by J. R. Ward
Instead, flashes of the abduction kept playing in front of her eyes, blocking everything out: Her arriving home and getting hit on the head. The car ride. The flare. The chase through the snow. Then the prison cell and that guard who'd come down to--
The knock made her jump. And it was funny; she knew who it was. "I'm glad you're back."
Assail eased the door open, and put only his head in, as if he were afraid of overwhelming her. "You wake."
She pulled the blankets up higher on her chest. "Never slept."
"No?" Pushing the door wider, he came in with a tray of food. "I had hoped ... well, mayhap you would care for victuals?"
Sola tilted her head. "You have the most old-fashioned way of talking."
"English is not my first language." He put the tray down on a rolling table and brought it over. "It is not my second, either."
"Probably the reason I love to listen to you."
He froze as he heard her words--and yeah, maybe if she hadn't been hopped up on pain meds, she wouldn't have admitted such a thing. But what the hell.
Abruptly, he looked at her, an intense light in his eyes making them appear even more shimmery than usual. "I am glad my voice pleases you," he said roughly.
Sola focused on the food as she began to feel warm inside for the first time since ... everything. "Thanks for making the effort, but I'm not hungry."
"You need food."
"The antibiotics are making me sick." She nodded at the IV bag hanging off the pole next to her bed. "Whatever's in there is just ... awful."
"I will feed you."
"I..."
For some reason, she thought back to that night out in the snow, when he'd tracked her off his property and confronted her at her car. Talk about menacing in the dark--Jesus, he'd scared the shit out of her. But that wasn't all she'd felt.
Assail brought the one chair in the room over. Funny, it wasn't one of those rickety plastic jobbies that you normally found in clinics; it was like something out of Pottery Barn, padded, cozy, and with a nice pattern. As he sat down, he didn't fit in it, and not because he was overweight. He was too big, his powerful body dwarfing its arms and back, his clothes too black for the pale color--
There were bloodstains on his jacket, brown and dried. And on his shirt. His pants.
"Do not look upon that," he said softly. "Here. For you, I chose only the best."
Lifting up the cloche, he revealed ...
"Where the hell am I?" she demanded as she leaned in and breathed deep. "Does, like, Jean-Georges have a medical division or something?"
"Who is this Jean-Georges?"
"Some fancy chef in New York City. I heard about him on Food Network." She sat up, wincing as her thigh let out a hey-girlie. "I don't even like roast beef--but that looks amazing."
"I thought the iron would be good for you."
The slab of beef was beautifully cooked, with a crust that cracked as he cut into it with--
"Are those sterling silver?" she wondered at the fork, the knife--the spoon that was still on a fancy folded napkin.
"Eat." He brought a precisely cut piece to her mouth. "Eat for me."
Without any prompting, her mouth opened on its own, like it was going to have none of the I-can-feed-myself delays.
Closing her eyes, she groaned. Yeah, she wasn't hungry. Not at all.
"This is the single best thing I have ever eaten."
The smile that lit his face made no sense. It was too bright to be just about her having some grub--and he must have known this, because he turned his head so she only saw a flash of the expression.
For the next fifteen, twenty minutes, the only sounds in the room, apart from the whistling heating vents, was that luxe silverware hitting a porcelain plate. And yup, in spite of her oh-no-I-couldn't-possiblies, she ate that huge slice of beef, and the scalloped potatoes, and the creamed spinach. As well as the dinner roll that surely was homemade. And the peach cobbler. And she even had some of the chilled bottled water and the coffee that came in a carafe.
She probably would have eaten the napkin, the tray, all that sterling and the rolling table if given the chance.
Collapsing back against the pillow, she put her hand over her belly. "I think I'm going to explode."
"I shall just put this out in the hall. Pardon me."
From her vantage point, she measured every move he made: the way he stood up, gripped the sides of the tray in long, elegant hands, turned away, walked smoothly.
Talk about your table manners. He'd handled the silver with a genteel flare, as if he used that kind of thing in his own home. And he hadn't spilled a drop as he'd poured her coffee. Or missed any food getting into her mouth.
A perfect gentleman.
Hard to reconcile it with what she'd seen as he'd handed her the cell phone to speak with her grandmother. Then, he'd been unhinged, with blood running down his chin as if he'd taken a hunk out of someone. His hands, too, had been red with blood ...
Considering she'd killed everyone in that horrible place before she'd left? He'd obviously brought someone up with him.
Oh, God ... she was a murderer.
Assail came back in and sat down, crossing his legs at the knee, not ankle to thigh as men usually did. Steepling his hands, he brought them to his mouth and stared at her.
"You killed him, didn't you," she said softly.
"Who."
"Benloise."
His magnetic gaze drifted elsewhere. "We shall not speak of it. Any of it."
Sola took elaborate care folding the top edge of the blanket down. "I can't ... I can't pretend that last night didn't happen."
"You're going to have to."
"I killed two men." She flipped her eyes up to his and blinked fast. "I killed ... two human beings. Oh, God..."
Covering her face, she tried to keep her head together.
"Marisol..." There was a squeak as if he'd moved that Pottery Barn chair even closer. "Darling, you must put it from your mind."
"Two men..."
"Animals," he said sharply. "They were animals who deserved worse. All of them."
Lowering her hands, she was not surprised that his expression was deadly, but she wasn't scared of him. She was, however, frightened of what she'd done.
"I can't get..." She gestured at the side of her head. "I can't get the pictures out of my--"
"Block them, darling. Just forget it ever happened."
"I can't. Ever. I should turn myself in to the police--"
"They were going to kill you. And do you think if they had they would have paid you any honor of conscience? I can assure you not."
"This was my fault." She closed her eyes. "I should have known Benloise would retaliate. I just didn't think it would be to this level."
"But, my darling, you're safe--"
"How many?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"How many ... have you killed." She exhaled hard. "And please don't try to pretend you haven't. I saw your face, remember. Before you washed it off."
He looked away, and wiped his chin as if the blood were still on him. "Marisol. Put it away, somewhere deep--and leave it be."
"Is that how you handle it?"
Assail shook his head, his jaw clenching, his mouth thinning. "No. I remember my kills. Each and every one."
"So you hate what you had to do?"
His eyes stayed steady on hers. "No. I relish it."
Sola winced. Finding out he was a sociopathic murderer was really the cherry on top of the sundae, wasn't it.
He leaned in. "I've never killed without a reason, Marisol. I relish the deaths because they deserved what befell them."
"So you've protected others."
"No, I'm a businessman. Unless I am crossed, I am far more content to live and let live. However, I shall not be tread upon--nor shall I let those who are mine own be compromised."
She studied him for the longest time--and not once did he look away. "I think I believe you."
&nb
sp; "You should."
"But it's still a sin." She thought of all those prayers she'd offered up and felt a guilt like she'd never known before. "I realize I've done criminal things in the past ... but I never hurt anyone except financially. Which is bad enough, but at least I didn't burn their--"
He took her hand. "Marisol. Look at me."
It was a while before she could. "I don't know how to live with myself. I truly don't."
As Assail felt his heart pound in his chest, he realized he'd been wrong. He had assumed that getting his Marisol physically safe and taking care of Benloise would end this horrible chapter in her life:
Once she was within his own control, and he had ensured her return to her grandmother, then the slate would be clean.
Wrong. So damned wrong--and from her own emotional pain, he did not know how to rescue her.
"Marisol..." The tone in his voice was one that he had never heard before. Then again, begging was not his practice. "Marisol, please."
When her lids finally lifted, he found himself taking a deep breath. With them down, her stillness reminded him too much of the other outcome that could have been wrought.
What to say to her, though? "Verily, I can't pretend to understand this concept of sin that you uphold, but then your religion is different than mine--and I respect that." God, he hated that bruise on the side of her face for so many reasons. "But, Marisol, the actions you took were in the name of survival. Your survival. What you did back there is the reason you have breath within your lungs the now. Life is about doing what is necessary, and you did."
She turned away as if the pain was too great. And then she whispered, "I just wish I could have ... hell, maybe you're right. I have to go back way too far with an eraser to get me out of where I was two nights ago. This whole thing is the culmination of so much."
"You know, if you so choose, you could change your course. You could stop having anything to do with the likes of Benloise."
A ghostly smile touched her lips as she stared at the door. "Yes. I agree."
He took another deep breath. "There is another way for you."
Even though she just nodded, he had the sense she had made peace with her retirement, as it were. And for some reason, that made him want to tear up--not that he would have admitted it to anybody, including her good self.
As she grew quiet, he stared at her, memorizing everything from her wavy, dark hair that had been thoroughly shampooed when she'd showered in her bathroom here, to her pale cheeks, to her perfectly formed lips.
Thinking of everything she had been through, he heard her say that she hadn't been raped--but only because she'd killed the bastard first.
The one in the cell, he thought. The one whose hand she'd used to get herself out of that facility.
His whole body ached for her, it truly did--
"I can feel you staring at me," she said softly.
Assail sat back and rubbed his thighs. "Forgive me." Glancing across the room, he hated the idea of using the door even though he probably should let her rest. "Are you in physical pain?"
Marisol turned her head back to him, her mahogany eyes searching his. "Where are we?"
"How about you answer my question first?"
"It's nothing I can't handle."
"Shall I get the nurse?"
He was in the process of rising to his feet when she put her hand out and stopped him. "No, please. I don't like the way that stuff makes me feel. Right now, I need to be one hundred percent connected to this reality. Otherwise, I think I'm back ... there."
Assail eased down once more and really, truly wanted to go up north and kill Benloise outright. He quelled the impulse by reminding himself of the suffering the man was enjoying--assuming his heart was still beating.
"So where are we?"
How to answer that?
Well, as much as reality distortion was something she wished to avoid, it was not going to be with the fact that he was not human, but in fact, a member of a species she associated with Dracula. Thank you ever so much, Stoker.
"We are among friends." Mayhap that went a little far. But Rehv had provided what had been asked when it was needed--likely in response to the person Assail had "processed" if not directly on behalf of the King, then certainly and undeniably to his benefit.
"You've got some pretty fancy friends. Do you work for the government?"
He laughed. "Dear Lord, no."
"That's a relief. I was wondering if you were going to arrest me or try to get me to turn informant."
"I can assure you, the ins and outs of the human law system are of no concern to me whatsoever."
"Human ...?"
Cursing under his breath, he waved away the word. "You know what I mean."
As she smiled, her lids fluttered. "I'm sorry, I think I'm drifting off. All that food."
"Let yourself go. And know that when you wake, I shall take you home."
She jerked upright. "My grandmother is still in that house--"
"No, she is at my estate. I would never have left her where she was, exposed and vulnerable--"
Without any warning, Marisol put her arms around him, throwing them over his shoulders and holding on so hard, he felt every shudder of her body.
"Thank you," she choked out against his neck. "Without her, I have nothing."
Assail was so very careful as he returned the embrace, resting his hands lightly upon her back. Breathing in her scent, his heart ached anew that any male had touched her other than with reverence.
They stayed that way a long time. And when she finally eased back and looked up at him, he couldn't stop himself from brushing her face with his fingers.
"I am without words," he said in a cracked voice.
"About what?"
All he could do was shake his head and break the contact entirely by standing up. It was either that or he was going to get into that bed with her.
"Rest well," he said roughly. "At nightfall, I shall escort you safely unto your relation."
And then she and her grandmother could live with him. And that way he would know she would always be safe.
He would never worry over her again.
Assail hurried out before her eyes shut. He simply couldn't bear that image of her closed lids.
Stepping free of the room, he--
Stopped dead.
Across the corridor, his twin cousins were leaning against the wall, and they didn't have to look up or around at him. They were staring right into his eyes as he emerged--sure as if they had been waiting for him to come back out every second he'd been in there.
They didn't speak, but they didn't have to.
Assail rubbed his face. In what world did he think he could keep two human women in his house? And fuck forever--he wasn't going to be able to do that for a night. Because what would he say when it became apparent he couldn't go out during the day? Or have sunlight in his home? Or ...
Overcome with emotion, he dug into the front pocket of his black slacks, took out his vial of coke and quickly dispensed of what was left.
Just so he could feel even slightly normal.
Then he picked the tray up off the floor. "Don't look at me like that," he muttered as he stalked away.
TWENTY-FIVE
"Wrath!"
As she called out her husband's name, Beth jerked upright off the pillows, and for a moment, she had no idea where she was. The stone walls and the rich velvet bedding were not--
Darius's house. The chamber that was not her father's, but the one Wrath had used when he'd needed someplace to crash. The one she'd moved over to when she couldn't sleep.
She must have finally passed out on top of the duvet--
Distantly, a phone started ringing.
Shoving her hair out of her face, she found a blanket over her legs that she didn't remember putting there ... her suitcase just inside the door ... and a silver tray set on the bedside table.
Fritz. The butler must have come sometime during the day
.
Rubbing her sternum, she looked at the empty pillow next to her, the undisturbed sheets, the lack of Wrath--and felt worse than she had the night before.
To think she'd assumed they'd hit bottom. Or that space would help--
"Crap, Wrath?" she called out as she jumped off the bed.
Running to the door, she ripped it open, shot across the shallow hall, and careened into her father's chamber, diving for the phone on one of the side tables.
"Hello! Hello? Hello ...?"
"Hi."
At the sound of that deep voice, she collapsed on the bed, squeezing the phone in her fist, pushing it into her ear as if she could bring her man to her.
"Hi." Closing her eyes, she didn't bother fighting the tears. She let them fall. "Hi."
His voice was as rough as hers was. "Hi."
There was a long silence, and that was okay: Even though he was at home and she was here, it was as if they were holding each other.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm really sorry."
She let out a sob. "Thank you..."
"I'm sorry." He laughed a little. "I'm not real articulate, am I?"
"It's okay. I'm not feeling very with it, either ... I was just dreaming of you, I think."
"A nightmare?"
"No. Missing you."
"I don't deserve it. I was afraid to call your cell in case you didn't answer it. I thought maybe if someone was with you, they might pick up and ... yeah, I'm sorry."
Beth exhaled and leaned back against the pillows. Crossing her legs at the ankles, she looked around at the pictures of her. "I'm in his bedroom."
"You are?"
"There isn't a phone in the one you used."
"God, it's been a long time since I've been to that house."
"I know, right? It brings up a lot."
"I'll bet."
"How's George?"
"Missing you." There was a muffled thump--the sound of him patting the dog's flank. "He's right here with me."
The good news was that the neutral subjects were the perfect way to dip their toes in the relating pool. But the larger discussion still loomed.
"So John's head's okay," she said, picking at the bottom of her shirt. "But I guess you've already heard everything went all right at the medical center."
"Oh, yeah, no. Actually, I've been ... kind of out of it."
"I called."
"You did?"
"Yeah. Tohr said you were sleeping. Did you finally get some rest?"
"Ah ... yeah."
As he fell quiet, the second silence was the preparation kind, the countdown to the real stuff. And yet she wasn't sure how to bring it all up, what to say, how to--