it all come out, heart beating a little strangely, deep echoes in my ears. Every so often, my eyes would flick up to make sure Tristan was still asleep.
Or to draw him from real life. It was hard to tell.
Only when my hand began to cramp did I stop. I’d been at it for two hours, at least. Drawing Tristan’s expressions, figuring out his tall form—and his tiger one. Then my pencil had taken off on me. There was one of Tristan standing in the snow, his face creased and serious, with me sleeping on his back, head lolling on his shoulder. Another one of us standing back to back but sticking our tongues out over our shoulders. These two had just popped out of my brain and onto the page.
Another was hovering there, with us in a beautiful room full of windows, but my face flushed, and I pushed it to the side. Instead, I began to sketch Tristan holding out my sketchbook at arm's length with two hands, squinting and smirking at it, while I clawed my way up over his shoulders, climbing up his back as I tried to retrieve it.
I was about to stop and put it away when I flipped the page and feverishly drew one more. It was us once more, kneeling in that horrible cell, wrapped in each other. I took care to draw every last line of tension and relief: the tautness in Tristan’s knuckles as his hand cupped the back of my head, and the soft, sagging lines of me falling into him.
When I finished, I could barely look at it and smacked it closed. Color burned across my cheeks, and I was no longer tired, but restless. What was wrong with me? What if he saw these?
Oh, hell no. He can never see any of these.
“Is that a sketchbook?”
I jumped out of my skin, feet falling to the floor, as Tristan gave me a bleary smile and yawned. He’d silently sat up and was now rubbing the side of his face. Had he seen? No—he’d be giving me shit about it, right? Or was he being nice?
“It’s a, yes, it is,” I blurted out and waved it. “I can draw. That’s a thing I do.”
Tristan stopped rubbing his face and gave me an amused look. “You okay, there?”
“Yes,” I said, wondering why everything sounded so stilted and nervous. “It’s just not something I usually talk about.” My shoulders drooped. “Not anymore.”
“Why not?”
I looked up at him in surprise. He was barely awake, yet the sleepiness was already falling away into concern and warmth. My toes bunched together as electricity jumped up my body.
“Pre-Rift stuff,” I admitted.
He slid forward on the futon and heaved a breath, then knocked his knee into mine. The electricity jumped from a buzz to a storm. It was all I could do not to throw myself at him.
“You don’t have to talk about it,” he said, his voice husky and low from sleep. “But if you wanted to, I’m here. Ears at your disposal.” A laugh escaped me. “Aw, come on, I just woke up.”
“I know. I didn’t mean to, um, get so heavy first thing,” I babbled, eyes darting from Tristan’s knee, now pressing against mine, to his stupid, handsome face. I didn’t think I’d done him justice. “Sorry.”
“Get as heavy as you want,” Tristan said cheerfully, standing up and stretching. “Pile on those elephants.” He flexed and gave me a cocky grin. “I can handle it.”
Hugging the sketchbook to my chest, I laughed and pulled my knees up. “You’re all right, Tristan Llary.”
“It’s what I’ve been trying to tell you for weeks, woman,” he said, and my smile slipped away. “No—hey, no sad puppy eyes. We’re alive, and we’re partners in crime.”
“Still,” I said. “I am sorry, Tristan.”
“Sierra,” he said, and his hand rested on my head, tipping my face up. “You already apologized.” I warmed from head to toe in that golden gaze, not wanting his big hand to leave my hair. “Besides, I learned maybe I’d gotten a little too high on my own horse. Man needs his ego pruned by a sassy, smart, lovely leopard at times.” He paused for a long beat, hand still on my head, and then tweaked my nose. “I gotta take a shower.”
I watched him move around the room, a little stiff and slow, wishing he’d maybe slept some more and rested his poor body, but glad he was awake. Getting up, I put my sketchbook away and glanced after him as he went to the bathroom.
“By the way,” Tristan said and gave me a look over his shoulder. “Feel free to draw me anytime.” His grin became a little wild, a tiger’s smile. “I’d be a great nude model.”
“Maybe you want to take a shower and shave first,” I retorted, even as my heart pounded and my brain teased out that scenario. “And it’s not as easy as you think.”
Tristan shrugged his big shoulders in a slow, exaggerated way. “Well, it wouldn’t be the first time.”
“What?” I asked.
He laughed. “That got your attention.”
“You-you were a nude model for artists?” I asked, staggered. I mean, I could see him doing that. But he did do that? So, he knew the poses and how to keep still—stop, brain.
“Why let a work of art go to waste?” Tristan asked. “We’ll talk about fees after my shower.”
Chapter Seventeen
Tristan
I was still laughing at Sierra’s expression when I got out of the shower. She’d looked absolutely thrown, but with a spark of interest in her eyes. I mean, I’d have to tell her I’d never actually modeled, only been asked, but…I’d do it for her.
The fantasy in my brain began to take off, and I winced, taking several deep breaths. I had to keep calm and collected, even if being in close contact with Sierra gave me the sense of spinning out into an orbit of stars and space I shouldn't be thinking about. Or made me think of cheesy shit like that. Damn. I put a hand to my chest and wished I could douse my poor heart in some cool water.
Laia always said I had zero sense of self-preservation. I was the kid who'd dive off the pier on a dare, gladly risking bodily harm for the rush. Broken bones, bruises, split lips, and sprains had been par for the course for my whole life.
Nothing had ever scared me.
Not until Sierra.
I should tell her the truth. Everything. Not just Penticton, but…
“You’re rushing things,” I muttered to myself.
She’d just narrowly escaped Orion; we’d just established a tenuous truce and the new little sprout of a friendship. I’d waited five years…
Not patiently. Remember that time you lost it on Luke because he wouldn’t commit to his mate, wouldn’t admit how he felt about Reagan? And all because you were jealous. You pretended to be pissed that he couldn’t make up his mind, when really you hated that he was wasting time. Hated that he had his mate, right in his house, and wasn’t acting on it—especially when you would have given anything to be in his shoes.
