Jory Strong - Inked Destiny

“Taking a bullet doesn’t seem like nothing to me.”

He flashed a smile. “See, that’s what I always liked about you, Etaín. You cool. Wasn’t no shit you laid down for Greg. You and me understand each other. Always have. Wouldn’t have spent so much time trying to get in your pants if I was just looking for a good time.”

His eyes chilled to the same icy nothingness she’d see in Liam’s. “We deal or you leave not knowing what I know. I give you the name. You give him back to me. Or give me his body if that’s the way you’d rather see this go down. Ain’t no other options on the table. What’s it going to be?”

She could walk away from this. Eamon would say she should walk away. Only she couldn’t forget the burn, couldn’t shake the guilt that because he wore her ink, Vontae was dead instead of his killer.

“What if I give the police the crew but the guy you want gets swept up when they are?”

“Then it gets handled on the inside. He goes to prison he’s a dead man walking.”

“So avoid a third strike. Let the guys already doing time take care of it.”

“Your answer a no then?”

She closed her eyes and mental barriers fell, brought down in a juxtaposing of scenes, her own memories of Kelvin coming to the shop with his wife and new baby against what she’d taken from him at the hospital, running parallel to slaughter from a murderer’s point of view, a quick montage blocked by an emerald green curtain and fire-emblazoned sigil. There is another choice. I can give you the killer you seek .

Escaping the voice, she opened her eyes to see Liam, ethereal, but no less deadly because he hadn’t quite left the shadows. She stood, holding out her hand, eyes meeting Anton’s. Dare and challenge and demand for a show of trust if they were going to deal. “Give me the name.”

Anton laughed, the flash of it reaching his eyes. He stood and took the step that brought him within arm’s reach. “ Cyco Chalino,” he said, his palm warm and dry against hers as they performed the combination of moves that served as a handshake.

The apparition that was Liam disappeared, only to reappear in the flesh moments later at Eamon’s side as they both entered the room behind Greg.

“This guy have a fucking tracking device on you?” Anton asked, standing, ready to draw his gun.

“Don’t,” Etaín said, putting herself between Anton and the Elves to prevent violence from erupting in Greg’s home.

Eamon’s demeanor was ice but the anger she sensed in him was as hot as the fire he commanded. He wouldn’t tolerate a threat or insult, not in his current mood and especially not from a human.

“Let’s go,” he said, extending his hand, imperious command in gesture and tone.

He was every bit the Lord and she bit back the flash of her own anger. Took a step toward him, undecided on how far she was willing to acquiesce until he tipped the scales by saying, “Cathal is waiting at the estate. There was an attempt on his life.”

Her throat clogged with sudden emotion then. She took the offered hand, not turning to acknowledge Anton as he called after them, “Be hearing from you soon, Etaín.”

Eamon had too much pride to rage at her in front of Myk and Liam in the sedan’s front seat. The hand he’d taken inside he’d released the instant she slipped into the car and perversely she felt its loss like a gaping wound, her anger fading. She’d never been good at holding on to it.

No surprise there, she thought, looking out the window and remembering the times she’d done the same, sitting next to her mother. The prospect of a new city, a new, temporary life, no longer an adventure but an ache she rarely put into words because she already knew the impossibility of staying in one place long enough to make permanent friends. Anger had been pointless when her mother was all she had.

She could call that anger now, using the captain’s revelation about Eamon’s having her apartment cleared out and the threat of denied access to her, but her stomach roiled at the prospect. She didn’t want to cloak herself in that emotion, to use something she no longer cared about to strike out at Eamon with.

Guilt crept in as the icy silence continued, as the distance separating his taut body from hers seemed to grow larger despite the finite length of the seat. Regret came, intensified by memories of those moments preceding their stepping into the kitchen at Aesirs, by the joy of their time at Stylin’ Ink, the closeness, the satisfaction at having him wear her ink.

Her hand crept to the necklace, fingers rubbing over smooth stones. It’d be a lie to say she was sorry for anything she’d done after he’d left to chase Farrell, but she was sorry for this. Another estrangement.

Tears came, the ache of what had happened with the captain joining this one. She blinked them away, mind scrambling for something to say that would breach the gap, not finding it, not with an audience.

She moved away from the window as they got closer to the estate, stopping in the middle of the seat rather than crowding close, reaching out, hating the tentativeness she felt, the vulnerability, scabs still thin over old wounds caused by rejection, loss, and fear of it.

She placed her hand on his thigh, the weight of it there like a feather easily brushed aside. Her chest tightened, nerves stretching taut, urging her to snatch her hand back and resume her study of the passing scenery.

His hand covered hers before she lost her nerve, and with it came hope fiercely embraced instead of warily circled.

“The encounter with the Cur couldn’t wait until I was available to accompany you?”

“I wanted to get it behind me. Behind us. You caught up to Farrell?”

“Yes.”

“He was terrified of me. All your Elves were.”

His hand tightened on hers. Ours . But it’d be a lie to say she felt that way so she merely amended. “All of them except for the bodyguards and Rhys.”

“You’re seidic , Etaín, capable of stripping memories and gifts, reason enough for fear. But a changeling out of control is cause for terror.”

His anger bit her, the calm icy waters parting to reveal it in his voice. She jerked reflexively, a tug to free her hand from beneath his.

“I wasn’t out of control.”

“You used your gift in full view of others. You stripped a human’s memory without regard to consequences.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never been ruthless.”

He grabbed her wrist. “Ruthless, yes. But foolish? Not until I met you. Time and time again I’ve allowed—”

“Don’t go there, Eamon. I thought we’d gotten beyond that.”

His fingers tightened on her wrist. “I’ve allowed myself to believe that you could separate the man from the lord, yet understand I am both. I’ve been foolish enough to hope you might consider how your actions reflect on me, and what they mean for all those who’ve bound themselves to me, who could find their lives a lot worse because I’ve tied their future to yours.”

I didn’t ask you do it. I don’t want the responsibility.

A defensive reaction to the pain threading through his voice, to her own guilt at having fled Aesirs, reacting to an order she’d known even then was given out of concern for her, but using it as an excuse to run. To keep running and in the process, add to his worries and put others in danger. The captain. Greg and his family. Anton.

Gifts came with responsibilities, of that she was certain, though the refrain was the captain’s influence, not her mother’s. And the want , the need , they weren’t one-sided.