Free Wolf's-own: Koan by Carole Cummings Page A

his palm, and he thought , I was supposed to cut that out , and instead he'd cut out Beishin's, and it still set a light quiver to him that wasn't wholly unpleasant. Still, it made him wonder what would have happened if things had spun out the way Beishin had wanted them to. Would Caidi still be alive? Would Beishin have loved “his Ghost” if Jacin had fulfilled the destiny that had been invented for him?
    He shut it away, repeated, “I don't want to talk about it,” and he tugged at his hand.
    Malick didn't let go. In fact, his grip tightened. “Are you trying to get around me, Fen?"
    It was light, with very little rebuke inside it. Because yes, Malick understood, Malick knew , and Jacin had rather suspected as much. Still, it set Jacin's teeth on edge.
    "Trying to get around you,” he said evenly, “would imply that you've some sort of right to expect answers from me that I don't want to give.” He gave up on trying to get his hand loose. Instead, he just tipped in and shoved himself right up close, comforted by how the lines of his body met and melded with Malick's. He pushed his face into Malick's chest, breathed in pine and sage, and shut his eyes tight. “I just don't want to talk about it."
    Malick let go of Jacin's hand, finally, slid his arms around Jacin and hauled him in tight. Jacin's breath caught, a clogged up little sob that came from nowhere, because it felt so fucking good that he didn't know what to do with himself.
    "Fen,” Malick whispered, just that, just that one word, and it wasn't even really his name, but it was the one Jacin had given him once upon a time, he wouldn't use another until Jacin gave him that, too, and it burned behind the backs of Jacin's eyes, because he didn't know why he hadn't. “Oh, hell ,” Malick growled.
    Jacin had gotten so abruptly lost that he almost didn't realize Malick was pushing him onto his back, turning him so he could see Jacin's face. Jacin didn't know if he fought it because he didn't want Malick to see, or if it was just because he didn't want Malick to let go. It didn't matter; the “fight"—such as it was—was useless, because Jacin hadn't been expecting it, and Malick was too much of an opportunist not to take an advantage when it was handed to him. Jacin's hands were pressed to the mattress on either side of his head, and his hips were pinned by Malick's thigh before Jacin could muster the wits to look for leverage. Caught, trapped, which was stupid, because wasn't this where he wanted to be anyway? Except he didn't want to have Malick looking at him like that, so Jacin turned his head and shut his eyes.
    "This,” Malick said softly as he let go of one hand and traced the hollow of Jacin's left eye with a gentle fingertip. “This is where you hide yourself when it all gets too much. I only wanted to find you."
    Jacin frowned. He knew it was exactly what Malick wanted, but he couldn't help doing it anyway: he opened his eyes and peered into Malick's. He didn't ask, What the fuck are you talking about? but he suspected it came out in the glare.
    Malick smiled, because glares amused him, which irritated the shit out of Jacin, but this smile wasn't smirky or predatory or even knowing—it was soft and as gentle as Malick's fingers sliding into the hair at Jacin's temple. The fingers of his other hand laced through Jacin's where his hand was still pinned to the bed.
    "I admit that I had to learn to look,” Malick said, his voice slicking and sloping over Jacin's nerves, his fingers setting a light fizz to the skin of Jacin's scalp. “You live so deep inside yourself that sometimes I think you get lost in there. And I think some of the time, you want someone to come and find you. So, you need to tell me, Fen....” He paused to set a tender kiss to Jacin's mouth, all fleshy, yielding lips, and the tiniest swipe of the tip of his tongue. “Would you like to stay in there with your ghosts for a while?” Another pause to run his mouth lightly just