Dreamveil

Rowan knew how lucky she was. I could be in a hospital right now, scaring the shit out of some doctors.

Her knees throbbed a little, but from the slight pulling and stiffness she felt when she bent them she knew they were already heavily scabbed over. Tomorrow the scabs would fall off and the lacerations would be gone. Another bonus from the mad scientists who had fucked with her genes when she was a kid; she never got sick and she healed almost as fast as she got hurt.

She rolled over, hugging her pillow as she lazily replayed bits and pieces of her conversation last night with Dansant.

You’re really going to let me stay here? She’d come out of the large bedroom into the spacious front room, which combined a large sitting room with a breakfast/dining area that opened out onto a private terrace. The furnishings were basic—a futon, side table and lamp in the bedroom, and a loveseat, armchair and kitchen set in the front, but everything was clean and in good condition. There was also a closet stocked with fresh, neatly folded linens and towels. You could get three, four thousand a month for this place, easy.

Not everyone wishes to live above a restaurant, Rowan. You must also share the bath with the other tenant.

She’d already taken a peek at the big full bath situated between the two apartments. Someone had recently updated the plumbing with European-style fixtures, and paved every inch of it but the ceiling in quarried stone tiles the color of old honey spilled on polished slate. Rowan could easily imagine spending several hours soaking in the big beautiful claw-footed tub. The lock on the door works, right?

Oui.

After that Dansant had handed her the keys, smiled, and left her to it. Total access, complete trust.

The man was a saint. The man was insane.

Hunger drove Rowan out of bed, and after rummaging through the stuff she’d taken from her bike panniers, she found an unopened bag of her favorite trail mix. An investigation of the tiny kitchenette’s cabinets and drawers produced a clean mug and a spoon. She ran the hot water tap until it was scalding—as she’d figured, the restaurant’s water heater was set to an inferno temperature—and using some gratis packets she’d swiped from the last motel she’d stayed at, mixed up a cup of coffee.

Now all I need is a big half- naked guy to feed me grapes and fan me, and I’ll know I’m in heaven.

Carrying her improvised breakfast out onto the terrace felt completely natural, as did sitting in the wicker patio chair and watching the tail end of city lunch hour gridlock. Her neighbor’s apartment was on the opposite side of the building, so if he had a terrace it overlooked the alley. She even had the better view.

That it was all a little too good to be true didn’t bother her. Rowan felt safe, and she hadn’t felt that way since leaving Savannah. Her normal alarms and alerts simply weren’t going off. Dansant was a decent guy who had shown her nothing but kindness and compassion. Whatever strings came along with this minor miracle, it seemed for now she was going to enjoy it.

The nuts, raisins, and chocolate in her trail mix quieted the snarling beast that lived in her belly, but she’d need to shop before she started work tonight to stock up on some supplies. Dansant had told her he made a traditional family meal every night for the staff, and she was welcome to use whatever she wanted from the pantry, but she was already taking advantage of him. She had enough cash to cover the basics, and from the wages they’d agreed on she’d have another thirty or forty dollars to spend on food every week. As long as she didn’t splurge, that should cover her needs.

Dansant had promised her that Meriden, the guy who lived in the other apartment, wouldn’t charge much to work on her bike, but Rowan had a feeling that was going to be a much bigger expense. Even if Meriden could get them discounted, new tires alone were going to run at least three hundred bucks.

She calculated her expenses, along with repaying Dansant for what he’d given Bernard and what she roughly estimated the bike repairs would be. If she had no other unexpected expenses, she should be able to earn enough for everything by the end of January at the latest.

Looks like I’m spending Christmas in New York. She’d dreaded the thought of getting through the holidays alone and friendless in Boston. Here maybe she’d be allowed to share a little of the festivities with Dansant and his crew.

Since the sisters who had taken her in and looked after her had died, she hadn’t spent Christmas with anyone. Matt had never celebrated the holidays, and she hadn’t tried to change that because he had already been coping with an entire world of changes that had come about in the two thousand years since he’d served as a soldier in the Roman army. Rowan had explained Christmas to him once, and he’d been appalled.

“I know of this man,” he said. “Iesus Nazarenus. He caused much unrest in Judea. Many were killed in the riots. But his people did not call him Jesus or Christ. He was known among his own kind as Y’hoshua.”

Even now, Rowan giggled over the thought of the Son of God being called the ancient equivalent of Joshua. If not for the Romans and how they translated Hebrew into Latin, they might be celebrating Joshmas. Still grinning, she swallowed the rest of her sugary coffee before raiding her pack again for fresh clothes and her bathroom stuff.

As Rowan took a towel from the closet she wondered when Meriden used the shared bath. Dansant had told her only that her neighbor worked days; she hoped he preferred to shower in the morning or evening. Working in a busy kitchen all night was a messy business, and she knew from experience that she’d need to bathe before she went to bed. But if it caused problems, she could give herself a quick bath inside her apartment. As long as she had running water and a sink, she never had to go to bed sweaty or smelly.

Rowan bundled her things together and let herself out of the apartment, locking the door behind her. She heard footsteps behind her and smiled as she turned.

“I thought you said you didn’t—” She stopped as soon as she saw the size of the man coming out of the opposite apartment. Definitely too tall and broad to be her new boss. “Oh, sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

He closed the door and pocketed a bunch of keys before facing her.

“You must be Meriden.” She held out her free hand. “I’m Rowan, your new neighbor.” When he ignored the gesture, she dropped her arm. He might think he was insulting her, but she was suddenly, irrationally glad she didn’t have to touch him. And for the life of her she couldn’t remember if Dansant had told her his first name. “You are Mr. Meriden, right?”

“Just Meriden.” The dark landing kept his face in shadow, but from the pitch of his rumbling baritone he didn’t sound like he was smiling. “Didn’t waste any time moving in, did you?”

Suspicious, but this was New York, and she would be living ten feet from his door. “I don’t have much stuff.” Although she understood the need for his being cautious, she couldn’t help adding on in her head, Are you always this much of a jerk?

He reached past her head and switched on a light.

In the dark Meriden resembled a distant linebacker, big but anonymous. Illuminated by the overhead light, he looked like a pissed-off gladiator who ate linebackers for an afternoon snack, and used girls like Rowan as a toothpick.

I have every right to be here, she reminded herself, straightening her shoulders. This is Dansant’s place. Not his.

Meriden wasn’t at all handsome like her new boss, thank God. Everything about him reminded her of forged metals, from the quarter inch of white-blond hair covering his scalp to the dark gold stubble darkening his jaw and chin. His summer tan hadn’t completely faded from his fair skin, but she suspected he’d look just as scary with a winter-pale hide. Life or luck had hammered and beaten his features into a collection of hard edges and dented planes, lending him a rough-hewn look more suited to less-civilized times. He would have made an excellent gladiator, too; beneath his slanted brows dark eyes watched her with unnerving stillness.

If he were about to die, Rowan thought, he wouldn’t salute anyone. He’d already be chopping someone to pieces.

The stretched white A-line undershirt tried to cover some of Meriden’s chest, but the standard male dimensions it had been manufactured to fit simply didn’t apply to Meriden’s Olympian build. He hadn’t pumped up; he’d grown out, somehow creating layer upon layer of heroic, sculpted muscle that belonged in some arena where barbarians were butchered and tigers were wrestled.

Living with Matthias, Rowan had grown accustomed to being around a man whose body had been developed to optimum levels. Matt had merely maintained what a lifetime of battle experience had shaped, but he had become her standard, the mental yardstick with which she measured all other men and found them lacking.

Her next-door neighbor wasn’t Matthias. He was bigger, wider, harder, and—if all that brute muscle wasn’t false advertising—as strong as if not stronger than her old friend.

“Seen enough?” he asked. “Or should I drop my pants?”

Rowan should have snapped back with something equally insulting, but she had been staring at him like a love-struck kid. She glanced down at Meriden’s faded jeans, which sported an impressive amount of smears, spots, and stains. The seam edges had frayed into a short white fringe, and a split ran across the lower part of his left thigh.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly as she glanced up into his dark-hearted eyes. “I’m not sure my heart can take any more.”

He didn’t laugh. Such a specimen of rugged masculinity in its most intense form never came equipped with a sense of humor, of course. That would mean there was a God and He liked her.

“Look, I took a spill last night in the alley,” she said quickly. “My bike needs new front and rear tires and some repair work. Dansant told me that you’re a mechanic. Maybe you could look at the damage and give me an estimate?”

The way he was glaring down at her made her think he was going to refuse, but then he surprised her again. “I’ve got another job to do. It’ll have to wait ’til next week.” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">