Audition - Skye Warren, Amelia Wilde Page 0,7

and every one.

So much strength in him. He could probably climb a mountain with his bare hands. Or snap my neck in half. Instead he offers himself up to me. Auribus teneo lupum. To hold a wolf by the ears. That’s what I’m doing with him. It’s dangerous to do nothing, because you’re close enough to get bitten. It’s dangerous to do something, because that means letting go of the wolf.

Basically I’m screwed either way.

For some reason the thought gives me courage. If I’m going to get bitten either way, I want to pet this particular wolf. I stroke my finger across the middle of his palm. The faintest sound—his breath catching. I’m not powerless here. Heavy callouses across his thumb and forefinger, along the side of his hand, the way a musician might have after years of practice with a stringed instrument. He doesn’t make music, though. He makes violence. These are made from the kick of a gun. From practicing again and again. From using it in combat. I absolutely should not find that exciting. It’s some primordial part of me that does, the primitive woman who understands this man can protect and provide.

I stroke down the length of his lifeline. “Long. Deep. You’ll live a long time.”

“If you’re going to curse me, couldn’t you do it with locusts instead?”

Too intimate. His hand feels abruptly intimate, as if I’m cradling some more sensitive part of him—his heart, maybe. “It’s not a curse.”

“For someone who’s been trying to die his whole life, it is.”

I turn our hands so that he’s holding mine. My palm is up. I push his thumb across my lifeline. “Short,” I tell him. “It doesn’t always mean you’ll die early. It could mean struggle or illness. It could mean nothing, but my mamere always told me to live while I could.”

“What a load of bullshit,” he murmurs, and I realize how close we’re standing. I can feel his breath on my forehead. His thumb presses over my lifeline, as if he can smudge away the promise it holds. “No wonder you’re always so damn serious.”

I don’t always agree with things Mamere says. Sometimes I even resent them, but it’s different when I do it. Hearing him insult us raises my hackles. “Excuse me for wanting to live.”

“Then you’ll let me protect you.”

Somewhere behind me there was a lure and a hook. Now I’m already out of the water. Because of course he’s right. If I’m so determined to stay alive, then I should take every precaution.

“I’ll keep the window closed.”

“Oh, good. No murderer shark has ever gotten past one of those.”

I throw up my hands, breaking contact with him. “What do you suggest? Do you want to sleep out on the fire escape?”

“As tempting as the offer is, I have a better idea. You’re coming with me.”

“This is my apartment.”

“This is a rat-infested firetrap of a building that should be condemned. I wouldn’t leave you here even if you weren’t in danger. You’re coming even if I have to carry you out.”

There’s the expected annoyance at his high-handed manner, but even more than that, there’s relief. It rushes over me in a heady elixir. I’m drunk on it. I don’t like boiling over the restaurant’s oven when I’m trying to sleep. I don’t like averting my eyes when strangers use the bathroom while I shower. A dancer in the corps de ballet doesn’t make very much money. Living in New Orleans isn’t cheap. And some of what I make goes to mamere. It would be so easy to rely on this man, such sweet relief to sink into that quicksand once again.

CHAPTER THREE

Ballet originated in Italy in the 15th century. At the time, it was illegal for women to dance in public, so they couldn’t join the ballet.

Josh, five years earlier

There’s a distinctive sound to the human body on impact.

Someone must be fighting inside the warehouse. Not surprising, considering it’s owned by Caleb Lewis. Then again, there are no sounds of pain. No grunts of exertion. The sounds I do hear, the scuffs and the thuds, are almost rhythmic. Training, then. A thug with a makeshift punching bag.

Metal glints off the warehouse. Cajun spices saturate the humid air. The community has done a decent job of recreating their Louisiana origin after Hurricane Katrina drove them out. Unfortunately the coast is a great deal more porous over the Texas state line. That means easier access in the Gulf to drugs and guns and human cargo. Caleb