Her breath caught, too.
Christ, she feared him. What the hell was he doing? Contemplating playing Sampson to her Delilah? He pushed the image in his mind away. She must be terrified of him. To tell the truth, he was a little afraid of himself.
A foot rest sprang up under his legs. His muscles tightened and twitched. She pushed him back until he reclined in the chair with his feet up. Maybe she wanted to make him comfortable, but it made him feel all the more vulnerable. “You know who I am?” He tried to sit up.
“The Tanin’iver. Julius Elisha Crowley.”
“You got the second part right at least.” He swallowed hard. He hadn’t heard his middle name spoken aloud in so many centuries he’d almost forgotten it. “How do you know my full name?”
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you.” There was the slightest tremble to her voice.
“I can tell you’re afraid.” He reached out to her, wanting to touch her, needing the contact, but rethought the wisdom, fisting his hand and letting it fall back to his lap. “You know what I’ve done?”
She sighed. “I know what you’re accused of.”
“What?”
There was a pause. Was she studying him? Again, his hand rose, reaching out to her. He snatched it back, squelching the sudden, pathetic need for contact.
“You don’t remember?”
There was no way in hell he’d tell her how bad off he was. “I’m curious if you’re being honest.” He needed to know if that dream was imagined or truth.
Warm fingers stroked his cheek. “You’re not the murderer everyone thinks.”
“Everyone thinks I’m . . .?” That bit of memory he had—the blood on his clothes. The darkness within him twisted. What had he done? Who had he killed? Why did he feel so full? “A murderer?”
“Yes.”
“Then why help me? Don’t give me that shit about you being a healer, either. What is it you want?”
There was a pause. “I don’t need anything.”
Something wasn’t adding up. “Bullshit. Everybody wants something.”
“I want you to be well. Happy.” She fluttered around the room, busy at some task or another. Hell, for all he knew she might be oiling her chainsaw. All the better to turn you to ash, my dear.
He snorted. “That has to be one of the most naïve things I’ve ever heard.”
“I suppose the world would be a better place if we were all so naïve.”
Was she for real? She made everything sound simple. Maybe if he remembered more, this would be as black and white for him, but he couldn’t. All he had to go on was a nightmare, disturbing because of its detail, and his intuition which screamed at him to never trust anyone. “What if I’m as guilty as everyone thinks?”
“You’re not.”
Though he wanted to believe in her words and the matter-of-fact way she spoke them, he dared not. Maybe because he couldn’t see her, couldn’t look into her eyes and gauge her trustworthiness. Perhaps because carnage filled his one memory. Either way, her assurance annoyed rather than consoled. “You’re betting your existence.”
“I’m going to re-wrap your eyes.” She touched his shoulder. Then his cheek.
“Is that necessary?”
“Yes. You still have open wounds. You’re losing energy.”
Well, hell. Every time she touched him, his muscles twitched and his skin tingled. It was as if his body didn’t know how to react to her soft hands against his skin. He forced himself to remain still while she wrapped the soft material snug around his head. Cut it and tied off the ends. She moved away, leaving him bereft.
What the hell was wrong with him? He didn’t like her touch, but wanted more?
He slid his palms down his thighs to his knees and back. The heels of his hands pushed up the bottoms of the satiny shorts. Puckered, scarred flesh covered his thighs. Déjà vu settled over him—he’d done this before, running his hands over his scarred skin. Tracing the thin, raised lines with the edge of his nail. Counting them. It was a difficult task with one scar crisscrossing multiple others. He got to thirty and . . . had he counted that one? He started over.
Yes, he’d done this before, right before something momentous and terrible had happened.
SUBMIT.
The voice was so deep it vibrated through him, making him jump. “Who else is here?”
“No one. Who did that to you?”
His hands stopped. Lifted instead to cross over his scarred chest. Jesus, he’d been so distracted since he woke he hadn’t thought about his scars or the fact that he sat in front of this stranger almost naked.
Heat blazed in his cheeks. He recalled looking down at himself once, seeing the webbing of scar tissue crisscrossing every inch of skin save his hands and feet. He didn’t remember how he came to be such an ugly mess but he’d be damned if he wanted her pity. “I don’t need your questions or your damn coddling.” He needed to get out of here.
“I think you do.”
Didn’t that sound nice? Him, holed up here, surrounded by soft skin and a husky voice . . . .
He couldn’t stay, not for another minute. Struggling out of the recliner, he turned toward where he thought the door might be. “Let me out of this house.”
A cinnamon-flavored breeze blew past him. Her warm palms flattened on his chest. She wasn’t rough, put no force behind the motion, but she stopped him all the same. “Jules, please.”
He’d be damned if he didn’t like the way she shortened his name. He was starting to crave her touch, even while foreign and unsettling. He forced an angry expression on his face, refusing to be brought to heel. Something wasn’t right in this house and he wanted out, damn it.
“You’re getting real close to pissing me off, lady.”
“You can’t go, so there’s no reason to make this ugly.”
Oh, he’d make it ugly. There was something about this woman that scared the shit out of him. One way or another he’d leave and if the only way was to make her want him gone, so be it. He leaned over her. “Lower. The. Fucking. Shield.”
“I’m not letting you leave. I can’t.”
“Why the hell not? You say I’m an accused murderer. Don’t you have any sense of self-preservation?”
“I, uh . . . I can’t let you go because . . . well, you’re my mate.”
He shook his head, his mind reeling. No way in hell was this woman his mate. Katherine the Great was dead and not in his wildest dreams did he dare imagine her reincarnating into someone as sweet as this woman appeared to be. Hell, no one was as sweet as this woman. This was a trick. Any moment now she’d turn into a wounded-vampire-gobbling harpy. The sooner he met the bitch side of her, the better. He’d understand her then and know how to deal with her. Her confession managed to wipe away his sneer and he put the angry curl back in his lip.
Her hands were still flattened against his chest and she stroked her thumbs over his skin. “It’s true. We’re mated.”
Fine. If she wanted to play the hand of being his long lost life-mate, he’d raise her one overbearing, presumptuous jackass.
He reached out and grabbed her, jerking her close. He’d expected resistance, and when he didn’t get any, every inch of her luscious body ended up plastered against his. Holy fuck, she was soft. His dick thought so, going from deep-space sleep to “Hell, yeah!” in the blink of an eye.
Mentally, he shook himself, remembering the part he needed to play. “Is this what you want?” He intended to disgust her out of her charade, and damn it, he started off strong enough to that end. He opened his mouth and began one long lick up the side of her face, but then everything went to shit.
Maybe it was the scent of cinnamon. That had to be what distracted him from his purpose. Cinnamon and those soft, lush curves pressed against him. Her hair tickled his face and her rapid little breaths peppered his neck. But it was the damned scent of cinnamon and the question of whether or not her mouth tasted of the same that completely blew his game.
&nb
sp; She didn’t resist, nor did she turn her face away to hinder his assault so, mid-disgusting-lick, he stopped. He didn’t pull away, nor would his fingers release their grip on her arms. They stood there in tableau—fitting against each other in a perfect way—with his mouth pressed against her cheek.
The thing was, he couldn’t move. If he did, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t move away, but instead seal his mouth to hers. That’s all he wanted. The two thoughts in his mind were whether she tasted of cinnamon and if her lips were as soft and warm as the rest of her.
In the end, it was her own damn fault. She moved.
She didn’t push away or tell him no. She turned her face into his, bringing them nose-to-nose. Her breath warmed his lips, indicating not only had she turned her face into his, she’d lifted her face to his. She was right there and her touch burned as if his body couldn’t quite figure out what she was and if she should hurt or feel good and so his nerves registered both, pleasure and pain.
Part of him wanted to shove her away—the sane part, no doubt.
He kissed her. Slanted his mouth over hers, sweeping his tongue past her lips. Christ, she was soft. Warm. Sweet. She felt so damn good it hurt. All his muscles locked as if in preparation for battle. His dick went rigid, ready to fuck. The darkness inside him churned. Damn it, he didn’t know what he wanted. Couldn’t decide if this was bliss or agony.
She pulled away enough to swipe her tongue over his bottom lip.
Next thing he knew, she whispered, “We can’t.”
What the hell happened? He had her against the wall, his hands on her ass, his cock pressed to her belly.
“Jules, stop. You’re not well enough.” She pushed against him.
Damn it, what the hell was wrong with him? He released her. Backed up and turned, giving his dick time to catch up to the change in atmosphere.
“Jules, I—”
“No need to explain.” What had he been thinking? He was maimed. Scarred. He couldn’t remember fuck-all. Nobody wanted that kind of mess. Which way should he go? Try to find his way upstairs . . . outside . . .? Maybe he’d get lucky and the floor would open and swallow him whole.
“You need to rest.” Regret laced her words. “I shouldn’t have kissed you.”
Wait. He cocked his head to the side. Was she taking the blame?
Don’t trust her, boss. Don’t trust any of this. It’s all a game. One you will no doubt lose.
Yeah, as soon as he let his guard down, she’d change. Everyone changed. “It’s nothing.” He shrugged, hoping to hell he appeared unaffected. “Don’t give it another thought. I won’t.”
She sighed. Sensing her approach, he braced himself for her touch. “Let’s get you back in that recliner. You’re pale as a baby mouse.”
The room had started to spin, so he allowed her to help him back to the chair before he ended up on his ass. “Just for a minute.”
“At least stay for the day, Jules.” Amusement laced her tone.
Was she making fun of him? He scowled. “I shouldn’t.”
“You will.”
Because he had no choice. “Listen, honey, while I appreciate your help, what I do and don’t do is none of your goddamned business.”
“Then I suppose we should get down to what is my business. I’m going to ask you some questions and I need you to answer honestly.” Her tone had turned as stern as a schoolmarm’s.
OBEY ME.
His whole body twitched. His breathing kicked up a notch and anxiety crawled under his skin. Jesus. “Better idea: raise your damn shield and let me out. Something’s in here with us.”
“We are the only two daemons here. You can’t leave, the sun will be rising any time now. Please, answer my questions.”
SUBMIT.
“No!” He would not. He would never submit. Never again. “You’re lying. Don’t you fucking hear it?”
“Stop it.” Her voice took on an edge.
He shook his head. Unable to see her, to read her body language, he listened to the inflection of her voice. Trying to make sense of the contrast between her words and the other voice.
“This is important and I’m not going to let you scare me. I’ll make you tell the truth if I have to.”
Her voice was melodious with a husky undertone. Nothing like the other. He couldn’t imagine how she could get her tone deep enough or loud enough.
“Fine.” She huffed. “We’ll do this the hard way. What happened to your eyes? Were you attacked?”
If he answered that, she’d think him insane. He pressed his lips into a line.
She brushed her hand through his hair.
The whole thing was done before he’d even had time to jerk away. A burgeoning need to speak swelled. He struggled against the compulsion. Damn her, she’d cast some spell. Something that made it impossible to keep his mouth closed. He had to say something. Needed to speak. He’d be damned if he told her the truth.
“Yes,” he spat the lie out when it became impossible to resist, and no sooner did the falsehood pass his lips than pain exploded behind his eye sockets. “Ah, fuck. Fuck. What is that?”
“Tell me the truth.” A pleading note entered her voice.
She sounded worried. Upset. He feared the sudden need he had to comfort her had nothing to do with her spell.
“The truth is never as painful as a lie.”
“I wasn’t attacked.” The pain in his skull eased. He panted, collapsing back into the chair. “I wasn’t attacked.” Holy hell that had been intense.
SUBMIT TO ME.
He jerked his face toward the voice though he couldn’t see a damned thing. Where the hell was it coming from? Was it her?
“YOU’LL NEVER FEEL—”
“What happened, Jules?”
“—PAIN AGAIN.”
The witch hadn’t reacted to the voice, she’d spoken over it. What if that voice was in his head? What if that voice was him?
“What happened to your eyes?”
The words tumbled out of his mouth, “I don’t remember.” Again, pain sliced through his skull, bending him forward. He grit his teeth. “Change the subject.”
She pulled him back in the recliner. Her cool hands smoothed over his forehead, combing through his hair until her fingers pressed at the base of his skull.
The pain evaporated.
“How do . . . you do . . . that?” Winded, he had to speak around harsh breaths.
“I told you, I’m a healer.” Her hands continued to stroke and soothe. “Now, tell me what happened.”
“I don’t—” A warning pain flared in his head. “Jesus.” He curled his lip into a sneer. “I cut them out.”
Her hands froze. “Why?”
“You sound horrified. You should. I’m a head job and you’re alone in here with me.” Oh, he’d give her the truth. “If you’re suicidal, there are easier ways.”
She threaded her fingers through his hair in soothing strokes again, but her hands carried a slight tremor now. Good. She should be scared. Terrified.
He was.
She giggled. “Enough with the shock and awe, handsome. Tell me why you’d do such a thing.”
Again, he tried to resist, but her questions had become a lure his voice demanded to follow. He pressed his lips together harder, but as if he had something vile in his mouth, his whole body shook with the need to purge himself of the answer. “I’m not sure.” The words flew out, heedless of his desire to remain silent, “There was . . . .” Stop it. Don’t say anything, boss. “A voice.”
Her hands paused. “Do you . . . see things, too?”
“Are you serious?” He motioned to the bandage covering his face. “I can’t see a goddamn thing.”
“Don’t cuss.” Her hands went back to work, kneading the base of his skull and while he wanted to push her away, he didn’t want the pain to come back. He didn’t want to be alone in the darkness.
“Have you heard these voices for long?”
He jerked away and sat up. “I�
��m not crazy, damn you. There’s only one voice.” He wasn’t. He couldn’t be.
“Only the one?”
Jesus, he was certifiable.
She came around the side of the chair. “Did you hear the voice when you were—”
She said something more, but his ears started to ring. High-pitched. Static-y. Colors bloomed behind his eyes, flashing and flickering. Pins and needles attacked his legs until his skin crawled. He needed to move. To walk. He stood and . . . . His muscles locked tight and everything went dark.
The goddess tried again. She decided that this time she would create souls in pairs. Each soul mirrored the other, reflecting back reactions to the other’s actions. This would allow the souls to have companionship. To grow and learn. This time, she would create a special place called Eden where the souls could know her.
The paired souls burst forth into the universe.
The goddess smiled. The souls were good.
Chapter 5
Kat had no idea what happened. Julius’ face had gone blank. He’d jerked into a standing position. Then he’d fallen over like a cut tree. She lunged forward, wrapping her arms around his waist, but he was far too heavy. They both tumbled to the ground. His top half hit the arm of the couch, protecting her from his full weight and keeping him from going face first into the brick fireplace. Still, she cringed when he bounced off and hit his head on the ledge. She squirmed out from under him.
His whole body shook. Eyes open. Features slack. Arms akimbo near his chest. All his muscles and veins stood out in harsh relief under his skin. She hesitated for a second or two as she assessed the situation. Seizure? She grabbed a pillow off the couch and tucked it under his head. She rolled him to his side.
“Jules?”
Nothing. She pulled off her sweater, shoving it between him and the coffee table where his leg kept hitting the wood. Could vampires have seizures? They were immortal . . . they couldn’t catch colds . . . but seizures were related to the brain, not a bug. No. Vampires didn’t have internal organs. This wasn’t biological.
The Knight: The Original's Trilogy - Book 3 Page 4