Excerpt of Maelstrom by Elisa Paige

Approaching the fence line, I feel his awareness of me—the strength of his intellect and his will are palpable, and not at all unpleasant. More like a gentle caress from a lover’s hand. I shy away from such thoughts. I’m supposed to be mad as hell. I need to be mad as hell.

He continues to play, damn him. Out of sheer cussedness, I leave the wards in place and stop next to the fence that marks the edge of my ranch. Nick lets the last note fade into the night. I eye the silver instrument with intense hatred and hold a hand out, demanding he turn it over. But he just smiles and shakes his head, putting the pipe in an inside jacket pocket.

His gaze never leaves mine and I think of what he sees when he looks at me—long, white-blonde hair and pale skin; almond-shaped, tri-colored eyes; pointy ears. I’m aware that humans find us beautiful, but I take no pleasure from it.

If all Fae are beautiful, then none of us are.

Nick, however, is a sight to behold. Not just because of his square jawline, expressive eyebrows, sparkling blue eyes, and lips that my gaze is indecently drawn to. And not just because his slim, athletic build and broad shoulders look awesome in the faded jeans, black sweater, and leather jacket he’s wearing.

It’s because he’s uniquely himself.

Since Nick was once human, he bears the tiny imperfections that equate to real beauty. Like the way his sky-blue eyes crinkle up when he laughs and the dimples that make his grin so endearing. He is singularly Nick—not a slight variation on everybody else, like freaking Stepford Elves.

Of course, now that I appear to be the only Light Fae left in the mortal world, I guess I’m the very definition of unique. In the last fifty-something years, not a trace has been found of the other Warders.

“Hello, Amalie.” Nick’s voice is gentle. “You came.”

I want to be sarcastic. I want to be scathing. But it’s impossible to hurt him, so I merely nod.

“Thank you,” he says. “I know this is difficult. I’m sorry for that.”

I nod again, swallowing hard past the sudden lump in my throat.

His eyes darken with pain and he looks away. The full moon bathes the handsome planes of his face in a soft glow, lighting the chestnut strands of his thick, wavy hair. He will remain the same for eternity—beautiful and young. Only the style of his clothes ever changes.

His face in profile, Nick murmurs, “I stayed away as long as I could, but...” He takes a deep breath and looks at me, a soft smile lifting the corner of his lips. “I needed to see you again. To make sure you’re okay. And to see if...” His voice trails off and it’s my turn to look away. The hope and fear in his eyes shred my heart far more than any song ever could.

Forcing the words past the logjam in my throat, I whisper, “To see if I’ve remembered anything?”

He nods, his gaze intent.

Blinking away the threat of tears, I make my voice light in a pathetic attempt to ease the agony of this conversation. “Nothing useful.”

Shrugging as if it’s of no consequence, Nick changes the subject and his easygoing tone belies the shadows in his eyes. “Will you allow me in?”

I give him a small smile. “It’s only your manners that keep you out.”

He chuckles and my heart thaws a little at the sound. “I’ve seen your wards in action and have no desire to wind up in Oklahoma wearing nothing but ashes.”

He gets the laugh he’d intended and my heart thaws further. Treacherous organ.

“Come on over then.” I hope to sound churlish but don’t manage it. Holding out my hand, I help him bridge the ward so I won’t have to rebuild it around him. Just as I remember, his hand is warm and strong in mine.

“Thank you.” He gracefully slips over the fence to stand beside me. Dipping his head, Nick brushes a kiss on my cheek and my eyes close of their own volition, my pulse skips, my breath catches. Damn, damn, damn.

I force my eyes open. He’s studying me and his expression is kind.

Double-damn. His kindness has always undone me.

“You look wonderful,” he says, his gaze deepening.

I can’t think what to say, what to do, and cast around for a second before finally looking down at myself. The jeans and turtleneck sweater I’m wearing are standard for me in the fall. Only the color of the sweater changes from day to day until spring. I can’t remember when I ran a brush through my waist-length hair. This morning?

Certainly, my appearance doesn’t warrant Nick’s expression. But the night is suddenly warmer, my cheeks feel flushed, and my pulse is skidding along at his admiration.

“Thanks, so do you,” I mumble, which is like saying an exquisite Michelangelo work of art is nice.

“Thank you.”

“So...” Trying to resist reaching up to touch the cheek that still tingles from his kiss, I search for something to say. “Are you hungry?”

Nick shifts his weight. “A bit.”

Of course. He’s been busy tormenting me for four weeks. Too busy to see to his own needs.

“There are plenty of deer in the woods. I’ll be at the house if you want to come up after.”

He shakes his head.

“What?” I ask.

“Your comfort with my hunting still mystifies me, after all this time.”

“I was a Warder, not a tree-hugger.” I shrug. “Besides, your needs are no different than any other predator’s.”

Nick smiles and his control slips enough that I can see how he’s hurting.

“Go,” I say. “Good hunting.”

And he’s gone.

Even as I retrace my steps back to the house, I feel his movement across the land and a part of me tracks his passage and the quick completion of his hunt. Nick is merciful and never allows the creatures who give him sustenance to suffer. Just now, his strike is so fast that the buck never even knows what happened, never sees the streak of denim and leather moving through the shadow of the overhanging trees.I walk up the stone steps and across the broad front porch into my house, leaving the door open behind me. Prowling around the living room, I needlessly straighten the sparse decorations and put away the book Nick’s playing had kept me from reading.

For something to do, I light a fire in the huge fireplace that takes up most of one wall and prod the dry mesquite with a poker. The flames catch and the unique, sweet scent of the burning wood is pleasant. It’s autumn in Texas and the nights are cool, so having a fire won’t look odd to Nick. Won’t look like I’m anxious and jittery and struggling to find my equilibrium.

In all the time I’ve known Nick, I have yet to hear his footsteps.

But I have my own ways of keeping track and so I sense him coming across my front drive, climbing the stairs, and walking up behind me. And it feels like he’s coming home.