Punishment

by ML Guida

  Blade whirled around. Raphael stood behind the couch with his arms folded across his chest. “You didn’t show up for work today.” His voice was low and menacing. He pointed at the Ouija board. “Now, you’re using that blasted thing to contact a demon. Not any demon, but Balthazar.”

  Blade opened his mouth to protest, but what could he say? He was caught red-handed.

  Raphael lifted his hands in the air. “It seems to me starving to death wasn’t enough of a warning for you. Seems you need to learn another lesson.”

  “Raphael, wait.”

  His plea fell on deaf angelic ears. Raphael opened his palm, a red ball of fire formed. He blew on it. Blade vaulted off the floor, but he wasn’t fast enough. The ball divided into two, swirled around in the air, and dived on to his hands. Screaming, he threw his head back, shaking his hands.

  The flames died. His eyes watered from the stench of his own burnt flesh. Flesh charcoaled with white smoke slowly dissipating. His nails blackened; his fingers curled into a brittle ball. Crackled skin split and peeled.

  Blade fell onto his knees and stretched out his arms toward Raphael. “Damn it, heal me. Please.”

  His voice was a harsh whisper.

  “No, I have a better idea.” Raphael smiled. “I’ll take you to the hospital.”

  “What? You jerk…”

  The room spun around. A strong wind lifted Blade into the air. Pain surged through him, and he couldn’t breathe. Waves and waves of anguish pulsed through his hands. Bile rose up his throat. Tears formed in his eyes. He’d never cried before. Never. How did humans survive?

  Blade landed with a thud in front of two double glass doors surrounded by brown and white stones. White painted letters said Saint Anthony Summit Medical Emergency Room. He staggered to his feet and held his shaking hands in front of him. Gritting his teeth, he willed himself not to pass out.

  He took a wobbling step and the doors opened. He wanted to run in and ask for help, but if he opened his mouth, he’d release a curdling scream. A gray-haired woman, staring at a computer screen, stood behind the counter. He stumbled toward her, keeping his jaw clamped.

  “Oh, my Lord!” She picked up a phone. “Code one, code one.”

  Ignoring the pain, Blade focused on the woman. She’d get him help.

  Someone ran over to him. Strong arms grabbed his bicep and wrapped around his waist. “Buddy, what the hell happened?"

  Stupid question. Blade faltered and swayed toward the deep voice. He put his weight on someone.

  It must have been a man straining and grunting to hold him up because he was a big man and would crush a woman.

  “I need a wheel chair!”

  The man’s loud, desperate voice hurt Blade's ear. Wheel chair? Yeah, I need one.

  Blade’s vision blurred. He struggled to rouse himself, stay awake. But the pain, blinding pain. His legs buckled. Strong hands gripped each bicep. He didn’t know who was holding him up. Grunts and groans sputtered around him. He shook his head. Maybe there was more than one person steadying him. Voices sounded different. An accent? Spanish?

  He closed his eyes.

  “Help me, damn it,” the strained voice said. “This guy is huge.”

  Blade slowly slipped to the floor. Footsteps ran around him. Someone knelt next to him, and soft fingers clasped his chin. “He’s going into shock.”

  He inhaled a soft flowery scent that reminded him of the heavenly gardens he used to stroll along to forget about his missions. The pain lessened, but why? He wasn’t in heaven, but he wanted to drown, bathe in the fragrance. What was it? “Mimosa,” he mumbled. “Sweet mimosa.”

  Someone cradled his head, but he wasn’t sure who. He shook his head and opened his eyes. Dressed in white, a woman with flaming red hair peered down at him. She had green, no emerald eyes—cat eyes. She pushed together her lush lips. Through the anguish, he had an urge to kiss her to forget his damn hands. Was he in heaven? “You’re an angel.”

  She pushed away his hair. “I promise I can help you. Remain calm.”

  Chapter Two

  Abigail Malcolm peered anxiously down at the injured man and cradled his head in her lap. His spicy breath sent chills down her back and his deep, brown eyes held secrets. His long, thick, black braid brushed her arm. Was that a dimple in the middle of his chin? He was beautiful.

  She pressed his strands of loose hair off his sweating forehead. She wanted to trace her finger over his high cheek bones and chiseled chin but restrained herself. She was a nurse, not an ogling teenager.

  Keep your cool. Do your job.

  But the man was a sinful temptation with his angelic looks.

  The stench of his burned and blistered skin permeated the air. His reddish brown skin was pale. He was definitely going into shock.

  Two orderlies rushed a gurney toward her. Jim Rich pushed the gurney alongside the unconscious man. He shook his head. “Man, that is one tall dude.”

  Abigail and Jim usually worked the same swing shift together. She scooted out from underneath the man’s shoulders and Jim slid his hands underneath.

  “Okay, Abby, we got him,” Jim said.

  The other orderly clutched the man’s ankles. “On three,” Jim said. “One, two, three.” Jim’s face contorted and turned red as he lifted the man’s shoulders. He groaned, “Son of a bitch.”

  Jim worked out and stood at least six foot tall, but this man made him look like a dwarf.

  The other orderly groaned and gritted his teeth. “Damn, it’s like lifting the Incredible Hulk.”

  The patient’s jacket opened, his black T-shirt outlined a wide chest and flat abdomen as they managed to lift the man to the gurney inches away. The man’s jean clad calves hung over the lower end of the gurney.

  Abigail hurried next to them as they pushed the gurney to the emergency room.

  The man groaned, his eyes fluttering open. He winced.

  “I know it hurts,” Abigail said.

  Sweat trickled down the side of his face, and his breath came out in short gasps. “Raphael, damn you.”

  “Raphael? Who’s that?” Abigail urged. “Is he a relative? Someone we should call?”

  “He…he…did this to me,” he muttered. “The bastard.”

  “What?” Abigail stared at his burnt hands. Nausea swirled in her stomach. Someone did this to him? Someone forced him to put his hands into a ranging inferno. What kind of person does this to another person?

  “Jezeez.” Jim shook his head.

  She frowned. “We have to alert the police.”

  ***

  Abigail stared at the sleeping man. Despite the antiseptic smells, she detected his scent—leather. Even without his jacket, she could smell it. While removing his T-shirt earlier, she had run her hand over his skin that was as smooth as fine leather. His wallet said his name was Blade Angel. Interesting name. Parents never failed to surprise her with the names they chose for their children.

  How could a man have such ridiculously long eyelashes? With each deep breath, his chest rose up and down. Her mouth watered with devious thoughts of kissing his tempting lips, skimming her hands over his sculpted muscles, or running her fingers through his thick hair. She imagined bringing him pleasure. But then she pushed her wayward thoughts away.

  She shook her head and stared at Blade again. His beauty blocked out the ugliness from that horrible night so many nights ago. He looked young, innocent, but his motorcycle license said he was thirty. Figures this type of guy rode a motorcycle, probably a Harley. Maybe he rode in motorcycle gang, and a rival gang member had punished him?

  She didn’t know of any motorcycle gangs in Frisco, although the Hell’s Angels had visited Frisco several years ago. They had camped out at Officer’s Gulch but kept to themselves and never hurt anybody.

  Blade’s hands were neatly bandaged, and he’d been given morphine. She sighed. His hands were badly scarred and would require endless surgeries for even the minimalist movement. Human cruelty never failed to amaze h
er. The police had left since the man had been given a sedative and now rested peacefully. There would be time for questions later.

  She wanted to heal him, use her power, but she couldn’t unless he gave her his consent. She was willing to risk it even though her supervisor had warned her not to promise healing.

  “Where am I?”

  Abigail blinked. She hadn’t notice those half hooded dark brown eyes watching her, studying her. Her cheeks heated. Had he noticed that she’d been staring at him? Lusting over him? “You’re at St. Anthony Medical Center.”

  He glanced down. “My hands? They’re numb. My mind’s fuzzy.”

  She gave him a small smile. “Morphine. You had third degree burns. The doctor will review your prognosis.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “My prognosis. Shit, that doesn’t sound good.”

  She was surprised how lucid he was. Most patients drugged on morphine were disoriented, sometimes hallucinating, barely able to focus, but Blade appeared to have none of these symptoms. His eyes were glossy and alert.

  “I should warn you, the police want to talk with you.”

  He frowned. “Why?”

  “Because when asked what happened, you said Raphael did this to you. Do you remember?”

  “I was out of it.” Suspicion flashed in glassy eyes. “You didn’t take me seriously, did you?”

  She tilted her chin. “Why, yes. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Because I was in incredible pain.”

  His scowl frightened her. She took a step back. “You don’t want to talk to the police?”

  “Got that, Ginger.” He cast his gaze over her, undressing her with his eyes.

  She bristled. “Why are you calling me Ginger?”

  “Because you look like Ginger Grant on Gilligan’s Island.”

  She hated remarks about her red hair, even more so when men stared at her like she was some kind of hooker. She tugged at her turtle neck, then straightened her shirt underneath her smock. Why did she bother wearing modest clothes if men treated her as if she were nothing more than a pair of boobs? She snorted and met his gaze. “What happened to your hands?”

  He remained silent for a moment. “I tripped on my rug and fell into my fireplace.”

  A lie. No doubt. He wasn’t fooling her. “How did you get here?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t remember.”

  Why was he lying? “Did someone drive you? Raphael?”

  His face darkened. “I said I don’t remember.”

  In her best Nurse Ratchet tone, she said, “Well, I’m afraid you don’t have a choice but to talk to the police.”

  “Thanks to you, Ginger.”

  She grabbed his clipboard hanging on his bed to avoid looking at his mesmerizing eyes. “Quit calling me that.”

  He flicked his gaze over her. “I don’t see your badge. Tell me your name. Don’t nurses usually tell patients their names or wear badges?”

  “What?” She glanced down at her chest and put her hand over her right breast. “Damn, it fell off again."

  He chuckled.

  She glared. “If you must know, my name’s Abigail. Abigail Malcolm.”

  He closed his eyes. “Abby, huh?”

  “I prefer Abigail.”

  “Okay, Red.” He smiled. His voice slurred.

  He sighed, and his long eyelashes fluttered shut. His breathing slowed. Abigail bit her lip. What was wrong with her? Why did she get so testy with him? He was doped up on morphine and not responsible for his behavior, probably wouldn’t even remember this conversation.

  She left to check her other patients. A couple of hours later, she checked in on him and found Blade sitting up, watching television. The sheet was curled at the bottom of his waist and exposed his naked chest. She had never seen such massive pecs on a real person, only on models.

  She scanned his bed. “Where is your gown?”

  He shrugged. “Took it off.”

  “You need to put your gown back on.”

  “Not happening.”

  The coiled cobra on his chest watched her with its red eyes. She glanced away from it; the snake tattoo unnerved her somehow, like any minute the snake would strike, punishing her for admiring its’ master’s body. She had been right about him being beautiful naked. Sculpted chest and abs, the man could compete with the next Mr. Universe competition.

  Lord, she was doing it again. Blade glanced at her but returned his gaze to the television.

  She walked around his bed. The green gown was balled up on the floor. He was completely naked under the thin blanket. Her hands turned clammy. She itched to rip off the sheet to reveal all his glory. Perspiration broke out between her heavy breasts, the workout bra too confining. She should insist he put the gown back on again, but she liked looking at him. She was an awful nurse. Maybe she should trade shifts with someone else, someone on another floor. “How are you feeling?”

  He shrugged. “Not good, Red.”

  She checked his vital signs. The heart monitor beat steady. She scanned his face. “Are you in pain?”

  His jaw tight, he stared; a reality show of some criminal investigation was on the television, his bandage hands crossed over his thighs. “No. Hands still numb.”

  She moistened her lip. “I take it Dr. Morrow has been to see you.”

  “Yup.”

  “From one to five, five being the highest pain, can you tell me where your pain is?”

  He finally tore his gaze away from the television and gave her a hard stare. She shifted on her feet.

  “Pain? I just discovered I won’t have the use of my hands.” He lifted his bandage hands in the air. “I’ll have to have skin grafts in order to have some kind of crappy movement.” He folded his wrists across his lap. “As a human, I get to be crippled. Fucking great.”

  She frowned. “Human?”

  He mumbled under his breath. She thought she heard the name Raphael but couldn’t make out anything else.

  He met her curious look. “It’s the morphine. Yeah, give me another hit. I’m at point five.”

  She nodded and quickly left to prepare another shot of morphine. She reentered Blade’s room. His head was thrown back on the pillow, his eyes closed. Were those tears glistening down the side of his cheeks?

  “Raphael, hear me. Please forgive me. I can’t live like this. I promise I’ll go to work. Don’t leave me like this please.” He half sobbed. “Heal me.”

  She put her hand on her chest and bit her bottom lip. She wanted to wipe away his tears and hold him close. The morphine must be affecting his mind. It sounded more like a prayer rather than a rant. He obviously hadn’t heard her, and she didn’t want him to know. She exited. Before she entered again, she knocked on the door. “Blade?”

  This time, he sat tall again, tears gone. He stared back at the blaring television, his mouth set tight. His dark braid cascaded down the front of his chest. He was a wounded warrior, brought to his knees.

  She strolled over to his bed and injected the hypodermic needle into the flexible plastic cannula tube. “There, you should feel better soon.”

  He didn’t answer and appeared engrossed with the television show where a detective interviewed a suspect, but she wasn’t fooled. Pain ate at him. She wanted to help him, see him whole again.

  She closed the hospital door, swallowed, and faced him. “I can heal you.”

  He stared straight at the television set, watching the suspect—a woman crumbling in the interrogation room, holding her head in her hands and confessing to some murder. Time for her to confess.

  She cleared her throat, her voice stronger. “Blade, I said I could heal you. If you let me.”

  His cheek twitched, but he didn’t answer her. He kept staring at the hysterical woman in the interrogation, justifying why she killed someone to the television cops. Abigail wanted to grab his shoulders and force him to look at her. She didn’t want him to become one of her stubborn patients. Too many times, patients had refused to believe in her. Too many t
imes, they had scoffed at her. Too many times, they had died.

  She stuck her hands in the front pockets of her smock. “Well, if you change your mind, my offer’s open.”

  She sighed and lowered her head. Wishing he would have jumped at the chance, she turned and headed for the doorway.

  “Wait.”

  Her back facing him, she closed her eyes and sucked in her breath. “Yes?”

  “What did you mean you could heal me?”

  She opened her eyes and turned around. He still was watching the television. She didn’t know if he had asked her the question or the police officer grabbing the woman’s arm on the television had. Was she that big of an idiot?

  “All I have to do is touch you, but you have to accept my gift, or it won’t work.”

  He lowered his gaze and stared at his bandage hands. “Do it.”

  Her heart beating hard, she forced herself to walk over to him. She wanted to wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him for believing her, for giving her a chance, for trusting her but she kept her hands in her smock. Taking a deep breath, she reached for his right arm and clasped it. Her fingers gripped pure hard, strength. Closing her eyes, she drew on her power. Heat rushed over her body as if she had stepped into a blaring sauna. Sweat trickled down her body, her smock sticking to her back and breasts. She breathed slowly. Blood pumped through her, thumping between her temples and sending energy through her.

  Blade cried out, but she held on tight, her nails digging into his bicep. He trembled beneath her. Her perspiration lessening, her clothes peeled away from her and her skin cooled. She shuddered. Her heart beat slowed; her fingers numbed. She opened her eyes and released him.

  “My hands.” Blade gazed at her with owl eyes. “They’re healed.”

  She half smiled. “It’s your faith that healed you.”

  His surprised look vanished; an angry scowl replaced it. His eyes tapered, and he tilted his chin. “I don’t believe in faith.”

  Chapter Three

  Blade stared at the wide-eyed red head. With her flaming hair and emerald cat eyes, Abigail Malcolm took his breath away. Nicole Kidman had nothing on her. Abigail flushed, her skin glowing as if she had run a marathon. The soft scent of mimosa grew stronger, and he wanted to lick her skin, tasting the sweetness. He wanted her naked beneath him as he rode her hard. He ached to run his healed hands down her luscious body, outlining her curvy hips, all the way down to her lithe legs. His cock hardened and he shifted. Damn!