"Shaque,” she whispered.
"I'm here.” He stroked back a strand of hair that escaped his clasp.
Her hand grabbed onto his arm around her waist and gripped tight.
"I'm not going anywhere.” He pressed lightly against her back.
Nodding slightly, breath hitching, she closed her eyes and hung her head, panting until the next bout of vomiting shook her. Finally she stopped, and he felt her sag wearily.
Gently he drew her back against him, using his hand to guide her head so that she rested it back against his shoulder. Reaching up, he snagged a towel and used it to dab at the blood on her mouth and chin.
Hands trembling, she took the towel from him and pressed it to her lips, grimacing.
Minutes ticked past as she rested against him and he cradled her close, his cheek against her shoulder as he looked unseeingly at the blood that spattered against the white bowl in crimson gore.
Her breathing was rapid and shallow, the rise and fall of her breasts above his arm not much of a comfort when he feared what might be happening to her. In his arms she suddenly seemed so frail, so fragile. Lifting his head, he glanced down at her ashen face. Dark circles under her eyes, face washed of colour. The towel at her mouth was stained with blood.
"Elyse,” he said softly.
She opened her eyes and looked wearily up at him.
"You need to lie down."
She didn't argue, but she did pull the towel away and grimace. “I need to rinse my mouth. The blood...” She shuddered.
"Can you stand?"
"Yes.” Even as she trembled in his arms, she attempted to push up, shifting away from him.
Effortlessly Shaque drew her up with him as he pushed upright. Keeping her tucked into his side with one supporting arm, he moved to the little sink and filled a glass with water. Putting it beneath the dispenser, he pressed it up and the minty liquid mouthwash seeped into the water, mixing to an icy blue colour.
Brushing aside her hand, he held it to her lips. Without arguing she took a mouthful, swirling it around and leaning forward to spit it, now pink tinged, into the sink. They repeated the process several times before Shaque rinsed the glass and put more water into it, this time dispensing the peppermint flush that was safe to swallow. She drank several mouthfuls before finally pulling back.
Slipping his other arm behind her knees, Shaque picked Elyse up and started to leave the bathing cabin.
"The toilet, I have to clean—"she began shakily.
"I'll do it.” The words came out tersely and when she transferred her gaze from the bathing cabin behind them to his face, Shaque added more gently, “No arguments."
The fact that she didn't protest but simply laid her head on his shoulder worried him more than if she'd snapped at him.
Laying her down on the bunk, Shaque pulled the covers back over her, tucking them in at her waist. Leaning over her, one hand braced on the mattress beside her shoulder, he looked down at her. Eyes closed, fatigue etched sharply into her pale face, it struck him again how fragile she was, how sick.
A strange emotion hit him, making him reach out and tenderly smooth the hair back from her face.
Opening her eyes, she stared straight up at him, and he saw that her eyes, even though being back to odd-coloured, now held a swirl of red as well. Not a gleam nor rim of red, but a swirl.
"Shaque...” Her voice was faint.
"I'm here.” He ran his thumb lightly down her temple to her cheek, where he rubbed lightly over the soft skin.
"Thank you."
He didn't smile. “What can I get you?"
"Nothing. I'll just sleep. Be fine."
"Byron—"
She shook her head, closing her eyes.
Being so unsure rocked Shaque. He was never unsure, never at a loss. But then, he'd never faced this kind of thing before for a long time. This threatened loss of someone he...
Gently rubbing his thumb against Elyse's cheek, he contemplated her. His enemy, his nemesis. His fellow predator. Strong, cold, cunning, composed, confident. A quiet woman full of strength and untapped depths. Part mutant, ex-space pirate, full of secrets. Every word described her, but there was one word...
Straightening, Shaque left the cabin and returned to the bathing cabin, where he grimly cleaned the blood from the toilet bowl and disposed of the bloodied towel into the clothes cleaner. Rinsing the glass, he dried it and placed it back in the holder. With a final glance around to ensure all was as neat as before, he left the bathing cabin.
Stopping at the door to Elyse's cabin, he glanced in to see her resting, the even rise and fall of her breasts reassuring. But for how long? The thought came unbidden. What the hell was happening with her? Shaque frowned. He sure as hell meant to find out, and soon.
Going to the control cabin, he sat at the console and studied the viscomm. Elyse might not want Byron to know what was happening to her, but the Saalm medic held the answers Shaque wanted.
After trying for a good twenty minutes to establish contact, Shaque swore. There was too much frequency interference on the normal lines. Adjusting the frequency, he tried to connect to Saalm using a side service of the Bounty Hunter's frequency.
"What are you doing?” A hand slammed down on the keyboard in front of him. “Damn it, Shaque! No!"
Before he could even recover from the unexpectedness of the action, Shaque caught Elyse as she half fell into his lap. Steadying her in a cradled hold, he looked down into her eyes, which were enormous in her ashen face. Shaking, seemingly frailer than ever, there nevertheless was determination in her trembling lips.
Anger spiked at him, even as his hold remained supportive. “Damn it, Elyse! What are you doing up?"
"You're not to contact anyone about me. No one.” Her jaw tightened. “No one."
"Byron is your medic. He can give me some advice on what to do—"
"There's nothing more to be done.” Placing her hands on his shoulders, she tried to get up.
Eyes narrowing, mentally cursing her stubbornness, Shaque stood up and carried her from the cabin.
He'd no sooner placed her back in the bunk and started to straighten when she reached up and gripped his shirt in one shaking fist, holding him bent over her. “Promise me you won't contact Byron or anyone else."
"God Almighty, Elyse, you vomited blood!” He could still feel the horror of it.
"I'll be okay."
"How the hell do you know that?” He took a deep breath when she opened her mouth. “Never mind. You,” he stabbed a finger under her nose, “go to sleep."
She maintained her grip on his shirt. “You contact anyone, Shaque, and I swear I'll kill you right now."
"You couldn't kill a bore beetle in your state."
"I'll make an exception for you."
"Lie down and do as you're told before you—Goddamn it, Elyse!” Grabbing the cloth that hung over the top of the bunk rail, Shaque pressed it to her nose, blotting at the trickle of blood. “Now look what you've done."
How she managed to glare at him when she was so sick was beyond him, but he respected her for it. The woman just didn't know when to give in. If he didn't feel the shaking of her hand fisted in his shirt, and see her ashen features and dark circles beneath her eyes himself, he'd never have known how sick she'd been just a half an hour before.
Taking the rag from him, she wiped the blood away. “You have to promise me not to contact anyone."
"I'm not making that promise."
She gazed up at him for several long seconds, lowering the rag. Finally, she said, “If I tell you what's wrong when I wake up, will you promise not to contact anyone? And I mean anyone?"
Shaque didn't like it one bit. He itched to get hold of Byron and demand answers.
"He won't tell you anyway,” Elyse said, obviously guessing what he was thinking.
She was right. Byron wouldn't break her confidence. No one else knew how sick she was, or what was wrong with her. And there was no one in this forsaken Se
ctor who could help them.
Taking a deep breath, Shaque gazed down at her.
She met his gaze steadily.
Damn it. Shaque nodded.
"Promise?"
"You have my word,” he relied coldly.
Releasing her hold on his shirt, she relaxed back against the bunk.
"You stay in that bloody bunk until you're well enough to get up,” Shaque ordered harshly.
Closing her eyes, she whispered, “Your bedside manner sucks."
"I'm a hunter, not a medic."
"And now your prey is down."
"When the final showdown comes, Elyse, I want you on your feet."
The ghost of a smile curved her lips.
Turning on his heel, he left the cabin and went into the kitchenette. Pouring a mug of hot una, he sat down at the table and stared into the dark depths of the steaming liquid.
Tuning out every thought, he forced himself to relax. Mentally he eased the kinks from his muscles, the strain from his tendons. Taking deep breaths, he forced a mental shield between his thoughts and his own personal place of mental peace.
Normally he could retreat from everyone and everything, however briefly, to rejuvenate himself. He carried a lot of anger, a lot of cold savagery, deep inside himself. Hunting outlaws gave him a measure of satisfying that savagery.
Tonight it didn't work so well. Images of his sister as he'd known her slipped through the wisps of his inner sanctum. Laughing, crying, fear-stricken. Himself laughing, playing, teasing, crying. His parents killed in the laser blasts that tore through their home and ripped his life apart.
And Elyse. The one person he truly understood on some distant level, he was drawn to her own inner savagery, her cold composure and confidence. With her, he could be himself and be at peace.
Goddamn.
Blinking, Shaque sipped at the now lukewarm liquid. At peace with the one person he was destined to fight to the death. How bloody ironic was that?
Placing the mug into the washer beneath the urn, he left the kitchenette and went to her cabin to check her.
Her brow was furrowed, and she murmured restlessly in her sleep. Reaching down, he placed his palm on her forehead, but she was cool to the touch.
As soon as he touched her, the frown smoothed from her brow and she quietened.
Straightening up, he started to move away, only to stop when she stared shifting restlessly again. A drop of blood appeared at her nose, the tiniest bead, and he wiped it away with the cloth hanging above the bed.
Laying it back over the rail, Shaque studied her, then with an impatient sigh got a chair and placed it beside the bunk. Dimming the light, he flopped down into the chair, lifted his legs, propped them up on the side of the bunk, and crossed his ankles. Folding his arms across his chest, he leaned his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes. Someone had to watch over her, and he was the only one aboard ship.
Opening one eye, he studied her face briefly before closing his eye again. Relaxing in the chair, he drifted off into a disturbed sleep.
* * * *
During the night, he woke to find her lying on her side in the bunk watching him. The gleam of red in her eyes caught the dim light. She didn't say anything.
Still relaxed, he merely gazed back at her.
Mixed in with the sickly pallor of her face was the underlying hint of danger in the redness of her eyes. It didn't faze him in the least.
Seconds ticked past while they simply looked at each other. Peace filled the cabin, even though the hint of violence and savagery simmered beneath the surface of them both.
Silently Elyse moved back in the bunk, and without a word Shaque shifted, sliding onto the bunk to lie down beside her on his back. He didn't take her into his arms, but their hands reached out to each other, met, and clasped.
Closing his eyes, Shaque felt peace creep through him, and he drifted off to sleep, this time undisturbed, the warmth of Elyse beside him comforting.
* * * *
The black shadows flitted through the fortress. Inside the chamber, Phemar coughed, blood spattering down the front of his robe. Shaking, he reached out, placing his rotting hand against the wall. When it slipped off, bits of necrotic tissue smeared the wall.
The Overlord watched expressionlessly.
Phemar's voice bubbled. “Her body fights. I need her here."
"You could transport her here like you once did to Sabra and the hunters,” Veknor suggested.
"No.” Phemar shook his head. “Too unstable. Too unpredictable."
White hand to his chin, lipless mouth perused, The Overlord looked at Veknor and nodded. “Fredrico."
Inclining his head, Veknor left the chamber and strode up the stairs to the main corridor. Going into the communications room, he sat down and touched the viscomm screen. When Fredrico's face appeared, Veknor said, “Go."
* * * *
Opening her eyes, Elyse glanced at Shaque sleeping beside her. No surprise or alarm filled her, just quiet acceptance. Still lying on his back, he had his face turned towards her on the pillow.
In sleep he still had that dangerous look about him. There was no mistaking him for what he was—hunter and predator. The only thing that had softened was his mouth. Relaxed, full lips that couldn't be mistaken for anything except masculine. His cold, classical handsomeness with a deadly edge called to her.
Their hands had come unclasped during the night.
Looking back up at the ceiling, Elyse took inner stock of herself. There was no weakness, no nausea. She touched her nose. No blood. In fact, she felt fine. A little hotter beneath the skin, a little restless, but fine otherwise.
Sitting up slowly, she felt Shaque shift in the bunk, the sudden tenseness tangible in the air.
Turning her head, she looked down to meet his alert gaze. The winter blue eyes weren't foggy with sleep, but wide-awake. The man obviously had a knack for waking up immediately.
His gaze raked over her face, slipped over her with cold efficiency. Sitting up, he swung his legs over the side of the bunk, stood and stretched. Glancing back at her over his shoulder, he watched as she climbed from the bunk to stand. With a faint nod, he left the cabin.
Well, that had gone rather well.
Shaking her head, Elyse followed him out into the corridor, turning into the bathing cabin while he continued silently to his own cabin.
In the mirror, she studied her face. The red was now intertwined with the blue and brown of her irises, only the red seemed to have taken over more of the colour.
That couldn't be good.
Taking off the nightgown, she shoved it into the clothes cleaner and got into the shower. The burst of warm water was bliss, and she lathered up with the fragrant soap, sniffing the scent appreciatively.
Wrapping the towel around her when she'd finished, she returned to her own cabin and dressed in clean shirt and pants, stamping into her boots and running a brush through her hair.
Hunger made her stomach rumble and she went to the kitchenette. Selecting a huge bowl of stew from the food counter and a hot cup of una, she sat at the table and started eating.
Shaque made his entrance fifteen minutes later. His blonde hair hung damp and loose around his shoulders. Getting a plate of sandwiches and a glass of berry juice, he sat opposite her and started eating.
They eyed each other while they ate, the only sound in the cabin that of Elyse's spoon against her bowl, and the soft music in the background.
No doubt Shaque was going to start asking questions, wanting answers.
No sooner had she scraped the last spoonful of stew from her bowl, than Shaque pushed aside his empty plate. “Talk."
Smiling inwardly, Elyse took a sip of the hot una and gazed levelly at him.
Shaque met her gaze with a steady one of his own.
Now how much to tell the hunter?
"Don't,” he said quietly. Coldly.
She arched one brow.
"You promised to tell me what was wro
ng with you."
"No. I told you I'd tell you what was wrong, but you promised not to contact anyone.” Elyse smiled faintly. “There's a difference."
The winter blue eyes narrowed. “You don't want to push me on this, Elyse."
"Maybe I like pushing you.” Yeah, I love the edge of danger that shimmers beneath your calm, cold surface. I like to push your buttons.
"Pushing me makes things happen.” His gaze bored mercilessly into her eyes.
Such as wild, uninhibited sex.
She knew the instance his thoughts mirrored her own, saw the tension in his shoulders, the tightening of his jaw. The way his fingers gripped the glass.
"And that's another thing,” he said in a deadly quiet voice.
Resting her elbows on the table Elyse leaned towards him a little, her blood pumping a little hotter, a little faster. “Is it, hunter?"
He didn't flinch. “The sex was hot and fast, and I would be more than happy to slam you back up against that wall. I could take you in a number of positions, and know that you'll burn for me and make me burn in turn.” Resting his own elbows on the table, Shaque leaned towards her a little, mimicking her posture, a cold fire burning in his eyes. “I've never backed away from the truth, and I'm not going to start now."
Well, well, well. Wasn't this just interesting? Anticipation curled through Elyse. Not sexual, nor anger, but interest, amusement, a feeling of being alive. Without taking her gaze from Shaque, she slowly and deliberately took a sip of the una.
"Having sex with you was never in the cards, but it happened,” Shaque stated bluntly. “Fight you, kill you, but not have sex with you."
She grinned faintly.
A muscle jumped in his jaw.
They looked at each other, and she was intensely aware of him. His classically handsome face, the simmering danger, the blonde hair that caught the light and glinted with whiteness. Tall, lean but strong. Determined. Confident. Fearless.
"The question,” Shaque said quietly, “is what do we do about it?"
"Kind of late to wonder, don't you think?"
"No."
"It happened. End of story."
Soul of a Predator Page 25