Impassion (Mystic) Read online

  “Close your eyes and relax. This one I can fix.”

  She obeyed, and he laid his head on her pillow as he stroked the skin over her esophagus. Within seconds, the swelling receded and the burn extinguished, but she held still, absorbing his soft touch and the warm breath sweeping across her cheek.

  “Thank you,” she eventually whispered, laying her hand over his.

  “Anytime,” he replied, moving his fingers to her heart. “There are other ways I can help heal this hurt, but they have nothing to do with magic.”

  Layla swallowed, painlessly thanks to him. Then she found his eyes, their espresso depths glinting with a touch of amber, just like his wavy hair. He was unbelievably attentive and so far beyond gorgeous the word failed to do him justice, but she couldn’t take advantage of his hospitality any longer, no matter how much she wanted to.

  “That’s an amazing offer,” she returned, “but I don’t expect you to stick around catering to a wounded bird, so I’m letting you off the hook. Now you can move on with your life, leave me to sweep up the pieces of mine.”

  He frowned and furrowed dark eyebrows. “Is that what you want?”

  She watched his handsome face, wanting to touch it, wanting to lift his lips and expose his dimples. “I don’t want you sticking around because you feel sorry for me, or because you’d feel guilty for walking away. I understand why you’ve been so kind. It was your job to get me here, but you’re not under any obligation to stay. My life is a confusing disaster right now. I don’t expect you to deal with that.” She looked at their hands and fiddled with his fingers. “I don’t want to be your chore.”

  “Look at me,” he insisted.

  She obeyed, and he held her gaze as he spoke. “This is where I want to be, not where I have to be.”

  She searched his eyes as she slowly shook her head. “How can that be? What man wants to deal with drama that has nothing to do with him?”

  “This one,” he answered, placing her palm over his heart. When she didn’t respond, he leaned close, touching his lips to her ear. “I’ve told you what I want. Now it’s your turn.”

  Layla’s cheeks flamed as his breath drifted over her neck, and she was glad he’d averted his gaze, a courtesy he likely planned in anticipation of her embarrassment. He was so damn thorough and could read her like an eye chart, which kind of annoyed her, but he constantly went out of his way to make things easy on her. She didn’t know men like Quin existed outside of romance novels and fairy tales, yet there he was, prince charming in the flesh. He reminded her of the affectionate father she’d found in the imprinted ring, and a sharp pang pricked her achy heart.

  A sigh feathered her hair, and she looked over, getting a flash of insight into Quin’s scarce insecurities. They pulled on her raw heart-strings, so she forced herself to maintain eye contact as she gave an honest answer. “I want you to stay… until you’re ready to go.” There, that wasn’t so hard.

  “Excellent,” he approved, his tension melting away. “Close your eyes.”

  She hesitated then did as she was told, and he laid her hand on her chest as he shifted away. Thirty seconds of dark silence ticked by, giving her way too much time to reflect on her parents’ memories, and her toes began an impatient dance. “Can I open them?”

  “Not yet,” he refused. “I promise it will be worth it.”

  She scowled and clicked her fingernails together, deciding ten more seconds was all he’d get. Halfway through her countdown, the smell of strong coffee drifted up her nose, and her twitching ceased as she deeply inhaled.

  “Okay,” he allowed, “open your eyes.”

  She did, finding two oversized coffee mugs in his hands. “My hero,” she approved, eagerly sitting up.

  His dimples appeared as he carefully passed her a cup. “Cinnia made it.”

  “Are you serious?” she exclaimed. Cinnia was her great aunt and made the best coffee.

  “Yep,” Quin confirmed. “Was it worth it?”

  “Definitely,” she answered, practically burying her nose in the fragrant cup. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.” He watched her sip and sigh. Then he sampled his own.

  “So tell me,” she insisted, “how did you get two cups of perfectly fresh coffee brewed by Cinnia into this room?”

  “I asked her to make them. Then I summoned them from her kitchen.”

  “How did you ask her?”

  “It’s called mind searching.”

  Layla recalled what she knew of mind searching. Her dad had used it to locate Medea—the witch who’d destroyed her family in a fit of jealousy prompted by rejection, by Aedan’s undying love for Rhosewen.

  Anger Layla didn’t know she possessed quickened her pulse and tightened her jaw. “Did you see that?” she asked.

  “That depends on what you’re referring to,” Quin replied.

  “In my aura,” she elaborated, “what did you see?”

  He studied her face then examined the air around her. When his gaze returned to hers, she found sincerity in their shiny depths. “I saw a flash of hurt and anger.”

  “How could you tell?”

  “The colors. Usually inky blues express sad or hurtful feelings, while deep reds express angry or harmful feelings. The darker the hue, the more intense the emotion.”

  Layla surveyed his aura—a bright, hazy rainbow that completely encompassed him, yet somehow sharpened his handsome visage. “But there are dozens of colors,” she pointed out. “How do you dissect them?”

  “A particular color will pulse and brighten when the corresponding emotion is stronger than others.”

  “Are you sad?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he confessed.

  “Why?”

  “I’m sad for you.”

  “Oh.”

  “But if you’ll look again, I’m also happy, which manifests in bright yellow.”

  Layla found the radiant yellow shedding sunshine on his aura. Then she picked out another prominent color. “What’s the pink? Like a cross between a summer sunset and cotton candy.”

  “That’s a beautiful description,” he commended, “and the answer is love.”

  “You have a lot of it.”

  “I love a lot of people.”

  She took several sips of coffee while watching his face. Then she continued analyzing his aura. “What’s green?”

  “Which green? I know more than one shade is prominent right now.”

  “The shiny one,” she clarified. “Almost grass green, but brighter and deeper.”

  “Emerald,” he whispered, and she gave a nod.

  A silent moment passed as he watched her eyes. Then he bowed his head and quietly answered. “The emerald in my aura represents you.”

  “What? How am I a color?”

  He didn’t answer right away, and Layla thought he might be clamming up, but then she found his stare and realized that’s exactly what he was waiting for.

  “When a person has strong feelings about someone,” he explained, “that someone’s eye color will flare in their aura. The emerald green in mine is in reaction to you. If you’ll look closely, you’ll also see a strip that’s the same color as my eyes. It’s a result of the love I hold for my dad, and the pale lilac ribbon represents my mom. The rest of our coven should be depicted in it as well, but they’re probably not as prominent right now.”

  After finding the dark brown and pale lilac, Layla returned her attention to the most vibrant color in the plethora of hues—the bright emerald. “So,” she mumbled, cheeks flooding with heat, “exactly how much dark brown can you see in my aura?”

  He smiled, not mockingly or proudly, but naturally, like it was the easiest thing in the world to do. “Enough to please me a great deal.”

  “T
hen why do you push me to tell you how I feel? If you can see it all in my aura, why ask?”

  “Our decisions don’t always coincide with our auras,” he answered. “Just because you have strong feelings about me doesn’t mean you want me here. And for the record, strong feelings don’t always equal pleasant feelings. A surge of dislike toward someone also brings out their eye color.” The corners of his lips twitched as he lowered them to his coffee. “But I doubt you dislike me that much.”

  Layla gave him a sarcastic smile, but she didn’t reply. No wonder he was so open about his feelings. His emotions were laid out for everyone to see and read all the time. Why bother trying to hide?

  Layla recalled how her parents’ had concealed their auras before fleeing to Idaho; how Rhosewen had manipulated hers to hide the pain; and how Aedan had filtered his when facing death. Their sad memories were invading Layla’s brain far too often, and she wondered if it would always be that way.

  Quin’s voice broke through her melancholy musings like a breath of fresh air. “Have you always been this independent?”

  She smirked and raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think I’m independent?”

  “Your silence.”

  “Oh.” She looked down and picked at the denim stretching across her knee. “Not always. Three years.”

  “Since Katherine’s stroke.”

  “Yes. Mom’s the only person I’ve ever relied on.”

  “I see,” he whispered. Then he hesitated before going on. “You’re handling the things you saw last night very well.”

  “What other option do I have?” Aside from lacking options, she felt like a fleet of army tanks had plowed over her heart using her energy as fuel.

  “You could talk to me about it,” he suggested. “Surely you have questions and concerns. I’d like to help you work through them.”

  Her coffee was gone, leaving her bereft of distractions and fighting the urge to chew a fingernail. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  “Let’s start with the obvious,” he proposed. “Are you worried?”

  As obvious as it was to him, Layla hadn’t made it there yet. She’d been so overcome by love and sadness, she hadn’t thought about the danger. Even now, as she recalled the enemy with perfect clarity, the threat seemed distant and irrelevant, shadowed by everything else she’d learned that weekend.

  “Is Agro still alive?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Quin answered, “and so is his army.”

  “Am I in danger?”

  “Not that we know of, but you may be able to shed some light on the situation. If you feel like talking about it.”

  “How could I know something you don’t?”

  “Because we have no idea what happened the night your dad died. We know what his intentions were, and we assume he succeeded, because the coven never received another visit from the Unforgivables following his departure. They watched the community from a distance, observing the magicians flying in and out—same with Aedan’s childhood community in Virginia. But Agro never showed himself again, and after about six months, he pulled his spies away. If he truly believed you were alive, he would have moved in and searched our homes, but he gave up without even questioning your grandparents, which led us to believe Aedan succeeded.”

  “He did very well,” Layla whispered, closing the curtains on tears.

  Her chest shuddered over a shaky breath as she fought to maintain control, but her defenses shattered when Quin vanished her cup and pulled her into a hug.

  “It’s okay to cry,” he assured, and that’s exactly what she did, all over the spotless, white cotton spanning his sturdy shoulder.

  “I’m afraid it will never get easier,” she confided, “to think about what they went through... what they did for me, and for each other.”

  “Time will help,” he encouraged. “It will shadow the bad memories and let the wonderful things you saw shine through.”

  “The good memories make me cry, too.”

  “The heart can be cruel in that aspect, but we’d be lost souls without the ability to love so deeply it hurts. You probably saw a few of those souls in the imprint. We’re far better off; even with the ache love sometimes lays on us.”

  His words were comforting, but it was his touch that calmed her lungs and soothed her heart.

  She turned her head, finding his neck with the tip of her nose, and her lips twitched as his scent rushed her senses. Though her eyelashes remained moist, the tears had stopped, and she owed it to the man sheathing her in consoling warmth. He was good at pulling her out of the dark, succeeding where so many had failed since Katherine’s stroke.

  “I feel like you’re the only person who knows me now,” she confessed.

  One of his hands slid up her back, navigating through curls to lift her cheek from his shoulder. “I want to know you better. Will you let me?”

  She struggled to breathe as she flipped her gaze between his eyes and mouth. They were seductive and hypnotic and mere inches away, tugging on her like a magnet. “Yes.”

  His eyes twinkled as he leaned in, barely touching his lips to hers, and she clutched his t-shirt as her heart stuttered. Her reaction amused him, pulling the corners of his mouth toward chiseled cheeks, but it didn’t stop him from pressing closer.

  His fingers flexed in her hair as his tongue parted her lips, and she closed her eyes, surrendering to a sea of satiny flesh. When their mouths stilled, they both shivered and sighed, feeling like they’d rediscovered something lost.

  “I’ve wanted to kiss you a dozen times this morning,” he revealed. “It’s been difficult to refrain.”

  “Don’t,” she whispered.

  “Don’t what?” he returned.

  She took his wrists, pulling his hands from her cheeks to her hips. Then she slid her palms to his hard biceps. “Refrain from kissing me.”

  Shocked by how aware she was of her body, his body, and the bed beneath them, she squirmed, unfamiliar with the heat searing her inner thighs. No way was she ready to have sex with him. She’d known him less than three days. But her hormones must have missed the memo, because body parts that had never pulsed before pulsed now, humidifying her panties.

  Quin must have sensed her unease, because he pulled one of his hands from her hip and took her hot cheek. “If I don’t refrain, we’ll never get anything done.”

  This did nothing to stifle Layla’s desire, but it did ease her embarrassment. “Are you on a schedule?” she challenged.

  His aura pulsed, brightening gorgeous features set with deep dimples. “Nuh-uh,” he answered, taking her by the waist. Then he pulled her to his lips for a much longer kiss.

  Chapter 2

  Body pulsing, Quin struggled to keep his kiss slow and his hands idle. Tingles slid from his lips to his toes, arousing every inch along the way, but he quelled his cravings, using willpower and magic to redirect blood flow.

  Taking a calming breath, he slowly backed away and touched Layla’s swollen pucker. “That was a very good kiss.”

  Her lips pulsed and curved beneath his fingertip, but her gaze shifted away, landing on the air around him.

  “What’s that mean?” she asked.

  “You’ll have to be more specific,” he returned. “I can’t see it.”

  “Oh yeah. I mean the way it’s moving. It’s flowing really fast.”

  Quin filled his lungs as he glanced at her aura. Then he met her stare. “It means I’m stimulated.”

  “Oh,” she breathed, eyes widening. “Is mine doing that?”

  “Yes, and it’s beautiful.”

  She quickly dropped her gaze, face flushing bright red.

  “Why does that embarrass you?” he asked.

  “Because I don’t live like this,” she answered. “I’m
not used to having everything I feel laid out for everybody to see.”

  “I can imagine that’s overwhelming, but there isn’t anything in your aura to be ashamed of, and you don’t have to be embarrassed around me, because I am used to it.”

  “Don’t you get tired of it? Having your emotions analyzed by others without your permission?”

  “Sometimes auras are inconvenient, but they’re too useful and beautiful to regret.”

  She slowly raised her gaze to the air around him. “They are beautiful.”

  “Yes.” He was watching hers and had to shake his dumb expression away. “Are you hungry?”

  “Yes. Can you see that in my aura?”

  “No, but I’m hungry.”

  Layla glanced at the sunlight filtering through the cracks in the curtains. “What time is it?”

  “Two in the afternoon.”

  “Really? How long did I sleep?”

  “A solid eight hours.”

  She carefully looked him over. “Did you sleep?”

  “Quite peacefully,” he assured.

  “Good,” she approved. “How long did the memories take?”

  “About three hours.”

  “It felt like months.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “You stayed the whole time?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did I do anything weird? Like talk or move around?”

  Quin watched her blush, appreciating the color, but wondering if her embarrassment would ever subside. “No. You didn’t say anything, and you barely moved.”

  “Bet that was boring,” she replied, wrinkling her nose.

  “Right,” he laughed, holding out his hands, and their refilled coffee mugs appeared.

  She beamed and accepted the cup with cream. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Breakfast will be ready soon.”

  “Who’s making it?”