North of Need (Hearts of the Anemoi, #1) (16 page)

God, he was freaking gorgeous even when she was pissed at him. “Going to the store. I’ll be back,” she said without breaking her stride to the garage.

“Megan, don’t go. Talk to me,” he called.

“Go inside, Owen. I need a break.” She punched the code into the pad at the side of the garage door. It eased up.

She tugged open the driver’s door of the Jeep and froze.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Megan stood at the door of her Jeep, frowning, trying to make sense of the scene in front of her. The driver’s seat was pushed and reclined so far from the steering wheel it was nearly in the backseat. How in the world could Owen have reached the pedals with the seat like that? He was tall, very tall, but
this
tall?

Odder, wisps of white fur covered the seat and clung to the short-napped carpet in front of the pedals. The breeze swirling through the garage picked up the fuzzy tendrils, blew them around the car’s interior.

The passenger seat had also been adjusted—pushed back and the backrest also reclined, as if someone had laid there. Smudges of mud had dried here and there on the gray leather.

Her brain couldn’t explain why the car looked like this…because she hadn’t been awake the last time she’d used the car. The last time
they’d
used the car. But…Owen said she’d slept in the back, right? So then…Her eyes drifted to the front seats. Both had been moved. Used. She sucked in a breath.

“Owen Winters, who drove my car?” she yelled. Stomping out of the garage, she nearly slammed right into him just behind the Jeep. She pointed. “Who drove my car?”

“Megan—”

She glared at him, sure she would totally lose her shit if he didn’t just tell her what was going on.

He nodded once, and his shoulders sagged. “Boreas.”

Megan frowned. “Boreas. As in the Supreme God of Winter Boreas?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Owen’s lips pressed into a tight line and his jaw ticked. Once. Twice. “I couldn’t drive.”

She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but it wasn’t that. “Why? When?” All this confusion and weirdness was why she
really
needed that trip to the store.

Owen blew out a breath. For a moment, he appeared older, ragged around the edges. She fought the urge to hug him, stroke her fingers through his soft hair.

“I was drained,” he whispered.

Megan’s eyebrows flew up. “Drained? Like…meaning…?”

He shifted on his feet. “I overextended my powers. Between the night in the wind and getting you down the mountain, and it was already warmer. I didn’t realize…”

She stepped back. Her mind couldn’t conjure an image of him where he wasn’t tall and strong and exuding that sexy, masculine otherworldliness, certainly not one of him too weak to sit behind the wheel of a car and drive. Him being hurt for her—wasn’t this precisely what she feared most? And what guarantee did she have if she chose him, made him human, some other vulnerability wouldn’t befall him?

“How bad was it?” she said through a tight throat. He was fine now, obviously, but that didn’t keep a belated panic from turning over the contents of her stomach.

He came closer and rubbed her arms. “Angel, I’m fi—”

She grabbed his T-shirt and tugged him to her. “Please. If you say you’re fine I will lose my mind.” Every moment he delayed his answer allowed her brain to construct worst-case scenarios. She recognized the queasy foreboding creeping up her neck and prickling her scalp. In her mind’s eye, the image of opening their front door to find two uniformed policemen standing on the Christmas-light-brightened porch, illuminated by flashing blue and red, played in slow motion.

He nodded once. “I collapsed.”

She gasped.

“Ma’am, we’re sorry to disturb you on Christmas. Are you Mrs. John Snow?”

She whimpered. He was a god, and he’d collapsed. He was a god, and he hadn’t been okay.

“Mrs. Snow, may we come in?”

She whirled and jumped into the driver’s seat. A lever on the side adjusted the back and moved the seat forward, but at a ridiculously slow pace that made her grit her teeth. Her hand trembled against the little knob. A scream threatened to tear free to voice her frustration, anger, fear.

Owen’s broad chest filled the door’s opening, blocking her from closing it. “Megan, I’m sorry.”

“Mrs. Snow, we’re sorry to have to tell you…”

Finally, her feet could reach the pedals. She stabbed the key into the ignition and started the car.

“I didn’t hide what happened from you on purpose. We slept all day, and then…I should’ve.”

Trembling now, Megan patted his chest. “I understand. I can’t talk about this right now.” She hated the quiver in her voice. “I need some time to think. Okay? You go in.” He didn’t move, his expression so sad. She hated herself even more for that. “Please, Owen?”

“I don’t like this. You shouldn’t be driving when you’re upset.”

She shook her head. “I’ll be fine.”
Fine. Fine. Fine.
Focusing on the internal repetition, she bit back the threatening tears.

He groaned, but relented. Stepped back.

When he was clear of the door, Megan yanked it shut.

Megan!

Megan growled, shook her head, refused to look at Owen, refused to believe John’s disembodied voice had decided to make a reappearance
now
of all times.

She forced all her concentration into backing out of the garage, turning around in the spot Owen had cleared. The melting snow left the driveway bumpy and uneven, so Megan took her time and went slow. Owen
was
right. She probably shouldn’t be driving. But she had to get away. Just for a few hours. Then they could talk. She hit the gas and took off.

§

Owen roared in frustration, his emotions kicking up a whirl of wet snow. He’d fucked up. He knew he had. Her quivering bottom lip, the way her cheeks paled, the glassy sadness of her blue eyes—her hurt sliced into him, tore at his heart. Her disappointment shamed him, twisted his gut. His intent hadn’t been to deceive her, but the effect had been the same.

In the distance, the Jeep fishtailed.

Owen frowned, stepped into the snow. Damn it all to Hades, she shouldn’t be driving. He sank into a squat, plunged his hands deep into the snow. Head bowed, eyes closed in concentration. He sent the command out, far, far out, willing the snow and ice still covering the roadways to carry her safely to her destination. Long minutes passed as he extended the directive along the whole route to the general store, glad she’d pointed it out to him on the way to Wisp. Power bled from him into the distant snow.

He withdrew his arms and opened his eyes. For a moment, the world blurred and dizziness swamped him. Gasping, he swayed and fell back on his butt. Sprawled out on the driveway, the warmth of the too-early spring surrounded, suffocated. At least the cloud cover he’d called had tempered the sun’s strength. Stumbling, he pushed to his feet, that heavy feeling sinking back into his limbs. Scooping up some snow, he ate as he clambered up the porch steps. This snow was wet, as much water as ice, and though it eased him, it didn’t provide the immediate jolt of power it had before. Still, he ate it, taking whatever assistance he could get while he could get it. His internal gauges told him the temperature was flirting with sixty degrees.

Gripping the doorknob, he pushed. His shoulder crashed into the closed door. He rattled the knob. Locked.

He gaped, stumbled back from the barrier. Had she locked him out on purpose? But then, she’d told him to go in. The memory filled him with relief. His eyes scanned the porch—there weren’t any hiding places for a key save one. He ran his fingers along the top molding over the door. Nothing.

Almighty gods, he was trapped outside.

He wiped his damp forehead with the back of his arm, assessed his options. Busting through the door would render it useless for her. An obvious last resort. Long rectangular windows surrounded the door’s frame. He bent and glanced through the middle one. If he broke the pane, he could reach through and unlock the door. He preferred to avoid damaging the house, if possible. Recalling the door inside the garage, Owen dragged himself around the front of the house and in through the still-open garage door. His footsteps thumped against the plank steps. He reached out and twisted the knob. Locked again.

“Fuck.” He knocked his head against the solid door. His sweat left a mark when he pulled away. He slumped down to the wooden steps and rested. Between the concrete pad and the lack of insulation, the garage offered a cool respite. He cursed again. Hadn’t Boreas warned him he couldn’t withstand another major expenditure of power? Between the weather and calling the clouds and the enormous command to shepherd Megan safely to the store… Yeah, he hadn’t listened.

Truth be told, though, he would do it all again if it meant keeping Megan from harm. He wasn’t used to the limitations his in-between status imposed on him, neither fully human nor fully god. But while he could tolerate the draining weight of physical deterioration, his soul would never survive a failure to protect her. No matter the cost, even to himself.

Owen sat stone still, conserving power and energy. For a while, his body eased. But the midday temperature heated the garage’s interior enough that he became uncomfortable again. A trickle of sweat ran down the edge of his hairline. He stripped off his T-shirt and chucked it between his hands while he thought through his options.

He went out to the igloo, sheltered himself within the icy walls for a while. Using power to sustain the ice, however, seemed risky given how sluggish he felt. Drips rained down from the joints in the blocks, a few at first, then in a steady stream. He gave up. It couldn’t be helped—he had to get into the house.

At the front door, Owen wrapped his right fist in the shirt, reared back, and let loose a punch. Glass exploded inwards from the sidelight. Jagged edges dug into his forearm. He knocked the remaining shards free on the door side of the window and reached in.

He blew out a relieved breath when the door unlocked. Pushing through, he stumbled into the great room and stopped. It
was
cooler, but it wasn’t as cool as he wished. Still, it was better than nothing.

Owen washed the wounds on his arm and knotted the refolded T-shirt around them to catch the blood until they healed. His godhood would make quick work of healing the injuries. He retrieved the biggest pieces of glass from the floor and threw them away, then opened the freezer in search of some ice cream.

Of the four containers they’d originally had, only one remained. He pulled out the mint chocolate chip and yanked off the lid. His shoulders sagged. In the bottom corner of the tub sat maybe one scoop’s worth of the cold dessert. Not bothering with a bowl this time, he ate the ice cream right out of the carton. Too soon, it was gone.

Warm air streamed through the broken window. Allowing spring an entry into the house was clearly a strategic mistake. He saw that now. He’d just avoid this room.

In the bathroom, he splashed cold water on his ruddy face, then staggered into the bedroom. Megan’s scent lingered in the air, on the bedclothes. He trailed his fingers over her side of the bed and laid himself down atop the cool covers.

Please be okay, Megan. And hurry back to me.

He missed her. Her touch, her smile, her laughter, the sound of her voice. After eons of aloneness, the great joy of her companionship left him lonely without her.

Dampness pressed against his back. He groaned and sat up, the air drying the clinging sweat. He pushed off the bed, swayed, and lurched forward. Leaning against the doorway of her bedroom, Owen warily eyed the angled streams of sunshine pouring in through the wall of windows in the great room. The cold air of the refrigerator beckoned him, but to get to it he’d have to weather the sun and the spring breeze that together had noticeably raised the temperature of the cabin’s central room. Maybe he’d just soak in a cold bath. He turned to retreat to the bedroom.

A rectangular box on the wall caught his attention. A jolt of triumph enlivened him. The thermostat.

Owen flipped the plastic box open and scanned the controls. He flicked the power level from “Heat” to “A/C” and lowered the temperature gauge to its coldest point. With a bit of a spring in his step, he returned to the bedroom and sat on the bed’s edge, awaiting the first blast of conditioned air. Minutes passed. Nothing happened. He rechecked the controls. Then he realized he hadn’t heard the heat blowing through the vents lately, either. Despite Megan lowering the setting, it still should’ve come on from time to time.

The gods were in the world, even if they weren’t of it, so Owen knew enough to know the basics of how mechanical systems worked. And he suspected the most likely answer lay beneath several feet of melting snow. To check—and, if needed, fix—the condenser, Owen would have to go back outside.

It could be worth it, though, if it meant he’d be able shut himself in their air conditioned bedroom until Megan got home. He froze. His gut clenched. Never in his long life—not even with Chione, and didn’t that tell him something—had he thought of the place where he belonged in the plural.
Their bedroom.
It had the most intensely satisfying ring to it. And he wanted it to be reality more than he could express.

He wanted to belong to Megan.

Not bothering with a shirt, Owen sucked in a deep breath and crossed the sunlit room. The heat of it seared through his skin, drawing out a flush and soaking him with sweat almost immediately. Outside, he rounded the house and slogged through the deep snow until a mound behind the garage caught his attention. Tall, squarish, and ice-glazed, the metal of the unit revealed itself as Owen ripped away a heavy chunk of ice. Palming the slick surface, Owen closed his eyes and issued the command.