The Edge of the World

Chapter Eight

   Ian showered early the next morning in utter disappointment. After lighting the wood beneath the rusted cylinder the night before, he'd looked forward to having warm water.

Upon entering the steamy bathroom, however, he discovered that Tatum had beaten him to the punch, and although he longed to berate her, he refrained, remembering how afraid he'd been after discovering her lying unconscious in the grass the previous night.

He'd almost lost his mind for this woman he thought so little of, and even as he stood under the weak stream of tepid water hours later, he still experienced the fear from seeing her like that—frozen, bloodied, and unresponsive. He'd carried her inside, calling her name in desperation as he undressed her outer clothes and donned her in a long dry shirt. He layered her with blankets and started a fire in the stove in record time before returning to her bedside like a stricken lover.

Everything about her drove him mad, and he couldn't fathom why. Oh, Tatum was pretty, of course. But his fiancée was much more beautiful and properly educated. Eve Pandey reflected everything he wanted in a woman, and she certainly wasn't a killer.

As he'd dressed Tatum, he noticed her scars, ink, and every reason he shouldn't want her. Her body was a road map of trauma, drama, and baggage he wanted no part of. But it didn't change the fact he was feeling things for her he shouldn't. Hard, powerful emotions growing stronger the more time he spent in her presence.

The bar of soap he confiscated from the side-shelf appeared old, and cracked, but remained slippery from when she used it. Ian exhaled sharply as images of her washing her flesh came to mind. Closing his eyes, he brought the fragrant chunk to his nose, inhaling the familiar ginger scent of it, and hating himself for his growing erection as he envisioned her hands rubbing suds across her generous breasts. God but he wished it was his hands washing her instead, slicking her up before pressing into her from behind. He wondered if she was a screamer and that occult knowledge he carried regarding her validated she was. His eyes rolled to the back of his head as distant erotic cries from another time echoed through his mind, making him shake.

He wanted to fuck her until she hurt, and that disturbed him.

The aroma of the soap took him to an era he couldn't latch onto but recognized was there. At first, it resembled a soft tapping on the door to his hidden memories. But the tapping seemed to grow louder, transforming into a powerful demand that Ian open the door.

Remember, you fool!

"No," he snarled, turning his face and lathering his body with robotic movements, desperate to end the erotic thoughts.

"Send toast to ten tense stout saints' ten tall tents."

His jaw worked as he warred against the heavy need gripping him. Again and again, he chanted the tongue twister, losing himself in the words, finding relief as his hard shaft eased. He would beat this lust for her. He must! She was someone that maybe he knew in another life. And although he didn't usually believe such things, he did admit the passports messed with his previous understandings regarding life and death.

But whatever happened in those incarnations meant nothing to him now. His new life was planned out, and Tatum Gibson wasn't a part of it.

He, later, slipped from the bathroom, hoping to make his way to the beach again without garnering attention. Ian wanted time alone to think and plan, but she distracted him, drawing him away from coherent thought.

She already had breakfast ready—warm oatmeal—and glanced to him, meeting his stare, sending his intentions to burn in Hell. Her eyes were the palest he'd ever seen, and they made his breathing hitch. There was a familiarness about them, an alluring, captivating quality, despite their icy shade, and he almost resented how they affected him.