Half-breed’s Bargain by Samantha Wolfe
13
HARLOW
I wake slowly, arching my back and stretching out my limbs like a cat under the warm cozy blankets before opening my eyes to find myself alone in Van’s bed. I sigh, disappointed yet unsurprised that he’s not next to me. I almost had to beg him to stay long enough for me to fall asleep. I’ve never felt so needy and emotional before, and I didn’t want to be alone just yet. More than likely he took off as soon as I nodded off, but at least curling up against him for even that short amount of time was enough to keep the nightmares at bay for the rest of the night. For the first time I can remember in years, I slept for hours without a single nightmare and actually feel rested. I couldn’t be anything but grateful to Van for that and his self-control that kept us from fucking when I would have gladly let him do anything he wanted with my body and loved it. But now that I’m not addled by lust and have a clearer head; I know completing the mating bond is the last thing I want. I don’t want to be tied to anyone, let alone a man who has any kind of power over me. Been there, done that. No, thank you.
I sit up and glance around the richly furnished room and spot an open door that leads into a bathroom. Good. I need to wash Van’s scent off of me since I’m already getting aroused by it. I fling the covers aside and climb out of bed, then pad naked across the thick carpet to the bathroom. I jerk to a stop and gape at the decadent room that sports a large glass-enclosed shower and a separate bath tub that’s more than big enough for two people to share. I shake my head at the sudden image that pops into my brain of Van and me in there together and rush over to the shower. I reach in and turn it on, setting it to cold, then step in with a gasp as the frigid water hits my skin like a thousand icy needles. It sucks ass, but it does the trick and shuts down my libido. Then I turn the temperature up just enough to make it bearable and wash myself as quick as I can before hypothermia can set in. My teeth are chattering and goosebumps are crawling across my flesh by the time I step out of the shower to towel off. Then I hurry out of the bathroom to get dressed, unable to keep from grinning when I realize I have to go commando since Van tore my panties off with his teeth last night. I’m still smiling as I pull my damp hair up into a ponytail, then walk out of the room to go find Van and hopefully some breakfast along the way, too.
I wander down the hall, gawking at the beautiful woodwork and gorgeous oil paintings I was too tired to notice last night. I reach the stairs and the pretty tinkling of a piano floats up the stairwell, along with a familiar female voice singing a slow jazz song. I furrow my brows, thinking it might be Ella Fitzgerald as I step off the last tread. I follow the music to its source through the foyer and past the entrance we came in last night until I reach a large sunlit room. It’s empty except for an old table covered in painting supplies, and a ladder with Van at the top spackling a hole in the wall near the ceiling. He’s wearing only jeans and an old T-shirt, but he still looks gorgeous to me. I pause in the doorway to slide my gaze down his tall, imposing frame, stopping my slow perusal to gawk at the way his forearms and biceps flex as he works. And now I’m all hot and bothered again, as if my cold shower never even happened. At that point, the song hits its chorus and I register Ella singing the phrase, “bewitched, bothered, and bewildered” and smirk at how apropos the lyrics are in this moment. I step farther into the room, my eyes still fixed on Van, unable to stay away from the pull he has on me.
When I’m only a few yards away, he points at the table behind him without looking my way. “Can you hand me that rag, por favor?”
I stifle a sigh. The sound of him speaking in Spanish for even just a few words just does it for me. It’s an impossible feat to keep my libido in check around this man, especially after what he did to me last night.
I grab the damp rag and step closer so I can hand it up to him. He takes it without even looking at me or touching my hand, then wipes the excess spackle from around the now filled in hole before glancing my way.
“Gracias, querida,” he says with a soft smile as he climbs down the ladder. He darts his eyes away from mine as he walks over to the table to set down the rag and his putty knife. He turns off the small wireless speaker on the table, then asks, “Are you hungry?” as he turns back to me, wiping his hands on his jeans and looking anywhere but at me.
“I’m starving,” I answer with a frown, annoyed by his avoidance even if it’s for the best we don’t risk giving in to temptation like we did last night.
“Good,” he says with a nod, still not looking at me. “I’ll get you something to eat, and then we need to talk.”
I catch myself before I growl aloud, irked off my his behavior and his words. Hearing anyone say, “We need to talk,” never leads to anything good in my experience. He turns to stride away, and I follow, fixating on his bare feet and wondering why I find them so fucking sexy when I usually couldn’t care less about a man’s feet. Hell, before now I didn’t even care about a man’s name as long as I got my rocks off, let alone stuck around long enough to notice their feet. We walk out of the unfinished room and into a beautiful kitchen with bright white cabinets, dark granite counter tops, and gleaming hardwood floors.
Van motions toward the massive kitchen island and the three bar stools along one side of it. “Have a seat.”
I frown as I pull a stool out and perch on it with my elbows resting on the counter. I watch a silent Van pull a bunch of containers out of the fridge and arrange their contents on a plate, then stick it in the microwave to heat. He busies himself wiping down the already pristine counter top until the microwave beeps, then pulls the plate out and slides it in front of me, along with silverware and a cloth napkin.
“What’s this?” I ask, eying the food hungrily as he sets a mug of coffee next to my plate.
“It’s a traditional Mexican breakfast,” Van replies with a pleased smile as he turns to pour another mug of coffee for himself. “Tortillas, scrambled eggs, refried beans, and chorizo.”
“It smells amazing.” I dig in and moan at how good it tastes, noting with satisfaction how Van’s eyes flare silver at the sound. He might try to play it cool, but it’s good to know he’s just as affected by me as I am by him. “Aren’t you going to eat?” I ask between bites.
He shakes his head. “I ate a few hours ago.” He answers before taking a sip from his mug.
“Where are Ethan and Mercer?” Maybe if I keep up the innocuous questions, I can avoid this talk he wants to have with me.
“They spent the night in the forest,” he replies, nodding his head toward the window and the trees outside.
I nod and shovel some more food into my mouth. “So, were you born in Mexico?” I ask, then regret my question as Van’s features darken.
“I have no idea where I was born,” he replies, his voice bland. “Móira gave birth to me God knows where, then dumped me off on my father after I was weaned.”
I just stare at him with my fork halfway to my mouth. Shocked by his words as much as the fact he shared anything personal with me. He’s been a closed book until this point.
“His pack wouldn’t accept a half-breed child, so he left Mexico with me and found work as a migrant farm worker in the Imperial Valley of California. I grew up during the Great Depression picking produce alongside my father and living in plywood shacks.” He stares off across the room with sorrowful eyes. “Life was hard and brutal, but at least we had each other.”
“At least you had that,” I say. “I was dumped off in a church and grew up in the foster care system.” I shake my head, shocked by my confession. “I don’t even know who my parents were.”
“So you don’t know what kind of fae one of your parents was?”
“What?” I ask as I jerk backwards, coffee sloshing out of my mug onto the counter as I clunk it down harder than I meant to do.
Van fetches a paper towel and sops it up as he gives me a quizzical look. “You didn’t know you’re half fae?”
“How do you know?” I ask with narrowed eyes, feeling defensive. How did he know after only knowing me for a handful of days, when I’ve spent my entire life trying to find out what I am?
“Anam amháin can only happen between people who carry fae blood,” he answers with a frown.
I blink at his explanation, too stunned to respond for several moments before speaking again. “Are you sure?”
He nods.
“Do you know what kind of fae I am?”
“No,” he replies with sad eyes. “I’m sorry, querida. I wish I did.”
I frown. “Well, it’s more than I’ve ever been able to figure out for myself.”
He sighs. “If it makes you feel any better, knowing about my fae half hasn’t gained me anything good.”
“Then why do you work for your mother if the fae are so awful?” I ask.
“Because I was young, desperate, and foolish enough to make a bargain with her.”
I gasp. Even I know better than to make a bargain with a fae, because there’s always a catch hidden in the words they do and don’t say. They’re master manipulators of the truth and will use it and your own desires against you.
“She promised me everything I didn’t have when I was sixteen, wealth, security, family, and I took it.”
“But what about your father?”
“He was dead,” he replies with a blank expression. “The camp of migrant workers we lived with discovered he was a werewolf. They hired a brujo to kill him.”
“A brujo?”
“A sorcerer,” he explains, his features and tone still eerily blank. “He captured my father and took his head, then came for me next. But Móira turned up just in time to save me. I was only sixteen, grieving and vulnerable, and she took advantage of that to get me to agree to her bargain.” He barks out a bitter laugh, his stony expression finally faltering as emotion glitters in his eyes. “And I’ve been her bitch ever since.”
I know how he feels, the pain, anger, and shame, but it must be so much worse for him. He’s been a slave to that fae woman for seventy-five years. And here I thought I had it bad being under Bravas’ thumb for a decade. At least I was brainwashed by magic to believe I was still my own woman. Van has been well aware of his servitude the entire time. He must feel so trapped and alone.
“I’m sorry,” I say with conviction, the only comfort it’s safe to offer him. I long to go to him and hug him, but after last night I’m afraid of how my body might react if I touch him. I might just pounce on him, shove him to the floor, and ride his dick all day instead of just hugging him.
He shrugs one shoulder. “It is what it is,” he says, his impassive mask back in place again, yet it doesn’t touch his turbulent eyes. “I’m not telling you about my relationship with Móira for your sympathy. I’m telling you because it pertains to the ring Lynch wants you to steal.”
“How?” I ask, having a really bad feeling about the answer I’m going to get.
“Conor Buckley doesn’t have the ring anymore.”
I narrow my eyes. “How do you know that?”
He sets his mug down and pulls in a breath, as if steeling himself for something bad. “Because I already stole it from him for Móira two nights ago.”
“That’s great,” I say, despite wondering why he waited so long to tell me. “We can just give it to him then.”
Van sighs. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple,” he says. “I already handed the ring off to Móira.”
“Alright,” I reply. “Then we take from her.”
His eyes widen. “Are you suggesting we steal the ring from my mother?”
“Why not?” I reply with a shrug. “She stole it in the first place.”
Van shakes his head. “What part of me being Móira’s bitch don’t you understand?” he asks with a scowl. “I can’t act against her.”
“Then I’ll do it alone.”
“Being uninvolved doesn’t make me any less culpable if I willingly let it happen,” he says. “I can’t risk breaking the bargain. There’s a good chance I wouldn’t survive it.”
“Well, something tells me none of us will survive if we don’t deliver the ring to Lynch.”
He makes a frustrated noise as he runs a hand through his thick black hair. “Then what do you suggest we do?”
“I don’t know,” I answer with a shrug. “Ask her for it?”
“She’s not just going to hand it over to us,” Van says with narrowed eyes. “I touched that ring and felt its dark power. I don’t know what it is, but I know she won’t part with it willingly, let alone if she knows we’re going to give it to Lynch.”
“Just because we give it to Lynch, doesn’t mean we have to let him keep it,” I say with a sly grin.
His incredulous expression tells me how crazy he thinks my idea is. “So you’re seriously suggesting I ask Móira if I can borrow the ring, then give it to the most powerful vampire in Unity before stealing it back from him. Are you insane?”
I shrug. “Well, I’ve been called a crazy bitch on multiple occasions, so I guess my answer is yes.”
Van just stares at me for a long moment, then does the last thing I expect when he throws his head back and laughs. It’s not mocking or cruel, just a warm and genuine belly laugh that lights up his eyes and demeanor in a way that makes his beauty even more devastating than usual. I can’t help but stare at him in awe; my body and my heart equally attracted to him in this moment as that strange pulling sensation in my chest grows more pronounced. So much so that I can’t ignore it like I have been up until now. It’s so intense that it hurts, and I reach up to rub at my sternum, even though I know that’s not what I need to ease it. The only time it disappeared was last night when we were pleasuring each other.
His laughter fades and he glances down at my hand on my chest, his expression sobering. “I’m sorry about this,” he says as he motions between us. “It wasn’t my intention when I touched your aura that first time.”
I still. “What?”
“If I had known it would bind our souls together, I wouldn’t have done it.”
Panic erupts inside me at his words, my heart rate spiking. “B… but we didn’t fuck,” I say, my voice already higher pitched than normal.
“That’s not how anam amháin works,” he goes on, eying me with a worried frown. “All it requires is for the two souls to touch.”
“No,” I say in a weak voice, the panic now morphing into fear as I surge to my feet. I barely notice my stool tipping over behind me and clattering to the floor. I shake my head. “Not again.”
“Harlow,” Van says as he rounds the kitchen island and approaches me. “What’s wrong?”
I can’t answer him as terror claws at my throat. I can’t tell him how much the mere prospect of being magically bound to someone horrifies me. I think about last night and how willing and eager I was to let this virtual stranger do anything to me he wanted. It reminds me far too much of how I felt while under Viktor Bravas’ thrall. Van moves closer and reaches out to touch me, but I can’t abide it. I can’t be here right now, not with this man or in this place, and without even making a conscious decision to do so, I turn and run.