Free Tempered (A Daughters of the People Novel) (Daughters of the People Series) by Lucy Varna Page B

range to draw his attention,
he had peered around, as if sensing her observation, and nearly caught her
spying on him.
    She had melted
into the crowd and retraced her steps to his apartment. It had been a simple
matter to break into the flat and explore the well-appointed space, her booted
heels echoing in the spacious rooms as they struck the hardwood floors. She had
been drawn to the open shelves of framed photographs, made of friends and
family, she presumed, and some of Aaron in various stages of life from
childhood to the near present. Such a handsome child, with chubby cheeks and
wildly curling mink-brown locks, who had grown into a handsome man with a kind
heart and skillful hands.
    Her heart had
twinged painfully at the reminder of his betrayal, snapping her out of her
curiosity. She had made to leave when her eye caught on a framed drawing, hung
among a series of others, stealing her breath. The drawing he had made of her.
In her haste to remove him entirely from her life, she had thrown it away. He
had retrieved it and given it a place of honor on his wall. Her hands had
itched to reclaim it in much the same way as she had reclaimed the Chronicler’s
volumes. Instead, she had eased out of his flat and secured the door behind
herself, letting him go as she did.
    Eventually, his
heart would fall to another woman and he would forget about Hawthorne.
    She rubbed at
the ache in her chest, unable to contain the action or the hurt. The curse that
kept her immortal also strengthened her memory and guarded against its failure.
She would never forget Aaron Kesselman, not until death struck her low and the
Lady Goddess reclaimed her soul.
     
    * * *
     
    Aaron yawned and
rubbed tired fingers over bleary eyes. Since coming home from DragonCon, he’d
put in horrifically long hours, pushing himself to finish the illustrations for
his third solo graphic novel. He slept when he could, often during the day,
ignored everybody’s calls except Jason’s, the bastard, and ate so infrequently
his clothes sagged off of his ever leaner frame.
    His dreams were
haunted by stricken gray eyes and a tear sliding down a pale cheek.
    In every spare
moment, he tried his damnedest to track Hawthorne down, pushing Jason to find
her address (“I can’t, man, those are fucking confidential.”) and hitting a
dead-end on address searches on the ‘net. Knowing she owned the Hyatt Regency
Atlanta hadn’t done him any good. Turned out it was held by a corporation with
an Atlanta address, but that was as far as he’d gotten. Researching finances or
anything related was beyond him. That’s why he had an accountant, so he
wouldn’t have to deal with money.
    Every day, he
called Jason and left a message on his agent’s voice mail. Any word from the
editor? Am I still up for the illustrator job with Hawthorne? Every day, he
hung up, discouraged. Jason had stopped answering his calls, and hadn’t
bothered to return them either.
    Work carried
Aaron through. It was the only time he could push her from his mind, and even
then, it didn’t always work. A week and a half before, he’d been sitting at a
café working when his neck had tingled, as if he were being watched. He’d
glanced up and thought he’d seen Hawthorne standing across the street, her gaze
fixed on him. A blink of his eyes and she was gone. He’d laughed it away even
as longing and the thrill of her presence had clashed within him. Her face
pinned itself to the front of his mind, leaving room for nothing else,
including work.
    A few hours
later, he’d walked into his flat and been hit by her smell, the gentle perfume
of roses and woman that had surrounded him when they’d made love. He’d rushed
through the flat looking for her and eventually dropped onto his bed, heartsore
on finding the apartment empty.
    He’d crashed
where he’d dropped and slept for twelve hours straight, oddly comforted by her
scent.
    It was the only
time his mind had gone that far into delusion, and it had