He recalled her troubled expression when he’d found her earlier. “And no more secrets. You don’t keep anything from me. Deal?”
Maggie bobbed her head, her smile growing blinding. His groin tightened in response. She was moving, closing the distance between them. Panic scored him. He’d seen that kind of body language before, usually whenever Carly flung herself into Niklas’s waiting arms. If Maggie touched him—or, more importantly, didn’t touch him—she’d know. Know what a freak he was, even among his own kind. She’d know the truth of his curse.
He threw his hands up between them—as if that could physically stop her—and took three giant steps backward in retreat. Maggie skidded to a halt, her expression sliding swiftly from overjoyed gratitude to startled rejection. She was quick to school her features, but he’d seen it, nonetheless, and her emotions sliced him like a poisoned athamé.
“I’ll make that call now,” he muttered, pivoting on his heel and all but running away. He may just as well have had his tail tucked firmly between his legs. Never had his curse tormented him more.
Once he was inside the kitchen, safely alone, he leaned against the counter and dropped his head back on his shoulders. She was bound to find out, sooner or later. Why was he prolonging the inevitable?
Because he didn’t want her to look at him like all the others did. With pity. Even Carly, Lord love her, would slip once in a while and look at him with sympathy when she thought he wasn’t paying attention. God, he was sick of this. Yeah, he was dangerous. Feared by his enemies and, even to a point, among his own brethren. And yet, powerful as he was, even he was pitied.
So make the call and you’ll be that much closer to ending this mission, asshole.
Still, he hesitated. Ending this mission meant never seeing Maggie again. And that didn’t sit well. Gideon shook his head and steeled his resolve. He’d made her a promise. And himself. Teach her. End his misery. That was all that mattered. Still, her face haunted him. He almost wished… But no.
If he couldn’t have her, couldn’t touch her and keep her for his own, then he’d do everything in his power to make sure she had the tools to survive.
The sound of a door closing softly somewhere in the house brought him back to the task at hand. Traces of vanilla and cinnamon lingered in the kitchen, giving him the strength to do what needed to be done.
Fishing his phone from his pocket, he thumbed in Xander’s speed dial number.
“No,” was Xander’s brisk greeting.
Asshole.
“You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”
“It involves the Halfling, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Then, no.”
Okay then. Since Xander wasn’t going to be reasonable—big surprise there—it was time to pull out the big guns. “I’d sure hate for Kyanna to find out you aren’t letting her do her job.”
A beat of furious silence met his threat.
“You wouldn’t,” Xander snarled.
“In a heartbeat. Out of respect, I’m coming to you first. But don’t think for one second I won’t go around you if I have to. Maggie needs training only Kyanna can give her.” Gideon pushed ruthlessly. “Are you willing to risk letting a first generation Halfling fall into Stolas’s hands because you’re being an overprotective prick? What do you think your little mate will have to say about that?”
Hoarse, foul curses stabbed Gideon’s ear.
More silence stretched, but Gideon knew he had Xander over a barrel. Xander loved his woman beyond all else, beyond reason. But he’d made the mistake of promising her never to interfere with her jobs as a Guardian. Nor with her determination to protect the Halflings listed in the books her family had passed down, generation to generation. And he’d made that mistake with an audience. What’s more, Xander would never break a promise to his woman.
Gideon wasn’t above using that promise to get what he wanted.
“We’re going to Maggie’s place in a little while to gather some of her things. When we get back, I’ll begin her training. Be here first thing tomorrow morning.” Gideon let a grim smile twist his lips as he disconnected the call, cutting Xander’s blunt opinion of Gideon’s dirty play short.
Shoving the phone back in his pocket, he went in search of the thorn in his side. Following the scent of vanilla and cinnamon, he ascended the stairs, only to pause in confusion. The scent trail—and the soft sounds of movement—were coming from the room he’d slept in last night, not from his—her—room, as he’d assumed. Quietly, Gideon strode to the doorway, pausing to lean against the doorjamb. Crossing his arms over his chest, he stood, watching her in silence.
She’d stripped the sheets from the bed, the shabby curtains from the windows, and the dustcloths from the rest of the furniture. She’d thrown the windows wide open, and a strong breeze of fresh air swept through the room. She was currently standing on a chair, stretching on tiptoe, using a broom with a towel wrapped around the end to clear cobwebs from the corner.