their other natures. And at making light of even significant injuries, lest their rate of healing become cause for question.
Maks let their voices drift away until they were no more than the occasional lilt of laughter and amused tone. The pain of his arm followed him into deeper sleep, and so did the indistinct murmur of Katie’s voice...no, not her voice. Her presence. Whatever subtle healing she worked on the dog lapped gently through the house...touching him and skimming along his body like a breeze made of her essence.
He breathed deeply of it, at first relaxing into it—and then reaching for it, leaning into it as he might lean into a touch. Sweet warmth and comfort, scented energies...they caressed him, soaking in. He shifted on the couch, found a new ache coiling deep and yearning. And though the injured arm had ceased its pile-driving throb, the clenching tension spiked a renewed bolt of pain through his body—enough to wake him back to a light doze. Enough to recognize a hard-on even jeans couldn’t disguise, as sprawled as he was.
Maks turned toward the couch, constructed the lightest of shields, and fell asleep to regret.
* * *
His mother’s voice came as remembered words on a sigh. Maks...my boy...so proud of you...
He gripped her hand, too young for the words he needed, awash with the need to protect her. To make things all right. To mend her bones and the things broken within her.
Ssh, not your fault...
Of course, it was his fault. His job to protect her from those who seemed ever determined to hurt her; his fault that she’d managed escape just so he would grow up free of them...
Don’t let them find you...
The scent of her, her tiger lingering in the air, her human overlaying it, her wounded nature tingeing it all.
Be safe...safe...safe...
Grief was the color of brown dirt and scattered red cinders, the scent of torn roots, the sensation of bruised pads and tired young limbs. It was not breathing and not wanting to breath, of fear and panic and bereft confusion.
It was running, a gangly young tiger not meant for distance or speed, hunger gnawing deeply, ever aware of the hunt—and of fear growing so great, a great big ball of it taking up all the spaces within him and pressing outward...and finding, suddenly, purpose.
Live. For her.
Protect what he could, when he could. For her.
That grief flailed through one reality to another, with the murky darkness closing in around him, flashing shadows and fear. Terrified screams drilled into his awareness, the dreams tangling with then and now and—
A hand landed on his shoulder.
Maks exploded out from the couch, a snarl on his lips and his shirt twisted, his arm a shriek of pain, ready to—
To—
The main room spread out before him, quiet and undisturbed. A woman stood frozen not far away, distressed and frightened and unfamiliar.
Maks slowly straightened, cradling his arm. He could say he’d been having a bad dream; it was true enough. He could make excuses that she’d startled him—also true enough. But excuses only drew attention to the unusual nature of his reaction...and she was the one who had trespassed. He let that truth fill the silence.
She didn’t resist that silence long, easing back a step—late thirties, sturdy and plump, her pleasant face now flushed red. “Katie,” she said, pointing toward the kitchen, her voice as urgent as her expression. “There’s something wrong with Katie. I wondered if you knew...”
“Did you scream?” Maks asked, his sleep-roughened voice abrupt as he looked past her to the undisturbed front door, to what he could see of the kitchen. He straightened, tugging his shirt back around. “Did she?”
Baffled, the woman said, “No, she just—she froze. And she looks...frightened. She never mentioned, but—does she have some kind of weird epilepsy, or—”
But Maks was no longer listening. He didn’t question that the screams in his sleep had been real—if not out loud. And he
Maks let their voices drift away until they were no more than the occasional lilt of laughter and amused tone. The pain of his arm followed him into deeper sleep, and so did the indistinct murmur of Katie’s voice...no, not her voice. Her presence. Whatever subtle healing she worked on the dog lapped gently through the house...touching him and skimming along his body like a breeze made of her essence.
He breathed deeply of it, at first relaxing into it—and then reaching for it, leaning into it as he might lean into a touch. Sweet warmth and comfort, scented energies...they caressed him, soaking in. He shifted on the couch, found a new ache coiling deep and yearning. And though the injured arm had ceased its pile-driving throb, the clenching tension spiked a renewed bolt of pain through his body—enough to wake him back to a light doze. Enough to recognize a hard-on even jeans couldn’t disguise, as sprawled as he was.
Maks turned toward the couch, constructed the lightest of shields, and fell asleep to regret.
* * *
His mother’s voice came as remembered words on a sigh. Maks...my boy...so proud of you...
He gripped her hand, too young for the words he needed, awash with the need to protect her. To make things all right. To mend her bones and the things broken within her.
Ssh, not your fault...
Of course, it was his fault. His job to protect her from those who seemed ever determined to hurt her; his fault that she’d managed escape just so he would grow up free of them...
Don’t let them find you...
The scent of her, her tiger lingering in the air, her human overlaying it, her wounded nature tingeing it all.
Be safe...safe...safe...
Grief was the color of brown dirt and scattered red cinders, the scent of torn roots, the sensation of bruised pads and tired young limbs. It was not breathing and not wanting to breath, of fear and panic and bereft confusion.
It was running, a gangly young tiger not meant for distance or speed, hunger gnawing deeply, ever aware of the hunt—and of fear growing so great, a great big ball of it taking up all the spaces within him and pressing outward...and finding, suddenly, purpose.
Live. For her.
Protect what he could, when he could. For her.
That grief flailed through one reality to another, with the murky darkness closing in around him, flashing shadows and fear. Terrified screams drilled into his awareness, the dreams tangling with then and now and—
A hand landed on his shoulder.
Maks exploded out from the couch, a snarl on his lips and his shirt twisted, his arm a shriek of pain, ready to—
To—
The main room spread out before him, quiet and undisturbed. A woman stood frozen not far away, distressed and frightened and unfamiliar.
Maks slowly straightened, cradling his arm. He could say he’d been having a bad dream; it was true enough. He could make excuses that she’d startled him—also true enough. But excuses only drew attention to the unusual nature of his reaction...and she was the one who had trespassed. He let that truth fill the silence.
She didn’t resist that silence long, easing back a step—late thirties, sturdy and plump, her pleasant face now flushed red. “Katie,” she said, pointing toward the kitchen, her voice as urgent as her expression. “There’s something wrong with Katie. I wondered if you knew...”
“Did you scream?” Maks asked, his sleep-roughened voice abrupt as he looked past her to the undisturbed front door, to what he could see of the kitchen. He straightened, tugging his shirt back around. “Did she?”
Baffled, the woman said, “No, she just—she froze. And she looks...frightened. She never mentioned, but—does she have some kind of weird epilepsy, or—”
But Maks was no longer listening. He didn’t question that the screams in his sleep had been real—if not out loud. And he
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