Carry On Wayward Son(5)
“No, Claire—”
“I’m in love with you, Marcus.” She hated the tears that thickened her voice, slipped down her face. “It doesn’t matter that you are only God knows where. The distance doesn’t change how I feel. It simply hurts more.”
Before she could take another breath he had her in his arms. With a choked sob she wrapped herself around him, pressed her face against his throat. Warm skin, that subtle, exotic scent of him, the silk of his wild hair—all of it assaulted her senses. She drew him in, and all the nerves, all the pain of his absence eased.
His deep, sand rough voice caressed her. “I never meant to pull you toward me, not when I had no right to—”
Claire cut off his protest by kissing him. After an endless moment he responded, hauling her off her feet. She fisted both hands in his hair and held on as he deepened the kiss. Heat spiraled through her, along with the need that had hounded her since he left.
With a gasping breath he broke off the kiss, lowered her to the sand and backed away. Water wrapped around her feet, reminded her of home. It also cooled the fire he had ignited in her. Again.
“It took both of us, Marcus. And I don’t regret a moment.”
He stepped to her, laid one hand on her flushed cheek. “And it seems I am destined to love determined women.” Her heart lurched at his words—then leapt when he laid his lips on hers, kissed her with such tenderness it left her aching. He made his way across her cheek, kissed her temple, and pulled her in, resting his chin on the top of her head. “So delicate, but so powerful.”
“Not anymore.”
“You will be, Claire. It is inside you, and will only take the right hand to free. I can feel it, crouching behind the wall that demon built to protect you.”
She jerked against him. “How—I never told you Azazel blocked my power.”
“I guessed as much, when you told me how he put himself between you and Lucifer at the gates of Hell.”
“You see too much, don’t you?” Leaning back, she met the dark eyes. “See too much and keep it inside.”
“It is my nature.”
“No—it is who you are. What you are would use that knowledge for his own gain. But you, Marcus, who you are keeps you from hurting people.”
“Gods.” He laid his forehead against hers. “You make me this . . . better man. By believing in me as you do.” Kissing her forehead, he slid one hand down her left arm, fingers closing over the leather band on her wrist. “Hiding it?”
“Fewer questions.”
He pressed his lips to the skin above her band before he let her go and stepped back, out of reach. “It is time for you to wake, my heart. Time to let me go.”
Her heart constricted. “Marcus.” She started to step toward him. The water curling around her feet turned solid, holding her in place. “What the—”
“Forgive me for bringing you to me, even in a dream. I needed to see you, touch you, one last time.”
“Marcus, don’t do this—”
“All I ask is that you do not try to find me. You deserve so much more than I can offer, Claire.” He retreated, toward the darkness beyond the sand. “Don’t hold me in your heart when I don’t belong there.”
“Marcus!” Claire fought to break free of the water that had turned to clear cement around her feet. He kept walking, head lowered, hair flying around his shoulders. “I won’t let you say goodbye this way—Marcus, please . . .”
Tears lodged her voice in her throat. She stopped her battle with the liquid trap, dropped to her knees—and kept falling, though the sand and into darkness.
*
She woke crying, her legs tangled in the sheets.
Sitting, Claire pushed hair off her face, wiped the tears she couldn’t seem to stop. It was a dream, but it was real. Marcus had been real. And his goodbye had been heartbreaking.
She jerked herself free of the sheets and limped to the bathroom, turned on the faucet and bathed her face, her neck in cold water. Every inch of skin felt feverish, sensitized. But under that fever she felt cold, ice cold, all the way to the bone. Turning away from the image she didn’t want to see, she headed back into the bedroom.
With shaking fingers she stripped off her nightgown, gave the cool air a chance to dry her skin before she pulled on her heavy robe and huddled on the edge of the bed.
The sensible Claire had said goodbye to Marcus when he left, and meant it. The hopeful Claire—the part of herself she didn’t know existed until people like Annie invaded her life—that Claire held on to the conviction he would come back to her, that he would need to come back to her. It was that Claire who sat on the bed, shattered, trembling.