The Touch of Demise │18+

24: The Rain

When Grace awoke, she was safely nestled in her mate's bed which was absent of him. He had tucked her in, rubbed her head, and stayed with her until she fell asleep.

"I don't think I'll get used to that."

His stern, dark voice startled her. She turned around, eyes connecting with her mate on the lounge chair he was sitting in. He looked as if he had been up for hours. His hair had been combed, and he had redressed in what appeared to be dark sweatpants and a T-shirt. She never saw him as he was now: relaxed and comfortable. Though he seemed wide awake, the bags under his eyes portrayed a different story. A story she didn't know. A story he wouldn't tell.

The sight of him punched her in the chest. Her mouth became dry. "Get used to what?"

His brows furrowed and he leaned forward, a hand stroking his hair-covered jaw. "Someone looking for me."

She shook her head, unsure. "Someone is always looking for you."

"No, someone is always looking for my power. A signature. A command. Something. People always want something from me. You just want me."

Her heart plummeted and she looked away as a wave of embarrassment flooded her. She didn't think she wore her heart on her sleeve that profoundly. "I don't care about your power or your wealth, although that Rolex does look damn good on you."

He moved from his position and came to her, sitting on the side of the bed. She laid down on his lap and his hand gently caressed her hair. A forefinger stroked her cheek. She'd never felt more cared for.

"What is mine is yours, Grace."

With her eyes closed, reveling in his touch, she asked: "What do you mean?"

"My power is your power. My wealth is yours."

She opened her eyes. Brown eyes met hers. Her hand went to touch his cheek and he recoiled from her. Pain crossed his features.

"Don't, Grace."

"You don't weaken me," she whispered. "And you have touched me."

"And when I do I focus every ounce of effort on holding back the death within me. When you touch me, I lose that control."

Her chest heaved. She didn't believe he was death and yet here he was, telling her nothing else but. "You're wearing contacts."

He nodded.

"Why?" She watched as the shadows of the room seemed to encompass her mate. Like they were drawn to him as she was. When he didn't respond, she edged deeper into that fortress of his emotions. "You hate them - your red eyes."

They weren't blood red. No, they were more copper, a beautiful mix of ruby and mahogany.

He removed himself from underneath her. As he stood up, he kissed the crown of her head. "Breakfast is in the dining room. Do you think you will be ready to leave for Pack Xerxes by noon?"

"You're avoiding the question, sir."

A smirk crossed his features. He looked at his watch and then sighed. "I have to go to a meeting with Goliath. Are you okay for twenty minutes?"

"Yes, of course. I survived for years without you, you know. I won't die," she joked.

He did not like it. His already grim expression deepened. Before he left her alone, she called his name. "For what it's worth, I think your eyes are beautiful."

For a moment, a look of appreciation crossed his features. He looked as if he wanted to say something but decided against it. Finally, he opened his mouth and said: "thank you, Grace."