Entwined Destinies (2 page)

“I’m not a child, Jess. I must be a decade older than you.”

I place a hand on the side of Mason’s face. I know it looks that way to him, but he’s still so young by comparison to me.

“This is my fault, Mason. I’m old enough to know that I shouldn’t ask a question if I’m not prepared to hear the answer.”

“I would have told you anyway.”

I let out a deep sigh. “I know you would have. Maybe it would have been easier to hear later on, maybe not. But you definitely accelerated the process.”

“Why are you taking this so hard? Sylvia is my sister. So what if she can feel what I can feel? Why does that change so much for you?”

It changes a lot, most of which I can’t tell him. Especially as it concerns the conversation Sylvia and I had about him today.

My whole body shrugs.

“Mason, you’re used to her being there. She’s been there your whole life. I get it. Well, I just found out that you’re a shifter. I took it really well, don’t you think? Not just that, but I like it. It’s exciting for me. Heck, it’s exciting for us both.

“Except now you tell me that there’s an observer in the room. Somebody who’s always been there. Somebody who knows what you’re feeling before I do. Probably even better than I do. A woman. Your twin sister. Somebody who also happens to be my boss.

“Mason, what you need to do right now is
cut me some slack
!”

That last part came out angrier than I intended. Oh well. No point in holding back now.

“If that’s what you want, fine. I can do that.”

Mason says it calmly, like everything else he’s said since putting his silver pendant back on. His eyes, however, are hurt. I can see it, plain as day. Still, I can’t help how he feels, can I? That’s what I tell myself, at least.

It’s a lie, of course. I want to make the pain in his eyes go away, but what am I supposed to do? Pretend like this doesn’t bother me? I can’t do that.

Mason crosses to the door, puts on his jacket, and pulls on his shoes. It feels like I’m watching him leave in slow motion. Every action is calculated and deliberate. He checks his pocket for car keys, finds them, and then looks up at me, pausing in the doorway.

I haven’t moved from where he left me at the easel. My brain is screaming, telling me to comfort him, to stroke his troubled brow, to love to him no matter what.

It’s telling me to assure Mason that everything will be okay, that I don’t want him to go, that I want him to stay. It’s telling me that this is what it means to be in a relationship.

It’s telling me a lot of things, but if I gave in to these feelings, who would I be asking to stay? Mason the magically placated houseguest? Or Mason with a twin sister ride-along? I don’t know the answer, and that’s unfair to us both.

So I let him go.

“You stupid doe-eyed idiot.”

It’s the same thought I’ve been repeating it to myself for days, and for good reason. I keep making the same mistake every time I wake up in the apartment, or come home from working at the studio.

It’s always the same. I expect to find Mason here, waiting for me, lying in bed next to me, opening the door before I get a chance to use my key. No, Mason’s not here. He left.

Then, after that initial rush of expectation, it’s so much worse, when I remember that he’s gone, that I let him go. Then I’m in a daze again, drifting through my day, going through the motions of the same boring rituals. Thinking about what I might have said to Mason, what I might have done, but didn’t.

I could have gone after him. I could have reassured him. I could have told him that there wasn’t anything we couldn’t figure out. None of the above. I just let him walk out the door. And why? Because I lack imagination. Me! Of all people! Because I couldn’t imagine Mason and I being together, knowing that his twin sister can feel everything he feels the moment he feels it.

That makes me a fool of the highest order, especially considering all the times Candice and Saffron piggybacked on what I was feeling with a guy, which is any time I’ve siphoned the lust of a man into our quicksilver pool.

Heck, and that’s to say nothing of the times I piggybacked on what they were feeling in the same situations. Granted, that doesn’t happen quite so often as it does with me, but still, of all the people in this world who
should be
cool with Mason and Sylvia sharing a bond, I should be one of them.

To make the loss feel even worse, I’m also qualified to be with Mason. I actually like his feral aspect, but it’s more than that. I have the magic to endure Mason in his bestial form. The times when he becomes unhinged and simply must have me.

Like he did in the kitchen, when the painting of Artemis overwhelmed him and his wolf boiled to the surface. Oh, to be the object of that desire again! It’s such an ache now. A void that I can’t imagine being filled by anybody else.

There I go again, my lack of imagination. Yet I don’t want to imagine anybody else. I don’t want to use my imagination at all. I want to be with Mason. In the flesh and blood and fur and claw.

It’s not just that I’m qualified to be with a shifter, I’m uniquely matched for Mason. That’s why I’m in such a funk. If it were any other guy, some random man whose libido I was draining solely to fill up the quicksilver pool, I wouldn’t care who was listening or watching, but it’s not any other guy. It’s Mason.

I’ve never met anybody like him. He speaks my language even when we aren’t using words. He knows what it means to lose yourself in a person like I do in my paintings, like I did with him. He knows what it means to lose himself in the craft as well, when he painted me the way he did. His fingers all over my body.

I can’t help it. Twin sister or not, it bothers me that another woman feels what Mason does before I do. I want him all to myself, but that also makes me a horrible person, because I share my sexy times with Candice and Saffron.

Not just that, but I did it without considering how Mason would feel if he knew my coven was there, connected to how he makes me feel through the pool. I’m greedy and selfish and I didn’t go after him when I should have. He walked out of here, paused at the door, clearly struggling, and looked back at me.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” he asked, the pendant keeping him calm.

“I’m not sure of anything right now,” I told him stoically, no inflection in my voice.

Mason didn’t linger after that. He stepped outside and closed the door behind him. Not with a slam, not even pulling it closed loudly. He simply shut the door and left.

I’m in a bad way, and there’s no denying it. The parents who pick up their children at work can see it in my face. The children can see it most of all. How many times have I been asked
Are you okay, Ms. Aberdeen?
during the past week? I’ve lost count.

I’m sure it will reach Sylvia soon, if it hasn’t already. I’m really not looking forward to seeing her again. Mercifully, she hasn’t come by the studio all week. Neither has Piper. Maybe they’re out of town. It’s not unusual for her to go on trips without saying anything.

I start working on
The Vision of Endymion
to distract myself. Not just at work, but at home too. The painting travels me with everywhere I go. I can’t stop working on it. I think it’s the only thing keeping me sane right now, knowing that it’s there waiting for me. Nothing else matters.

I always start exactly where I left off. All the time in between has a way of disappearing ; any moment that comes between me and the time I spend working on Mason’s favorite painting is a blur.

I know what I’m doing. I knew the moment I started. I’m using this painting to keep Mason in my life, to keep him alive in my heart. The painting is a bridge between me and wherever he is now. I was going to recreate this painting for the wrong reason at first. I know that now. Not anymore. Now I’m working on the painting for the right reason. At least, it feels that way.

I know it’s the right reason, because I’m not tricking Mason anymore. I’m not influencing him with an image that I know he finds meaningful. I know this, because he’s not here to see it. How can there can be guile when the subject isn’t here to manipulate? There’s just me and the painting he loves.

If this is all I have left of Mason, then I will see it through to completion. I will make it perfect. Nothing less than perfection will do. I’ve already gone through several canvases in the past week. The others were false starts. Poor imitations of the original.

The smallest mistake or errant brush stroke is enough to make me start over. I’m moving through layers of paint in my mind. Painting
The Vision of Endymion
exactly as Sir Edward Poynter would have done it. The same order of details. The same discovery of color. It has be identical.

The trouble is, I’m not getting much sleep and I’m not eating. I don’t care. I’m obsessed now. I can feel my mind unraveling a little more each day. What’s worse? I let it. The painting is all that matters. I am merely the conduit through which it will emerge on the canvas.

That’s when I trip across a thought. A ludicrous one at first, but I nurture it. Turn it into a conviction. I’ve grown quite attached to that thought now, despite how ridiculous it sounds.

If I can perfectly recreate this painting for Mason, he will come back to me. It will summon him to my door and we can be together again.

My mind passes into a fugue after that. I wake up and I’m already standing in front of the canvas, painting in my sleep. It’s getting harder to tell the difference between my waking life and my sleeping world. That’s not good either. I should be looking after my health.

Hang my health! There’s no time for that. Maybe later, when I’m done.

I have one purpose, to let Mason know that there isn’t anything we can’t work out together. The painting will do that for me. It will call out to him, wherever he may be. All he has to do is see it eventually. All he has to do is come back here and glance at the finished product for a second.

That’s when the dream washes over me. At least, I think it’s a dream. I must have passed out again.

In the dream, I can feel the wind rushing against my face. I’m floating above the ground. Not quite flying, but still in motion. Mason’s silver pendant is around my neck, which means he isn’t wearing it. My hands are clenched in fur. I’m holding on to something big and musky.

There’s another smell. Grass and trees. The sound of a river burbling over rocks. Shouldn’t there by huckleberries nearby? I’m at the embankment where Mason and I first made love. How did I get here?

It’s dark, late at night, but pleasant outside. I can’t feel the wind anymore. I’m sitting in the grass, propped up against a tree. When did that happen? I must be waking up and falling asleep again. That’s when I see him. Mason.

He’s on the other side of the river, but it’s not Mason the man, nor Mason the half-man, half-wolf. It’s Mason the wolf. Larger than I’ve ever seen him. Massive paws the size of my head. Legs rippling with muscle. Black ticked fur.

Still, I’d recognize him anywhere. I know those warm brown eyes too well, even at this distance. The way they look at me.

Mason leaps over the river in a single bound. He’s been hunting. I can tell because there’s a rabbit in his mouth. He pads up to me and drops the bloody carcass at my feet. I smile at him, the offer. He’s trying to feed me, which is sweet. I reach out for his face. Stroke the side of his enormous muzzle.

“Thank you, kind wolf, but I don’t have the strength to eat your gift.”

The wolf tilts his head at me, trying to figure out what I’m saying.

Some of it must sink in, because he picks up the rabbit and lopes away. I lie down, or slump down. I can’t tell which. I close my eyes for just a moment and lose track of time. The stars move above me. The full moon charts across the sky.

Huckleberries wake me up. I can smell them. I open my eyes, and Mason is there again. Not Mason the wolf. Nor mason the half-wolf, half-man. It’s Mason the man. Not a stitch of clothing on him. He’s trying to feed me huckleberries. I accept. They taste so good.

Mason feeds me every last huckleberry in his hand, one by one, until they are all gone. That’s when he climbs down into the river and returns with water cupped in his hands. I drink and lick the moisture from his palms until they’re dry. It’s so delicious. He goes back for more.

I watch his slender, well-muscled body make the journey over and over again. He climbs back up using only his legs, nimble on his bare feet. I’m sure he’s had a lot of practice.

When Mason returns for a fifth trip, I notice his manhood swinging between his legs. That’s when I know I’m not dreaming anymore. I am exactly where I am.

It’s early in the morning. The sun is starting to come up. Mason’s silver pendant is around my neck. He’s about to head back to the river for another handful of water when I reach out for him weakly, stopping him.

“Don’t go.”

Mason looks back at me, making eye contact. His entire body is alert, poised.  He looks into my eyes and can see that I’m lucid now. Sated with berries and water.

He turns and sits cross-legged across from me, attentive. I can feel the nourishment he brought me slowly taking effect. I’m already starting to feel stronger. I cup the side of his face like I did with his snout.

“You came back.”

“I did.”

“I’m glad.”

“That makes both of us.”

We look at each other without saying another word. There’s so much concern in his face. Mason is paying attention to my every move, vigilant. I can see his eyes dart across my face. Reading the changes in my expression.

“Thanks for the food.”

“You needed it.”

I look around at our surroundings. It’s no less beautiful here among the trees than I remember. Than I painted.

“What made you bring me here?”

Mason shakes his head. “To be honest, it wasn’t a conscious choice.”

“No? What was it, then?” I ask with a pleasant lilt of curiosity.

Mason looks out across the river and narrows his eyes.

“It was all I could do to resist changing last night, even with the pendant. The enchantment won’t let me change, but it’s painful if I don’t, especially during a full moon. The need to change is so powerful. I couldn’t think straight. That’s when I stumbled up to your door.”