Tormented by Darkness by Claire Ashgrove Read Free Book Online Page B

and I still hate my father as much as I always have, but that hole filled with other things. More important memories, stronger bonds.” Her fingers tightened a fraction as she lowered her voice to a whisper. “It gets easier, Mick.”
    When he didn’t respond, she let her gaze creep sideways. Pain knifed through her as the moonlight caught the glimmer of a tear that rolled silently down his cheek. Closing her eyes, she drew on the energies surrounding her and called upon her ancient Selgovae ancestors. Her grandmother, her aunt…her mother, all high priestesses, all masters of the healing path.
    Power flowed through her, ebbing out through her fingertips. As she stood silently at Mick’s side, she channeled everything she was, every miniscule fragment of nature she could grasp and hold, into lighting a mere kernel of comfort within his wounded soul. She couldn’t heal the gashes Steve’s death cut—only time could. But she could soothe in ways human beings couldn’t, and she wouldn’t leave this balcony without giving all her immortal gift to him.
    ****
    As a homicide detective, Mick learned emotion was a weakness. He’d been schooled—on his own and through his mentors—to keep those weaknesses firmly under wraps. He’d trained himself so well that now, more often than not, even dead children could only produce a faint twinge in his heart. The anger covered the rest. Locked it up some place tight where it couldn’t hinder his duties, and where no one else could ever accuse him of being too soft for the job.
    Cops didn’t cry. Least of all not in front of anyone. Certainly not in front of a woman he barely knew.
    Yet at Rhiannon’s understanding whisper, all the years of hardness cracked, and that deadly emotion poured free, sending tears splashing down his cheeks. He refused to sniff. Refused to swipe them away—that would make his grieving more obvious. So he stared, unseeing, at the dying grass below, now a blurry landscape of greenish-brown.
    He didn’t know how long they stood that way, her offering comfort through the light press of her fingertips, he trying to ignore the fact he couldn’t stop the salty flow. But after a while, a strange warmth invaded the cold spots Steve’s death left behind. Maybe it was that he’d finally expressed everything bottlenecked inside him. Maybe it was the light scent of her flowery perfume that lingered on the slight breeze and brought aromas of springtime. He didn’t know. Hell, he couldn’t explain half of anything that had happened to him since she’d shown up on his doorstep, flower arrangements weighing her down.
    But something stitched itself up, and his eyes dried themselves out. What hit him next surprised him even further—the need to talk. To tell this woman who’d graciously agreed to keep him company, only to have him turn into a total mess, what weighed so heavily.
    Mick lifted his head, reached across his body to cover her slender hand with his. “I hated him. He was the best damn thing that happened to me, and I hated him until I was an adult. Not just dislike. I hated that man.”
    Rhiannon turned her hand over, lacing her fingers through his. The warmth of her palm felt so good against his, he tightened his grip, wanting to hold onto that incredible feeling forever. Savor it until it stayed with him even after she undoubtedly left and refused to ever see him again. He couldn’t blame her. He wasn’t doing too well in the best date department. At this rate, he’d be lucky if the next time he stopped in her shop total awkwardness didn’t engulf them.
    “I was eleven. Mom worked nights, and often days. I had complete freedom. Then this guy shows up and I’ve got a leash around my neck. He didn’t like my friends; I couldn’t hang out with them. Not that they were the kind of friends you’d want to keep.”
    Despite his black mood, a chuckle rumbled as he remembered that first summer with Steve. “He put me in baseball, for God’s sake.