Dark Desire (7 page)

In the shower she allowed the hot water to pour over her, rinsing blood, sweat, dirt, and grime from her body. Shea fell asleep standing up. Minutes later a strange sensation in her mind, almost like the brush of butterfly wings, jerked her awake. She wrapped her long hair in a towel, pulled on her mint-green robe, and stumbled out to check on her patient. Switching off the generator, she made her way to the bed. The glass was still sitting on the nightstand. Full. Shea sighed. Very gently she touched his hair. “Please do what I
ask and drink the blood. I can't go to sleep until you do, and I'm so tired. Just this once, please listen to me.”

His fingertips traced the delicate bones of her face as if memorizing her shape, the satin softness of her lips. His palm spanned her throat, fingers curling around her neck. He pulled her toward him slowly, relentlessly.

“No.” The single word was more moan than protest. He increased the pressure almost tenderly until he had pulled her small form onto the bed beside him. His thumb found the pulse beating frantically in her neck. Shea knew she should struggle, but she was beyond caring, lying helplessly in his arms. She felt his mouth move over her bare skin, a whisper of movement, an enticement. His tongue stroked gently. She closed her eyes against the waves beating in her head. He was there. In her mind. Feeling her emotions, sharing her thoughts. Heat coiled in her as his mouth moved over her pulse again. His teeth scraped, nipped; his tongue caressed. The sensation was curiously erotic. Searing pain gave way to warmth and drowsiness. Shea relaxed against him, gave herself up to him. He could decide life or death. She was simply too tired to care.

 

Reluctantly he lifted his head, sweeping his tongue carefully to close the wound. He savored the taste of her—hot, exotic, the promise of passion. There was something terribly wrong with him; he understood that. Part of him was locked away so that he had no past. Fragments of memory seemed like shards of glass piercing his skull, so he tried not to allow them in. She was his world. Somehow he knew she was his only sanity, his only path out of his dark prison of pain and madness.

Why hadn't she come to him right away, when he had first called her? He had been so aware of her presence in the world. He had bent his will and commanded her obedience, but she had waited. Jacques had had every intention of pun
ishing her for forcing him to endure madness and pain. Now, none of it made any sense. She had suffered much for him. Had there been some reason she had resisted his call? Perhaps the betrayer or the assassins had been following her. Whatever the reason, she had suffered greatly at his hands already. It didn't make sense that she had deserted him deliberately, prolonged his agony. He could read compassion in her. He felt her willingness to trade her own life for his. When he touched her mind, he felt only light and goodness. It did not add up to the cruel, treacherous woman he had perceived her to be.

Jacques was weak, vulnerable in his present state, unable to protect either of them. Shea was small and fragile. He had been so alone. Without light or color. He had spent an eternity alone, and he would never go back to that ugly, dark world. He slashed a wound in his chest, cradled her head to him, and commanded her to drink. Binding her to him was as natural as breathing. He could not bear to let her out of his sight. Shea belonged to him, and right at this moment she needed blood every bit as much as he did. The blood exchange had been made. Their mental bond was strong. When his body was healed he would complete the ritual, and she would be irrevocably bound to him for all eternity. It was instinct as old as time itself. He knew what to do and that he must do it.

As small as she was, Shea felt right in his arms, a part of his insides. None of it made sense, but in his narrow world, it didn't matter. Even as she fed, her mouth soft and sensuous against his torn flesh, he lifted the glass and carelessly emptied the contents down his throat. When he had sensed her sleeping as she bathed, he had awakened her, fearful of the separation. Now she would sleep beside him where she belonged, where he might have a chance of protecting her should the assassins find them. He might not be at full
strength, but the monster in him was strong and lethal. No one would harm her.

The one bit of his memory that remained, forever etched into his mind, was the scent of the two humans and of the betrayer who had lured him to his living hell. He would recognize the voices of the tormentors and their smell. Demons. God, how they'd made him suffer, how they'd enjoyed his suffering. Laughing, taunting, torturing him until madness reigned. And it still reigned. He knew he was struggling for his sanity.

He would never forget the hunger as they bled him dry. Hunger had burned holes in him, crawled through him, eaten at him from the inside out. To survive he had slept, heart and lungs ceasing so that what little blood his body retained, he kept. He woke only when food was near. Always alone, unable to move, in agony. He had learned hatred. He had learned rage. He had learned there was a place where there was nothing, only stark, ugly emptiness and the burning desire for revenge.

Had these same animals attempted to hunt Shea? The thought of her in their hands sickened him. He fit her close to him so he could feel her reassuring presence. Was she being hunted? Were they close on her trail? If he had unfairly punished her failure to aid him, he would never forgive himself. He had wanted to kill her, had almost done so. Something inside him had been unable to do it. And then she had ceased to struggle, offering her blood, her life for him. He had thought himself hard, impossible to touch, yet something in him had melted at her offering. And the way her fingertips had brushed his hair had sent his heart pounding.

He cursed his weakness, both of body and mind. He needed more blood, hot human blood. It would speed his healing. There was something terribly important eluding
him. It slipped in and out of his mind, leaving pain and fragments in its wake. If he could just hold it for a moment he might remember, but it never stayed long enough to do other than drive him mad. It was unbearably frustrating to have his memory taken from him.

Shea groaned softly, the sound cutting through him like a knife. She was shivering, even in her heavy robe. His gaze quickly jumped to her face. She was in pain. He felt it in her mind. Instinctively he laid a hand on her stomach, fingers splayed wide. Something was happening inside her body. Again his head seemed to splinter as he tried to catch the memory. He should know. It was important for her.

Shea rolled over and came to her knees, clutching her stomach. Her eyes were wide with fear. She was extremely cold, as if she would never be warm again. Shivering, she could only rock back and forth as wave after wave of pain shook her small frame. Heat was burning her insides, eating through her internal organs, squeezing her heart, her lungs. She rolled off the bed onto the floor, landing hard, attempting to protect her patient from whatever virus she had contracted. The towel unraveled, and her hair spilled out like dark blood pooling around her head. Her abdomen was on fire. A fine sheen of perspiration coated her body; across her forehead was a faint ribbon of scarlet.

Jacques tried to move, to get to her, but his body was not his own, lying heavy and useless. His arm couldn't reach her. His every movement brought pain rippling through him, but his world for so long had been pain, he knew no other. It had been his only reality in the darkened eternity of the damned. Pain only added to his iron will. He would live for all eternity and find those who had taken his past. He would turn that same iron will to finding a way to help Shea.

Shea's slender body writhed, locked, writhed again. She rolled to her knees, tried to crawl toward her medical bag.
She wasn't thinking; the movement was blind, instinctive. She had no idea where she was or what was happening to her, only that the fire consuming her had to stop.

He struggled, raged at his inability to move, to help her. Finally he lay back, crawling into her mind as he had many times before in an effort to save himself.
Come to me, to my side.

The whisper of sound, the thread of sanity, was in her head. Shea knew he had not spoken aloud. She was hallucinating. She groaned, rolled over, and curled up in the fetal position, making herself as small as possible. She would not go near him. If this were contagious, he would not survive such a virulent flu.

What if she didn't survive? What if she had brought him here, and, with no one to care for him, she left him to die slowly of starvation? Somehow she had to tell him there was blood in the icebox. It was too late. Another wave of fire beat at her, attacking her internally, spreading to every organ. She could only draw up her knees like a mortally wounded animal and wait for it to pass.

You must come to me. I can help ease the pain.
The words penetrated her next moment of lucidity. He sounded so tender, so unlike the way he looked. She didn't care if she was going crazy, if she was making his voice up; there was a soothing quality, like the touch of gentle, cool fingers on her body, to the voice in her mind.

Shea was going to be sick. Something in her, some ridiculous shred of dignity, made it possible to drag herself to the bathroom. He could hear her, fighting to stop the endless stomach spasms. Her agony was worse for him than his own, his rage at his impotence growing until he was consumed with it. Fingernails lengthened to murderous claws, tore holes in the sheets. Outside the wind picked up, howled at the windows, and ripped through the trees. A low growl rumbled in his throat, in his mind, increasing in
volume. She was trying to protect him. He was a male of his race, his duty to take care of his own, yet she was suffering the fires of hell and refusing his aid lest she somehow give him her illness. He knew it was hers alone, that the fire twisting her insides was something important. She had to come to him; he did not know why, but every instinct, every cell in his body demanded her compliance.

You must come to me. I cannot get to you. There is no danger to me, little red hair. I must insist on your obedience.
It was an imperious demand, the voice a soft yet steely thread of sound. Very Old World, heavily accented. At the same time his voice was brushing at her skin, soothing her, promising his aid.

In the bathroom, Shea splashed cold water on her face and rinsed her mouth. She had a minute or two before the next wave hit. She could feel the wild man's mixed emotions. He was frustrated with his inability to help her, was determined to reach her should she not respond. She was amazed that he needed to help her. It was an all-consuming emotion that vibrated in the air. Shea wanted to do as he commanded but was terrified of infecting him. The way her body was convulsing and pulsing with pain, she was certain it would kill him. Yet she wanted the comfort of another being.

I cannot come to you. You must come to me.
His voice was pitched low, black velvet enticement, impossible to ignore.

Shea pushed herself off the wall and stumbled back to the bedroom, her face starkly white, shadows under her eyes. The bruises and wounds on her throat stood out plainly. She looked so fragile, he was afraid she would break if she fell again. He held out a hand to her, the expression in his dark eyes a mixture of demand and gentleness.

“You probably gave me rabies,” she muttered rebel
liously, but already the fire was eating at her spleen, her kidneys, spreading from tissue to muscle, bones, and blood.

Come
now!
I cannot take your suffering a moment longer
. Deliberately he used that same mesmerizing tone, so that she felt an overwhelming need to do as he asked her. The voice seemed to be echoing in her mind, impelling her forward until she made it to the bed, rolling into a ball, burying her face in the pillow, hoping for death.

His hand gently, almost tenderly, pushed back the heavy fall of hair from around her face, traced his thumbprint on her neck. He made an effort to search inside his mind for information. There was a key somewhere, a way to end her suffering, but, like his past, it eluded him. He was failing her when she had already endured so much to ensure his survival. He wanted to roar at the heavens, tear someone's throat out. They had done this to him.

Two humans and a betrayer. They had taken his past, shattered his mind, and imprisoned him in a living hell. Worst of all they had taken away his ability to protect his lifemate. They had created a monster the likes of which they could not conceive.

He touched her swollen throat, examined her wounds. Shea was beside him, locked in her own world of suffering. This was so wrong. His head ached, splintered. He damned himself and wrapped an arm around her waist, offering her what comfort he could. The dawn was upon them, and he inadvertently did the one thing he needed to do. He issued a sharp command and sent them both to sleep.

The silence in the cabin was broken by the hum of night creatures singing to one another. The sun was setting, and the land was once more theirs. Air filled lungs, a chest rose and fell, a heart began to beat. The rush of agony always overwhelmed him, took his breath, his mind. He lay still, waiting for his mind to accept the atrocities that had been done to his body. Hunger rose, a sharp, gnawing emptiness that could never be assuaged. Rage flooded, consuming him, a need to kill, to fill the terrible emptiness.

Into the middle of that cauldron of intense, violent emotion suddenly came something soft and gentle. A wisp of memory. Courage. Beauty. A woman. Not any woman, but his woman, his lifemate. All red hair and fire. She walked like an angel where men feared to tread, where even his own kind would fear to venture.

He wrapped a length of her silky hair around one fist, afraid to wake her, afraid she would be in pain. Shea. Why didn't she ever use his name? Reluctantly he issued the command to awaken her and watched as air rushed into her body, listened to the ebb and flow of blood circulating
through her heart. Her eyelashes fluttered. She burrowed against his warmth, unknowing for a moment. He touched her mind cautiously, took inventory. Within moments of awakening, her mind had already begun trying to assimilate all that had happened to her the night before, running through a list of diseases and their symptoms. Her body was sore. He found hunger, weakness, fear for his recovery, his sanity, fear of who and what he was. Guilt that she had slept instead of watching over him. An urgent need to complete her work, her research. Compassion for him, terror that he would not heal and that perhaps she had made his suffering worse. Fear they would be found before he was strong enough to go his own way.

His eyebrows went up.
Our way is the same
.

She sat up gingerly, swept back her tangled, wild hair. “You could have said you speak English. How do you do that? How can you talk in my head instead of aloud?”

He simply watched her curiously with his black, fathomless eyes.

Shea eyed him warily. “You aren't getting ready to bite me again, are you? I've got to tell you, there isn't a place on my body that isn't sore.” She flashed him a wan smile. “Just out of curiosity, your rabies shots are up to date, aren't they?” His eyes were doing something to her insides, causing a flood of warmth where it shouldn't be.

His gaze dropped to her lips. The shape of her mouth fascinated him, along with the light so clearly shining from her soul. He raised a hand to cup her cheek, to feather his thumb along her delicate jawline; his fingertip traveled up to her chin to find the satin perfection of her full lower lip.

Her heart somersaulted and heat rushed low, pooling into a distinct ache. His hand slid around to the nape of her neck. Slowly, inexorably, he forced her head down toward his. Shea closed her eyes, wanting, yet dreading his taking
her blood. “I'd hate to have to feed you every day,” she muttered rebelliously.

And then his mouth touched hers. Featherlight, a skimming brush Shea felt right down to her toes. His teeth scraped her lower lip, teasing, tempting, enticing.

Darts of fire raced through her bloodstream. Her stomach muscles clenched.
Open your mouth for me, stubborn little red hair
. His teeth tugged; his tongue followed with a soothing caress. Shea gasped as much at the tender, teasing note as at the feel of his lips on hers. He took advantage immediately, fastening his mouth to hers, his tongue exploring every inch of her velvet-soft interior.

Flames licked at her, swept through her like a storm. Electricity crackled, and Shea knew the full meaning of chemistry. Feeling. Pure and simple. There was nothing else but his mouth claiming hers, whirling her into another world she hadn't known existed. The ground shifted, and Shea clutched at his shoulders to keep from floating to the clouds. He was sweeping aside every resistance, demanding her response, taking her response, all hunger and desire. Then he was in her mind, white-hot heat, possession. She was his, only his, always his. Smug male satisfaction.

Shea shoved at his broad shoulders, then tumbled backward to the floor, wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand. They glared at one another, until amusement crept into her mind. Low, male, taunting. Nothing showed on his face, not a flicker in the ice of his eyes, but she knew he was laughing at her.

It took a moment to realize her robe was gaping open, giving him a generous view of her bare skin. With great dignity Shea dragged the lapels together. “I think we need to straighten something out here.” Sitting on the floor, struggling desperately to get her breathing under control, to throw ice water on the raging fire in her blood, Shea was afraid he wasn't going to take her seriously. “I am your
doctor. You are my patient. This…” She waved a hand, searching for the right words. “This sort of thing is unethical. And another thing. I am in charge here. You follow my orders, not the other way around. Absolutely never, under any circumstances, do that again.” Involuntarily she touched her fingers to her lower lip. “It wouldn't have happened at all if you hadn't infected me with some sort of, I don't know, rabies strain.” She glared at him.

He simply watched her with his disconcertingly steady gaze. Shea inhaled, wrinkled her nose, desperate to change the subject to something safe. He was supposed to be half-dead. He should have been dead. No one should be able to kiss like that after the agony he had been through. She had never, ever responded to anyone the way she had to him. Never. It was shocking, the effect he had on her.

There was a sudden glint in his eyes, somewhere between a flame dancing and amusement.
No other man must ever make you respond to him. I would not be pleased
.

“Quit reading my mind!” Her cheeks flushed a bright red; she glared at him. “This is a totally improper conversation between a doctor and a patient.”

Perhaps, but not between us
.

She clenched her teeth, her green eyes smoldering. “Shut up,” she said rudely, a little desperately. She had to find a way to get control back, and he wasn't cooperating. She took a deep, calming breath to restore her dignity. “You need a bath. And your hair could use a good wash.” Shea stood up and gingerly touched his thick ebony hair, unaware that the gesture was curiously intimate. “You were number seven. I wonder if any of the others live. God, I hope not. I have no way to find them.”

As she turned, he caught her wrist.
What is number seven?

Shea sighed softly. “Those men, the ones who hunt me, had photographs of some of their victims murdered around
seven years ago. Eight bodies were found, though likely there were more victims than anyone knew. People refer to them as the ‘vampire' murders because the victims were killed with a wooden stake driven through the heart. The picture numbered as seven was yours. You. It was you.”

His eyes questioned her further. Hunger was intruding, becoming a sharp, distracting ache. He was so much in her mind, she couldn't tell if he or she was in desperate need of blood. “Do you know your name?”

There was the impression of confusion.
You know; you are my lifemate.

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Lifemate? You—you think we know one another? I've never met you before in my life.”

His black eyes narrowed. His mind pushed at hers in confusion, in sudden dismay. He seemed certain she was lying to him.

Shea shoved a hand through her hair, the action parting her robe slightly, lifting her breasts. “I dreamed about you. Sometimes I thought about you…maybe even felt your presence. But I never actually laid eyes on you until two nights ago.” Was it only forty-eight hours? It felt like a lifetime. “Something drew me to that forest, to that cellar, I didn't know you were there.”

More confusion.
You did not know?
He was probing her mind. She could feel him sharing her head, and it was strange. He felt familiar to her; she recognized his touch. It was strange, exhilarating, but frightening to have someone capable of learning such intimate knowledge of her. Shea told herself she endured his examination only because he was clearly agitated. She had a physician's need to soothe him, to take away every pain from his body and his mind. The urge had nothing to do with the way he made her feel.

Everything around her seemed so different. Colors were more than just vivid, they were startling in depth. She was
uneasy with her acceptance of so many bizarre events, uncomfortable with the facility with which he slipped in and out of her mind. His fingers suddenly tightened like a band around her wrist.
I am Jacques. I am your lifemate. There is no question that I can share your mind. It is my right, as it is yours to share mine. More than a right, it is a necessity for us both.

She had no idea what he was talking about, so she ignored his statement, worried that he seemed so distressed over her lack of knowledge of him. She found herself needing to touch his hair with gentle fingers. “Can you use your voice at all?”

His eyes answered, impatient, frustrated at his own inability.

Her fingertips found his forehead, calming, soothing. “Don't worry. Your body's been through a lot. Give it some time. You're already healing amazingly fast. Do you know who did this to you?”

Two humans, one betrayer.
Rage welled up, and for a moment red flames glowed in the depths of his black eyes.

Shea's heart nearly stopped, and she jerked backward to put distance between them. He moved faster, his arm a blur. His fingers circled her wrist, preventing escape. His grip was unbreakable—she felt his raw strength—yet he was not hurting her at all.

With an effort he pushed down the demons, angry with himself for alarming her. His thumb feathered lightly over the inside of her wrist, making him all too aware of her pulse racing frantically. Very, very gently he tugged until she was forced to his side.
I know little of my past, but almost from the beginning of my imprisonment I have known of you. I waited. I called you to my side. I hated you for allowing my suffering to continue.

She caught his face in her hands, suddenly anxious that he believe her. “I didn't know. I swear to you, I didn't
know. I never would have left you there.” Grief clogged her throat that she had not somehow ended his suffering sooner. What was it about him that drew her like a magnet, that captivated her and made her want to ease his pain? The urge was so strong in her, so intense, she could hardly bear to see him lying so vulnerable and shattered.

I know you speak the truth; you cannot lie to me. It was a courageous thing you did, rescuing me. But as your lifemate I can do no other than forbid you to ever take such a risk again.
He sounded totally complacent, as if she would do as he said simply because he wished it. Every moment he was awake he became more tyrannical, more possessive. She glared at him, her green eyes smoldering dangerously. “You can quit with the orders, Mr. Jacques whoever-you-are. No one tells me what to do.”

His black gaze slid over her calmly. So she had not been part of his life before. The information amazed him. How had she found the courage to save him the way she had? How had she returned to him after he had nearly ripped her throat out? His fingers tightened around her wrist, tugged until she relaxed against him.

You are my lifemate
. The words came from somewhere deep inside his heart. He had no idea why he needed to say them, he knew only that it was imperative that he do so; it seemed his entire being forced the words out of his soul.
I claim you as my lifemate. I belong to you. I offer my life for you. I give you my protection, my allegiance, my heart, my soul, and my body. I take into my keeping the same that is yours. Your life, happiness, and welfare will be cherished and placed above my own for all time. You are my lifemate, bound to me for all eternity and always in my care.

Shea heard the words echoing in her mind, felt a rush of heat, of blood. Fear welled up, stark terror. “What have you done?” She whispered it, her eyes enormous. “What have you done to us?”

You know the answer.

She shook her head adamantly. “I don't. I don't know. But I'm different, I can feel it. Those words did something to us.” She could feel it; she couldn't describe it. She felt tiny threads, a million strong, binding his soul to hers, weaving their hearts together, their minds. She no longer felt like a single entity but one complete being with him. There had always been a raw emptiness inside her; now it was gone.

He released her wrist reluctantly, traced his fingertips along her high cheekbone. His mind touched hers, found genuine fear and confusion.
I am as much in the dark as you are. I know only that you ended my suffering, that you came to my call, that I recognize my other half. You are the light to my darkness.

Shea edged away from him, making certain to get beyond his reach. “I'm your doctor, Jacques, nothing more. I heal people.” She said it more for herself than for him. Shea had no idea what he was talking about. She worried that his mind was playing tricks on him, weaving fantasies for him. Intellectually, Shea knew no one could tie another to himself with words, yet she
felt
threads binding them together. There were too many things she didn't understand. Jacques was half mad, his mind shattered, his memories coming to him in tiny pieces, yet maybe he was more stable than she was. It was a scary thought.

She was so hungry, the need for blood nearly overwhelming. She had never experienced such a craving. Shea decided she was feeling Jacques' hunger, that somehow she was actually sharing his distress. At once she poured the wild man two pints of blood from her supply and took the tall glass to his bedside. “I'm sorry, I should have realized you'd be hungry. If you let me give you intravenous fluids, it would help.” The moment she put the glass down, she retreated to her computer desk.