Stray. Rachel VincentЧитать онлайн книгу.
Sara’s vanishing act as an excuse to bring their stray sheep back into the fold, where they thought I belonged. But what if they were right? What if someone had taken her?
That one thought changed everything.
All at once, the gravity of Sara’s disappearance hit me like a fist in the gut. Air whooshed from my lungs, and I gasped, trying to draw more in. Doubled over, I panted, near panic. I’d been convinced that she had run away, but what if I was wrong? What if Sean had taken her? If he was crazy enough to snatch her from her own territory, there was no guarantee he wouldn’t hurt her.
A hand settled on my shoulder, heavy and warm. I looked up, fighting back tears. Marc stood in front of me, with a plate in his other hand and concern in his eyes where there had been only anger moments earlier.
Embarrassed by my near collapse and still furious with Marc, I slapped his hand from my shoulder. The sound echoed throughout the room for much longer than I thought it should have. His eyes widened in shock as his arm dropped to hang at his side.
“Don’t touch me,” I whispered through clenched teeth, glaring at him. He had no right to try to comfort me after the stunt he’d pulled in the woods.
Marc’s cheeks flushed with humiliation as his expression hardened into anger.
The others stared openly, their food apparently forgotten.
My chair made a harsh scraping sound as I shoved it back from the table. All eyes were on me as I stood. I turned away from them, letting my hair fall to shield my face. The only thing worse than having the guys witness my little breakdown would be having to accept their comfort. I didn’t want comfort. I wanted solitude. I had to get away from them all, but especially from Marc. “Excuse me, guys,” I mumbled. “I’ve lost my appetite.”
I’d taken two steps toward the doorway when a warm, strong hand closed around my wrist. I glanced back at Marc, trying to jerk free. His fingers tightened around my arm, grinding the bones together. I whimpered, hating the sound of weakness even as I made it.
Owen stood, and I thought he’d intervene on my behalf, but one look from Marc stopped him in midstep.
Marc’s plate crashed to the table. His pickle spear landed on its side on my mother’s floral tablecloth. A tomato slice dangled from the raised edge of his plate. He stomped out of the kitchen with one hand clamped around my arm, and even with his limp I had to jog to keep up. He pulled me down the hall, past a half dozen closed doors, then tossed me into my bedroom with one hand.
I stumbled and kept putting one foot in front of the other to keep from losing my balance. My momentum took me all the way to the bed, where I banged my thighs against the footboard, and fell forward on my face.
I came up hissing.
Seven
I spun around to face Marc and found my bedroom door closed. Anger, already scorching a path through my veins, blazed all new trails in the face of his audacity. Beyond the capacity for rational thought, I stormed toward him, my right hand curling into a fist.
Marc limped backward, bringing his arm up to ward off the blow. He was too late. My fist slammed into his jaw. His head snapped back and to the left. But before I could even consider taking a second shot, he’d wrapped a hand around each of my forearms, the gold sparks in his eyes glittering in fury.
I tried to pull free, but his fists tightened around my arms. He took a step forward, pushing me ahead of himself. Then his left foot hit the ground, and he grimaced in obvious agony.
The pain seemed to clear Marc’s head, and his eyes regained focus. He struggled visibly to get control over his temper, his gaze shifting back and forth between my eyes. I tried to jerk my arms away again, and he blinked. Then he shoved me. Hard.
I staggered backward, all the way to my bed. Again.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I spat, gripping the footboard to recover my balance. Since my claws were temporarily unavailable, I scrambled for words sharp enough to wound him. “Don’t you ever lay another finger on me,” I said, the calm surface of my voice hiding a churning current of rage. “You lost the right to touch me a long time ago.”
Hurt flickered across his face, and for an instant, my inner bitch was pretty happy. But then his expression hardened into anger once more as his hands formed fists at his sides. “If you have a problem with me, by all means let me know. In private. Throwing fits in front of the entire Pride was one thing when you were fifteen, but you’re an adult now, so start acting like it.”
I clenched the bedpost at a narrow section of the spindle, carving fresh grooves amid a tangle of older scars etched in the grip of a very different kind of passion. “You’re in for quite a shock if you thought that was a fit,” I said through teeth clenched hard enough to hurt. “Besides, four toms hardly make up the entire Pride. And there is no ‘in private’ around here, in case you haven’t noticed. They’re probably listening to us right now.” In fact, I knew they were because no one was talking.
Marc sighed, and eased his weight onto his good leg. I couldn’t resist a little silent gloating as he winced. “It’s been a long time, Faythe,” he said, his features twisted in pain. He probably wanted me to think his ankle was the only thing bothering him, but I knew better. This was a different kind of hurt, older and far more acute. “I was just trying to get reacquainted,” he continued. “Looking for a way to reconnect with you.” He stared at the floor, curling his toes in the carpet. “I made a mistake, and I’m sorry.”
I blinked, surprised by both his apology and the sudden change of subject. Weren’t we just talking about my “fit” in the kitchen? How had he made the leap to his forest faux pas?
Anyone else would have just accepted his apology and moved on, but did I? No, because I can’t see an emotional scab without picking at it to see if it will bleed. “What do you want me to say, Marc? That I’m sorry, too?” I paused, and he shook his head. “Good, because I’m not. You had no right to mark me. I’m not yours. I’m not anyone’s.”
The pain in his eyes bled into anger with frightening speed, and he clutched the top of my dresser for support. “I messed up, and you called me on it. Nearly took my foot off, in fact, so we’re even as far as I’m concerned.”
I started to tell him we would never be even as long as I was under house arrest while he was free to come and go as he pleased. But for once, his words came faster than mine. He was learning—and only five years too late.
“You can pretend you’re one of the guys all you want, but that means I outrank you. We all outrank you. And no tomcat would get away with punching me.”
Marc was right, though I would never admit that to him. And though he would never say it, he wasn’t just angry about being punched. I’d insulted and embarrassed him in front of his subordinate Pride members. Anyone else would pay for that. But I wasn’t anyone else.
“What do you want to do, drag me out back and beat the shit out of me?” I stuck my chin out and crossed my arms over my chest, daring him to come teach me a lesson.
He looked tempted for an instant, but then he exhaled softly and shook his head, leaning against the closed door. “You know what I want, Faythe.”
Closing my eyes, I counted to ten silently, hoping that when I looked again, I’d be back in my apartment at UNT, far from Marc, the emotional black hole. I opened my eyes. Nothing had changed. He was still watching me, waiting for my response.
Maybe I should have counted to fifteen.
“No,” I said, wincing as his face fell. Scarring him physically was one thing, but I’d decided long ago to keep my claws off his heart, which he typically left undefended.
“It doesn’t have to be like it is with your parents,” he said. “We could start from scratch. Make up the rules as we go.”
My heart thumped painfully, and I hated the fact that he could hear it,