by Brenda Huber
Don’t leave, indeed.
Every sane, reasonable fiber in her body urged her to run while the running was good. In fact, if she had an iota of common sense, she’d run straight to the nearest police station and turn him and all his psychotic friends in. He was hardly in any shape to stop her.
However, much as she tried to convince herself otherwise, she couldn’t ignore the truth of the situation. She’d stumbled upon an honest to God demon ritual in the park. And this man—no, this demon—had saved her. She gingerly probed at the thin cut on her throat. It didn’t hurt. It didn’t even itch anymore.
Twice now, he’d saved her life.
She owed him. She couldn’t just leave him here, not like this. Besides, what if he was telling the truth? What if her well-being—her very life—depended on Niklas and his ability to protect her?
How could she help him? His skin was clammy and pale, his breathing shallow. Dark shadows circled his sunken eyes.
Okay. First things first.
She had to try to get him healthy again. Then she could figure out where to go from there. Carly went to the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. Tylenol. A toothbrush and toothpaste. A razor. Shaving cream.
Nothing more, nothing less.
Lotta help here.
She knew basic first aid. Venom. She knew what to do in case of snakebite. Tourniquet, cut, suction. The problem was he’d ingested the venom, judging by his physical condition. There was no strike site to lance and drain. She was in over her head here. But somehow, she didn’t think the poison hotline would have a handy solution for demon venom. Dare she try to induce vomiting?
One wary glance at the blackened spots on the carpet curbed that idea quickly.
Lower his fever. That was logical, and sounded as good a place to start as any. Shaking a couple Tylenol into the palm of her hand, she returned to the kitchenette.
Carly opened the fridge door and groaned aloud. Bottled water. A moldy hunk of cheese and a few other, equally questionable items.
This just wasn’t going to cut it—not if he insisted that she stay here with him. She skimmed the rest of the apartment. No privacy. She wasn’t prissy, wasn’t spoiled or used to rich furnishings, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out this arrangement wasn’t going to work. After snagging one of the bottles of water, she closed the door, shaking her head.
“Niklas,” she called softly as she returned to the bed. “Niklas, I need you to wake up.”
Nothing. Not even an eyelid twitched.
She reached out to touch him. She paused, her hand hovering a few inches from his skin. He was radiating heat. Firming her resolve, she smoothed her hand down his arm. She could do this. She could keep this purely clinical.
She slid her fingertips over him and paused as she drew in a deep breath. His muscles—even relaxed as they were now—felt like granite beneath his smooth skin. She caught the edge of her lower lip between her teeth.
No, she had to be clinical. Nurse to patient, she reminded herself.
“Niklas, wake up. I need you to take these Tylenol.”
He groaned, stirring. In a semiconscious state, he rolled to his side, and she helped him up onto one elbow. She pushed the tablets past his chalky lips and held the bottle as he drank deeply. With another groan, he fell back on the bed, unconscious once more. Sweat glistened on his brow. His pallor worried her. Gray was not a good color, regardless of the species. At least, she didn’t think so.
But what could she do? Call an ambulance? How would she explain poison by demon? For that matter, would a doctor be able to tell if there was something not quite right with him?
Carly silently debated her best course of action as she dug absently in her hip pocket and drew out a ChapStick. She brushed his hair back and gently smoothed the lip balm over his cracked lips.
If leaving meant risking falling into Ronové’s hands again, it was probably best to stay put. Unless or until it became necessary to leave. Then? Well, she’d cross that bridge if and when she got to it.
Okay, she could do this. She could.
Rolling up her proverbial sleeves, Carly pushed to her feet. She returned to the kitchenette and rummaged in the drawers and cabinets. She found a plastic basin and a pile of tattered washcloths and set them aside. She opened drawers and doors, digging until she found what she was looking for. Pushing the crinkly packages of chips and cookies aside, she dug deeper. Five cans of soup. Well, there was a start. Coffee. Good, though the coffeepot didn’t look as if it had seen the clean side of a soap bubble since coming out of the box.
She could deal with this situation.
As long as she didn’t give in to the terror clawing its way through her chest.
In short order, she had coffee brewing in a freshly scrubbed pot, a can of soup heating in the microwave and a basin full of tepid water sitting on the nightstand beside the bed. Standing back, she surveyed her patient.
His fever had spiked. His skin was drenched. He tossed restlessly, muttering in a language she couldn’t understand. How long before the Tylenol kicked in?
She sat on the bed beside him and began sponging cool water over his chest, neck and face. And his arms. His wonderfully strong arms. The defined, whipcord strength of his body left her breathless.
Focus, Carly. Criminy, stop ogling him. The man is horribly ill!
Not an easy task as she found her gaze drawn repeatedly to his washboard abs and well-muscled chest. Shaking herself free of the visual trap of his body, she pushed and pulled until she managed to roll him onto his side. Maybe she ought to sponge his back with the cool water as well. Easier said than done. He was dead weight at this point, beyond rousing.
She froze, struck anew by the horror of the marks on his back.
They were the most hideous scars she’d ever seen. The sheer magnitude of the pain he must have experienced left her sick to her stomach.
Sinking back on her bottom, she reached out and gently traced one puckered ridge.
Wings.
As if aware of her caress, he arched his back into her touch. His skin was so hot. Recalling her purpose, she dipped a rag in the water and sponged it over his shoulders and down his back. She gently eased him to his back, her mind still preoccupied with his scars as she sponged his forehead. She searched his face.
He was handsome, no argument there.
Her own huge yawn caught her by surprise. Glancing at her watch, she blinked. Wow. No wonder she was dead on her feet. Niklas groaned, his body going rigid. His teeth clenched as his back arched off the bed. He strained there for a moment, his body taut. And then he collapsed against the mattress, limp, panting.
In that moment, it truly hit her. Exactly what he’d done for her. He’d taken this poison, this pain into himself. He’s spared her this torture, and, in doing so, had willingly brought it upon himself. A tender ache settled into the middle of her chest, and she felt herself softening toward him. She dipped the cloth into the basin, wrung out the excess moisture, and laid it upon his brow.
Niklas came awake with a start. Oh, sweet Christ, he felt like death warmed over. He lifted his head from the pillow. The room spun. Groaning, he dropped his head, scrunched his eyes closed and prayed for the world to stop turning.
Or death. Right now, the way he felt, he’d welcome Oblivion with open arms.
It was then that he became aware of a foreign weight, soft and warm, draped over his chest and lower abdomen. Risking another bout with vertigo, he pried one eyelid open and peered at his chest. The sight of Carly’s sleeping face shocked him. Dark lashes rested upon her pale cheeks. Her enticing lips were parted slightly. Her head rested in the hollow of his breastbone. Her aura was white, tinged by that golden glow only Carly seemed to possess. She was completely relaxed, her expression unguarded.
Niklas was stunned. She’d stayed with him.
> The dark, layered voice inside him purred, shocking him speechless. Since when did he purr?
She stirred in her sleep, snuggling closer. Her hair fanned out behind her, tickling his stomach. The feel of it there, whisper soft against his skin, drove him crazy.
He should move. He needed to get up and call Xander. He should contact Asher, a renegade mercenary who’d recently escaped Lucifer’s rule. Asher, like many of the other earthbound demons, had decided that in the battle of good versus evil, the only side he intended to take was his own. Nevertheless, for the right price, Asher would sell any information, take on any job. If anyone knew whether Ronové had already begun the hunt for Carly, it would be Asher.
He needed to—
Carly moaned. A tiny crease formed between her brows. Her breathing deepened. Purple began to bleed into white.
Without realizing what he was doing, he lifted a hand and smoothed his trembling, weak fingers through her hair. Over and over. Wishing only to ease her fears. Wanting to be the one to offer her comfort. The crease between her brows disappeared and the purplish hue receded from the air around her.
An odd calm settled over him. Strange, he’d never offered comfort before—never tried to soothe another. And yet, soothing Carly felt natural. In fact, the longer he touched her, the longer he ran his fingers through her hair, the better he felt.
Her arm twitched, slid. Her warm, soft hand settled on his abdomen, low on his abdomen. His eyes flew wide open. His breathing arrested. His fingers tightened in her hair. His entire body went rigid. Only a few short inches separated her hot palm from cupping him fully.
He was instantly, painfully aroused.
Part of him, that part of him that had worked ceaselessly for redemption, prayed she’d wake up and withdraw her hand before he gave in to the impulse to thrust his erection against her. That part of him prayed for forgiveness for the urges coursing through his blood and the wicked thoughts filling his mind.
The other part of him, the part that he’d fought so hard to restrain—the part that spoke in a layered voice and gleefully reveled in tormenting him with sin and temptation—savored the feel of her hand upon him. Two parts of the same whole.
Another wave of incapacitating vertigo washed over him. Then again, maybe it was the sudden redirection of his blood flow that made him lightheaded. His shaft felt as if it were growing thicker by the second, seemingly in tandem with the fact that logical, coherent thought slipped from his grasp like water through a sieve.
He was weak from the toxin, he reasoned.
If he didn’t feed soon, he would become a danger to her. Still, he found himself in no hurry to move, no hurry to lose the unexpected intimacy he’d discovered in this novel experience.
Was this what it would feel like to have a woman of his own? Was this what it would be like, waking up with her every day of a mortal’s life? Was this the solace God had offered Adam in creating Eve?
If he’d had a woman like Carly, would he have followed Lucifer?
Cold rationality finally settled upon him. Stupid question. He’d been an Archangel, not a man. A woman like Carly would never have been in the cards for him, regardless of whether he’d followed Lucifer or not.
But he had followed Lucifer. And he was damned.
The only thing he should want—no, the only thing he did want, he corrected himself—remained frustratingly out of his grasp.
Absolution.
Suddenly disgusted with himself and his useless train of thought, he purposefully shifted. Not his hips, as his body begged. But his shoulders. Moving until she blinked at him, drowsy and unfocused. And then she completely undid him. She closed her eyes and nuzzled her cheek against him. A devastating wave of raw lust slammed into him. Damn it, if she didn’t move soon, she stood the very real danger of being rolled beneath him—willing or not—and taken, over and over until they were both senseless.
Oh, sweet Christ, to be inside her—
Drawing a deep breath, she yawned wide.
Gasping, she bolted upright, wide-awake. A damp cloth rolled from her hand onto his shoulder.
“You’re up!”
“Apparently,” he remarked dryly. In more ways than one. Sweet Mary, he sounded like he’d had his vocal cords ripped out, shredded and then stuffed back down his throat.
I sound as bad as Xander.
“Here,” she said, slipping an arm beneath his shoulders to help him up. An impish grin tilted the edges of her mouth as she offered him a sip of water and gave his own words back to him. “It’s safe. Go on.”
The tepid water slid down his parched throat. Ambrosia.
“Slowly.” She pulled the bottle back before he was done. “You’ve been really sick for”—she checked her watch—“almost twenty-six hours.”
Twenty-six—
Holy heaven, he’d been unconscious for twenty-six hours? Had the integrity of the ward stones been compromised while he was unconscious? Had she left the apartment? Had—
He struggled to sit up. She pushed at his shoulders, urging him to lie back.
Weak as he was, he complied, for the moment. But still he pressed, “Did you leave the apartment?”
“What? No, I haven’t even opened the door.”
Thank God for small favors.
Much as his body demanded he stay in bed—perhaps even tempt her to join him—he knew that was the last thing he could afford to do. In the ensuing battle of wills, Carly lost, but only because he was physically stronger than she was, even in his current, weakened state.
“What are you doing?” she demanded as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and set both feet on the floor. Once more the room spun. Gritting his teeth, he pushed through the weakness.
Holy Mother Mary! Where are my pants?
He could conjure another pair, but his head hurt so much. He’d probably just pass out again. Better to find the ones he already had, save his energy for something more important.
“I need to get out of here, Carly.”
“You’re in no condition to go anywhere,” she argued.
She wasn’t looking so healthy herself. Dark shadows smudged the delicate skin below her eyes. He didn’t need to read her aura to see how tired she was. Hell’s bells, how long had she stayed awake taking care of him?
“Lie down and rest,” he ordered, though his tone was softer now.
Niklas scanned the room, located his jeans folded neatly on the end of the coffee table. His boots were lined up on the floor at the end of the sofa. At least she’d left him in his boxers. Boxers that would soon start tenting if she didn’t stop staring up at him with those sleepy, vulnerable, chocolate brown eyes.
His legs barely supported him as he crossed the room and pulled on his jeans. He plopped onto the sofa and tugged on his boots.
“You should try to eat a little something. I’ll make some more soup for you. Just give me a few minutes to heat up a can. I think we have one left.”
“More soup?”
“You had cans of soup in the back of your cupboard. I’ve been straining the broth and spoon-feeding the liquid to you. I was worried you might get dehydrated, and there was no telling how long you might remain unconscious.” Embarrassment washed through the air around her. Color filled her cheeks. “You were running a really high fever. According to what I’ve read, the best thing was to push fluids and keep you as cool as possible.” Her attention dipped briefly to his chest, and then shot across the room. The rush of blood in her cheeks heightened. Red bled through her aura. “With that in mind, keeping you cool and all, I took your jeans off, and I’ve been…ah, well—” She pointed at the damp cloth lying on his pillow.
She’d been spoon-feeding him. And she’d been giving him sponge baths. For twenty-six hours. Sweet Mary! No one had ever taken care of him before. Not for five minutes, let alone twenty-plus hours st
raight. No one had ever cared enough to bother. A strange warmth surged through his chest as he gazed upon her. He suddenly longed to pull her back into his arms. Longed to soothe her again.
But hunger was clawing at him. And not the hunger her soup would satisfy.
With a muffled curse, he summoned a shirt. Pain slashed through his skull, nearly brought him to his knees. She blinked, eyebrows shooting up as a new T-shirt appeared on his body.
“I have to go out,” he repeated. “I won’t be gone long. Lie down and get some rest. Do not open the door for anyone. Don’t even respond if someone should happen to knock. There are wards around the apartment, protecting it from unwelcome visitors. As long as you don’t cross the threshold, and you don’t invite anyone in, you’ll be fine.”
Without waiting for a response, he shimmered from the apartment, his focus centered on a small section of alley behind a mall in a nearby town. Often frequented by pushers and strung out prostitutes, it was the best place he could think of to find what he needed at that moment.
The brush of warm air against his skin was his first sensation as he solidified beside a large green Dumpster. The next was the stomach-churning odor coming from the receptacle. Peering around the side of the garbage bin, he scouted out the alley. About thirty feet away, a dealer was “collecting” from one of his clients. Shades of red and green surrounded the dealer. Lust. Happiness. The hooker wore shades of blue and purple—despair and fear, liberally laced with streaks of black—disgust, anger. Hatred.
As soon as the dealer finished with her and stepped away, the hooker tugged her skirt down and thrust out her hand. The dealer dropped a tiny bag of white powder onto her palm. She quickly tucked it into her black leather bra before scurrying away. Niklas waited for her to turn the corner at the end of the block before he approached the dealer.
“Hey man,” the dealer called.
Niklas nodded his head, and eased closer.
“Whad’chu lookin’ for, my man? You come to de right place. Ah hook you up, bro, you just tell ole Rodrigo whad’chu need.” The Rs rolled so thickly from the guy’s tongue, Niklas might have struggled to understand him, provided he actually cared what the man had to say.