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Authors: Cassie Wright
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and looks away.
"Dean. I want her. Her scent is like smoke rising up through my soul. I want her more than anything. And I know you want her too. Deny it. Look me in the eyes and deny it."
Dean purses his lips. I can almost see him shake from the intensity of his anger. "She's scared of me, damn it," he finally whispers. "And for good reason. I'm a monster."
I grab him by the arms. "You are not a monster. You were young. You lost control. That's it."
"No," he whispers again, voice raw. "I drove her away. I ruined everything."
"Brother," I say. "You're wrong. And even if you were right, it doesn't matter. This is our chance to make good. To reach out and take what we want. What we need. She's back, Dean. She's here. Right now. All we need to do is go to her."
"And if you're wrong? If she doesn't want us?"
I laugh and let go of him, spreading my arms wide. "Then she leaves, and we're where we before. We'll have lost nothing, but we'll know. We'll know that we tried. We tried to take the perfect mate."
"I don't know," he says.
"Yes you do. Again, I'll ask you. Look me in the eyes, and tell me you prefer Leena over Kiera. Go on. Do it."
Dean looks up. Stares me full in the eyes, and for a long, aching moment I think he's going to do it. Tell the lie that will damn him, damn me, and ruin everything. Because of his pride. His guilt. His fear.
But he doesn't. He opens his mouth, but then he closes it, and relief swamps me like a tidal wave. "See? Come on. One chance. We'll go to the studio tonight. We'll talk to her. We'll tell her we want her, we'll offer everything we've got. And if she says no? Then fuck her."
"And - if she says yes?" Dean sounds almost nervous.
My smile becomes positively wicked. "If she says yes? Then, my friend, we will take her as we meant to, all those years ago."
Chapter 9
I do my best to put all thoughts of Dean and Drake from my mind. To not think about their smoldering presence, their hands and lips. I busy myself with setting up shop, with checking out the kiln and firing it up, with unpacking the crates, and checking out the different kinds of glass I have to work with.
I feel giddy. Like a kid on Christmas morning. The space is perfect; if anything, it's too large. But I love the stark brickwork, and the flowing of the Conway just outside my window. I love the ceiling being so high overhead, and the naked light bulbs that hang from wires. I love the rough cement floor. The almost brutal way that this huge space is dedicated to glass working. There's nothing extraneous. Nothing superfluous.
Still, this is all just gear. No matter how fancy, it's nothing without vision. Without a direction for me to take my art. As that realization starts to set in, I feel a moment's panic. What am I going to create? I can't just work in the same line I was creating back at Iron and Roses. I can't turn in more of the same, no matter how well-designed and executed. I need to stand out. From my own work. I need to turn my back on my old style, and in a matter of two weeks, recreate myself like a phoenix rising gloriously from the ashes.
I step outside, thrilling as I lock the door behind myself, and go for a walk. I need fresh air, and I almost always have my best ideas when I'm outside. I look back at the Conway Studios as I leave, marveling at my fortune. No matter what comes, I owe Drake a debt of gratitude I doubt I can ever repay. To think: he put this all together after I left. What depth of emotion would lead someone to do that? And then keep it empty, waiting for me, on the off chance that I would ever decide to come home.
Which I didn't. Guilt floods through me. I spent years fighting to not even think about Dean and Drake. To deny the passion that I had for them. To block a part of my soul. And why? Due to fear. Due to trauma.
I walk past the trestle bridge and step up to the bridge of flowers. The path is narrow, and the bushes and plants that are blossoming on both sides are
"Dean. I want her. Her scent is like smoke rising up through my soul. I want her more than anything. And I know you want her too. Deny it. Look me in the eyes and deny it."
Dean purses his lips. I can almost see him shake from the intensity of his anger. "She's scared of me, damn it," he finally whispers. "And for good reason. I'm a monster."
I grab him by the arms. "You are not a monster. You were young. You lost control. That's it."
"No," he whispers again, voice raw. "I drove her away. I ruined everything."
"Brother," I say. "You're wrong. And even if you were right, it doesn't matter. This is our chance to make good. To reach out and take what we want. What we need. She's back, Dean. She's here. Right now. All we need to do is go to her."
"And if you're wrong? If she doesn't want us?"
I laugh and let go of him, spreading my arms wide. "Then she leaves, and we're where we before. We'll have lost nothing, but we'll know. We'll know that we tried. We tried to take the perfect mate."
"I don't know," he says.
"Yes you do. Again, I'll ask you. Look me in the eyes, and tell me you prefer Leena over Kiera. Go on. Do it."
Dean looks up. Stares me full in the eyes, and for a long, aching moment I think he's going to do it. Tell the lie that will damn him, damn me, and ruin everything. Because of his pride. His guilt. His fear.
But he doesn't. He opens his mouth, but then he closes it, and relief swamps me like a tidal wave. "See? Come on. One chance. We'll go to the studio tonight. We'll talk to her. We'll tell her we want her, we'll offer everything we've got. And if she says no? Then fuck her."
"And - if she says yes?" Dean sounds almost nervous.
My smile becomes positively wicked. "If she says yes? Then, my friend, we will take her as we meant to, all those years ago."
Chapter 9
I do my best to put all thoughts of Dean and Drake from my mind. To not think about their smoldering presence, their hands and lips. I busy myself with setting up shop, with checking out the kiln and firing it up, with unpacking the crates, and checking out the different kinds of glass I have to work with.
I feel giddy. Like a kid on Christmas morning. The space is perfect; if anything, it's too large. But I love the stark brickwork, and the flowing of the Conway just outside my window. I love the ceiling being so high overhead, and the naked light bulbs that hang from wires. I love the rough cement floor. The almost brutal way that this huge space is dedicated to glass working. There's nothing extraneous. Nothing superfluous.
Still, this is all just gear. No matter how fancy, it's nothing without vision. Without a direction for me to take my art. As that realization starts to set in, I feel a moment's panic. What am I going to create? I can't just work in the same line I was creating back at Iron and Roses. I can't turn in more of the same, no matter how well-designed and executed. I need to stand out. From my own work. I need to turn my back on my old style, and in a matter of two weeks, recreate myself like a phoenix rising gloriously from the ashes.
I step outside, thrilling as I lock the door behind myself, and go for a walk. I need fresh air, and I almost always have my best ideas when I'm outside. I look back at the Conway Studios as I leave, marveling at my fortune. No matter what comes, I owe Drake a debt of gratitude I doubt I can ever repay. To think: he put this all together after I left. What depth of emotion would lead someone to do that? And then keep it empty, waiting for me, on the off chance that I would ever decide to come home.
Which I didn't. Guilt floods through me. I spent years fighting to not even think about Dean and Drake. To deny the passion that I had for them. To block a part of my soul. And why? Due to fear. Due to trauma.
I walk past the trestle bridge and step up to the bridge of flowers. The path is narrow, and the bushes and plants that are blossoming on both sides are
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