The Pooka's Share by K.L. Noone

Author:K.L. Noone [Noone, K.L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: JMS Books LLC
Published: 2019-09-26T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 6

Ink stayed quiet while following Aidan out to the truck, which sat battered and scratched-up on a dirt road and regarded him warily. He didn’t blame it; he was the interloper here.

But he wasn’t. Not exactly. Aidan had brushed fingers against his while walking, once and then twice; Ink had finally laughed and grabbed that oddly bashful hand in his. Aidan’s fingertips needed warming, anyway.

Emotions lurked and tangled under his skin. Exhilaration. Brilliant shuddering aftermath. Lingering floaty completion, drenching thoughts in blurry ecstasy. Pink and rose-hued soreness, the glorious kind, radiating inside and out. Aidan had fussed over the cold and Ink being naked and had plopped his own leather jacket on Ink’s shoulders for the walk. Ink’s heart had done a small somersault at this.

He wanted this. He wanted a stray banshee hair on a borrowed jacket-collar, and firework release, and Aidan’s hands soothing him after.

He knew that Aidan didn’t know about his past, about the way he’d run from his herd. He’d at some point have to say something. He didn’t know how.

Aidan had a place, a job, somewhere to belong, even if that meant traveling for assignments. Ink had nothing like that. He hadn’t, not since he’d given it all up.

Aidan said, holding his hand, “One sec, I’ve got food—” and squeezed and let go and dove into a bag on the pickup truck’s front seat, with enthusiasm.

I want you, Ink thought. I want you taking care of me. If I want anyone taking care of me—

That’d been what he’d run from. But it hadn’t been this. Nothing else, no roadside encounters or one-night stands, had ever been this.

He leaned against the truck, beneath moonlight.

Aidan emerged, hair a disaster of light and waves, eyes excited about providing more comfort. “Trail mix? Energy bar? Chocolate?”

“Do you ever eat real food? Not just whatever you can throw in a bag?”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Yes, you have.” He eyed Aidan’s shoulder, where healing pinkness caught stars’ eyes. Aidan had used his own shirt for clean-up, and then tossed it into the truck, and presently remained shirtless, all lean muscle and toned stomach and low-slung jeans. Ink wanted to kiss the edge of a hip, the spot below his navel, the older circular scatter of scars—a spray of shots? silver, iron, something enchanted?—over ribs.

Young and dazzling, he thought. The up-and-coming rock star MED agent. But you get hurt. You step in between people and danger. You care whether I’m cold.

He took the trail mix.

He said, “I’ll do what you asked. Bargaining. Repayment.”

“Oh.” Aidan propped a hip against the truck next to him. Hands wove the hair back into a braid over one shoulder, not the wounded one. “But I see why you didn’t want to. The ritual, the reminder. Your tribute. It wasn’t fair of me to ask you to do something. Interfering.”

“Well, I was being a dick.”

Aidan blinked, stifled a laugh; both pale eyebrows went up. Ink smirked, tossed a piece of dried pineapple into the air, and caught it in his mouth.

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