Love Is The Bond: A Rowan Gant Investigation Read Online Free

pretty sure this one could be easily addressed with a
fistful of aspirin. At least I hoped it could.
    “I wish I could believe that, honey,” I
finally muttered. “But, I still hear them.”
    “But…”
    I didn’t let her finish. “Felicity…
Sweetheart… It’s been a nice reprieve, but I think we both know
this is probably just the calm before the storm.”
    “Aye, maybe so,” she muttered. “But I’m still
going to do this.”
    “Why?” I pressed.
    “Because I want to, then.”
    “Okay, but why? Why do you want to?”
    “Because I find it interesting,” she stated
with an unconvincing shrug, once again trying to sidestep the
issue. She turned her back to me and picked up a wide-toothed comb
from her dressing table. Gathering a handful of her hair, she began
intently working at detangling a section.
    I watched her for a moment, silently mulling
over my impending choice of words. I had been exactly where she was
now, and I understood far better how she felt than anyone else
possibly could. What I was about to say to her was something she
had said to me more than once, and I didn’t want to come off as if
I were feeding her own words back to her—even though that was
exactly what I was about to do. After a measured beat I responded.
“Because you find it interesting, or because you have something to
prove?”
    “What would I have to prove, then?” she
asked, shifting her gaze slightly to look at my reflection in the
mirror.
    I took in a breath and with my words laid
open the wound. “Maybe you feel guilty because you couldn’t save
Kimberly Forest.”
    She wheeled back around to face me and thrust
the comb in my direction. “Don’t…” The word caught in her throat,
and I thought I could hear her voice crack slightly. “Don’t… Just
don’t go there.”
    I nodded. “I thought so.”
    “Damn your eyes, Rowan Linden Gant!” she
admonished.
    “Yeah, damn my eyes.”
    I stepped forward and pulled her close,
wrapping her in a tight hug. She melted into me as she rested her
cheek against my shoulder. I knew she was harboring a desire to
cry, but at the same time I was all too aware that she wouldn’t. We
stood there for quite awhile, neither of us saying a thing but
still communicating with clarity unmatched by simple words.
    She finally pulled away then turned back to
the mirror without comment and began working at her hair again. Her
darkened mood was obvious from the vicious strokes she was making
with the comb.
    “Aye, I’m still going to do this, you know,”
she eventually announced.
    “Yeah,” I answered softly, placing my hand on
her shoulder and giving it a light squeeze. “Yeah, I know you
are.”
     
    * * * * *
     
    There are certain inalienable truths.
    We’re born. We grow old. We die. And,
somewhere within that span we live our lives. If we’re lucky, we
find someone to live that life with. If we’re very lucky, we find
that particular someone who makes us whole.
    That was one of my personal truths.
    In Felicity, I had found just exactly that
person who made me whole. I suppose that would explain why I was so
adamant about protecting her from those horrors I had already
experienced—and would surely experience many more times before
reaching that final truth.
    At this particular moment, however, the
biggest conflict in my mind was the fact that she was, for the most
part, correct.
    I was the one
who talked to the dead.
    It was me who had this preternatural connection with the
Otherworld that brought unimaginable agonies to my life, both
mental and physical. Felicity had only been dragged into the fray
because she was desperately trying to protect me, even if it meant
sacrificing herself. After repeatedly watching me go through
ethereal visions so intense that bloody stigmata mimicking a
victim’s wounds had appeared on my own body, she had seen more than
enough. From her side of the fence, it had been a wholly different
kind of torture, and when the tables were turned