Dark Desire (9 page)

Grateful for her compassion, Jacques allowed the fragmented pieces of his memory to escape for a while and leave him in peace. He watched with interest as Shea took a blood sample from her arm and made several smears on small glass squares. Her excitement was so intense, her rush of joy so totally encompassing, that it pushed aside her gnawing hunger. Her mind was consumed with facts, hypotheses, and a bombardment of data. All at once she was far away from him, completely absorbed with her work. Jacques watched her, reached lazily for the glass on the end table, and swallowed the contents to dull his own terrible hunger.

Even after an hour of observation he saw that Shea remained completely focused on whatever she was doing, concentrating totally on her task. He enjoyed watching her, found her fascinating, every turn of her head, the fringe of her long eyelashes in profile. She often shoved at her hair when she was puzzled. Small teeth would worry her full lower lip. Her fingers flew on the keyboard, her gaze fastened on the monitor. Frequently she would consult notes
and several books with a slight, all-too-alluring frown on her face. He found he liked that little frown, the habit she had of biting her lip.

Every time he recognized hunger beating at her, she seemed to be able to push it aside. Just as she had temporarily pushed him aside, out of her thoughts. That actually annoyed him a bit, but he also felt a sense of pride in her. Whatever she did, she did wholeheartedly. Still, Shea was ignoring the danger to herself, so absorbed in her work that she blocked out everything around her. Jacques thought about reminding her of the hazards, but instead he opted to remain alert enough to scan their surroundings, slipping in and out of the mortal's sleep.

Jacques jerked himself awake four hours later, then cursed at the clumsiness that sent pain spiraling through his body. He felt hunger, weakness, a swaying dizziness. Black eyes leapt to Shea. She was peering at a notebook, pencil clenched in her teeth. Her skin was so pale, it was nearly translucent. The intense emotions in the room were hers, yet she seemed not to notice. Her mind fought to merge with his; he could feel it tuning itself, vibrating with need, but Shea was disciplined, strong, and very determined. She brought her thoughts back under control, focusing on her work.

He felt a curious melting in the region of his heart. Ice-cold hatred and fury, the need for revenge, for retribution, had been the force driving him to live. He had not thought himself capable of tenderness, yet Shea managed to bring it out of him. He was first and always a predator. Shea was light to his darkness, radiating beauty as if it shone through her skin from her soul. She had introduced gentler emotions to him.

She needed a break, rest. Most of all she needed to feed. If he was completely honest, he needed her touch, her attention. Deliberately, he moaned softly in his mind, his head
back, eyes closed. He sensed her instant alertness, her concern. A rustle of papers signaled she had set her notes aside. Jacques beat down a sense of triumph, concentrating on the pain that encompassed his battered body.

Shea glided across the room, not noticing how silent she was, how efficient her body had become, moving with grace and speed. Her hand was cool on his forehead, soothing. She brushed back his grimy hair, her touch so soft that his heart ached. She bent to examine his wounds with a professional eye. Antibiotics wouldn't work on him any more than they did on her. Perhaps new soil would help. “I'm sorry I can't take your pain away, Jacques. I would if I could.” Her voice was filled with concern, with regret. “I'll get you some fresh soil and wash your hair for you. It isn't much, but it can be soothing and might help.” Her fingers were drawn to his mane of hair again, then traced his shadowed jaw in a small caress.

Both his hands came up, caught her with surprising strength, his black eyes capturing hers so that she felt she was falling forward into those dark, mysterious pools.
You have not fed
. She could get lost in his gaze for all time. She could hear the sound of her heart tuning itself to his. It was strange yet normal how their hearts seemed to want to beat in the same rhythm.

“I don't drink human blood. I transfuse if I'm desperate, but I can't make myself drink it,” she explained quietly. She felt him now, in her mind, his touch calming and gentle. But there was also a hard authority in him. His will was so strong, nothing could resist him when he insisted. She wanted him to understand. “I am human, Jacques. Drinking blood is abhorrent to me.”

To try to live for any length of time without feeding is dangerous. You must drink
. Although Jacques tried to make it a simple statement of fact, it came out as a soft command. He didn't know where the information came
from, only that it was true. It was plain to him she wanted his understanding in this ridiculous regimen she was forcing on herself, but it made no sense to him, and he could not allow such foolishness. He had to find a way to make her realize what she was doing to herself.

She smoothed back his hair, the touch of her fingers stirring interesting reactions in his battered body. Unaware of what she was doing to him, Shea smiled into his eyes. “I accepted a long time ago I would die if I was unable to find a cure. Now, do you want me to wash your hair?”

His hands tightened on her slender shoulders, pulled her down to him.
You know, little red hair, as your lifemate it is my duty to see to your health. My purpose in life is to protect you and see to your needs. You are weak, unable to perform the most basic survival skills. This cannot continue. You must use the blood you are supplying to me for yourself.

There was something magical in his voice. She could listen to it forever. “There's very little left. As it is, I'll have to visit the local blood bank soon.” She had already used most of her units to try to replace the tremendous volume of blood he had lost. “Really, Jacques, don't worry about me. I do this all the time.”

Look at me, little Shea
. His voice dropped an octave. Low. Compelling. An enticement. His black eyes held her green ones. Warmth flooded her mind; arms surrounded her, held her close. She fell further into deep, dark pools of burning heat.
You will accept my blood, as you are meant to
. He gave the command softly, firmly, holding her mind with his. The strength of his will, shaped by centuries of practice and honed by the fires of hell, conquered hers. Without hesitation he drew her to his chest, cradling her tenderly in his arms.

She seemed so light, so small and fragile. He loved the line of her throat, the satin perfection of her skin, her
mouth. With one nail Jacques opened a small wound in his heavy muscles, pressed her to him, and felt heat coil unexpectedly deep within him. His gut clenched, and desire shot through him, piercing and sweet. The feel of her mouth on him was erotic. Their minds were merged as he held her. It was an intimacy he was unfamiliar with. In the midst of pain and darkness, hatred and rage, she had brought light, compassion, and courage. Where there was bleak despair and a weak, empty shell, she had given him the beginnings of strength and power, blossoming hope. Where there was endless pain, an eternity of hell, she was bringing beauty, joy, and an intense pleasure he almost could not comprehend.

Jacques did not want to end their joining, but he needed every drop of blood to try to heal his broken body and mend his fractured mind. He didn't dare allow her to take too much from him. Already his hunger was growing. He needed fresh blood, hot and rich, flowing straight from his prey. Reluctantly he stopped her, felt flames dance over his skin as her tongue caressed him, closing the wound.

For a moment he dropped his head over hers, savoring the closeness of her body, her scent, savoring the beauty of her spirit. He could no longer bear to be alone, separated from her even for a moment. Seven years of darkness, of total isolation, of believing she had deliberately allowed, even prolonged, his suffering. To know it wasn't true, that, indeed, her courage had saved him, had given him back hope, a chance at living. Jacques would never survive her loss. He could not let her out of his sight, out of his mind. He was so fragmented, she alone was holding him together.

He released her will slowly, watching her closely, intently, black eyes burning possessively. Her long lashes fluttered, and the cloudiness vanished, leaving glittering emeralds behind, flawless and mysterious. Cool beauty fired to flashing flame. “What have you done this time,
Jacques? You absolutely cannot take care of me. I mean it. You have no idea just how close to death you really are. You cannot afford the loss of blood.”

His faint smile was in her mind.
You are my lifemate, always in my care. I can do no other than provide what you need
.

She shook her head slowly. “What am I going to do with you? You need every drop of blood we can get our hands on. I'm used to getting by on tiny amounts.”

Getting by is not good enough
. He growled it at her, black eyes glittering.

Shea rolled her eyes heavenward. “At least have the decency to try to look guilty. You needn't be so smug and annoying.” Her fingers found his tangle of hair again, brushed it from his forehead. “I wonder about you, Jacques. Where your family is.”

Confusion reflected in his eyes, a black void suddenly filled with splintering pain. She caught at his hand, reeling under the impact of her mind sharing, even for a split second, the agony in his. “Stop, Jacques. Don't try to force your memory. It will come back as you heal. Just relax. I'll bathe your wounds and wash your hair. It'll be soothing to you.”

Her fingers were soothing on his skin, sending coolness into his burning mind. His body responded, relaxing muscles clenched taut, releasing a bit of the pain wracking him. Her touch gave him a flicker of light to follow, hope that the pain would actually end someday. He closed his eyes and gave himself up to her ministrations. The sound of her moving so lightly around the house was comforting. Her natural fragrance and the faint aroma of herbs and flowers that drifted from her skin and hair seemed to surround him like arms holding him close.

Shea touched him gently as she examined his wounds. Her sponge seemed to skim over raw, damaged flesh, leaving a curious tingling in its wake. The warm water pouring
over his hair as she cradled his head in her arm felt so good, it was almost sensuous. As her fingertips massaged herbal shampoo into his scalp, he concentrated on the feeling, for a few minutes able to push aside his world of pain.

“You have beautiful hair,” Shea said softly, rinsing the suds away with more warm water. Her arm was aching with the effort to hold his head up over the plastic basin, but she could sense she was bringing him a measure of peace. She removed the basin, maneuvered a towel onto his pillow, and helped him slide back to his original position.

As she dried his hair, her hands lingered in his scalp; she enjoyed touching him. “You're very tired. Go back to sleep.”

More blood.
The husky, drowsy note echoing in her mind turned her insides soft and warm.

Without hesitating, Shea poured a unit into a glass and busied herself dumping the wash water and mopping up the floor. As she moved past the bed, his hand snaked out, fingers shackling her wrist, drawing her close.

“What?” Shea perched on the edge of the bed, a faint smile on her face, her eyes soft, even tender, although she was unaware of it.

His palm slid up her arm; strong fingers massaged her aching shoulder.
Thank you, little red hair. You make me feel alive again
.

“You are alive, Jacques,” she reassured him, smoothing back his hair. “Disrespectful but definitely alive. I don't know a single physician referred to as ‘little red hair.'”

Her quiet laughter remained in his mind long after he fell into the mortal state of sleeping. On some level he was aware of her closeness as she mixed soil, herbs, and saliva for his wounds, and it soothed him, kept rage, pain, and the terror of his empty, isolated world at bay.

Shea opened the door to the night and inhaled deeply. The amount of information that flooded her was shocking. Creatures were roaming the forest, and Shea knew the precise location of each animal, from a pack of wolves several miles away to three mice scurrying in the bushes close by. She could hear water roaring in cascading falls and bubbling softly over rocks. The wind played through the trees, the underbrush, and the very leaves on the ground. The stars glittered overhead like millions of jewels radiating prisms of colors.

Entranced, Shea stepped from the cottage, leaving the door open to allow the odor of blood and sweat and pain to seep outside, to be replaced with clean, fresh air. She could hear the sap running like blood in the trees. Every plant had a special scent, a vivid color. It was as if she had been re-born into a whole new world. She lifted her face to the stars, drawing air into her lungs, relaxing for the first time in forty-eight hours.

An owl slipped silently through the sky, its wingspan incredibly long, each feather iridescent to her new sight. The
sheer wonder of it drew her toward the deep woods. Droplets of water sparkled like diamonds on moss-covered rocks. The moss itself looked like emeralds scattered along the winding stream and up the trunks of trees. She had never seen anything so beautiful in her life.

Her mind, as always, processed the data flooding into her brain. It was all a huge jigsaw puzzle, but the pieces were beginning to fit themselves together. She had been born to a woman who ate food and walked in the sunshine. Yet she—and others—displayed decided differences in sensitivities, metabolism, nutritional requirements. It was impossible to believe that the vampire legends were true. But could there be a separate race of people with incredible gifts who needed to drink blood to survive? Could they live incredibly long lives, survive the unthinkable, be able to control their hearts and lungs? Their bodies would have to process everything differently. Their organs would have to be different. Everything would be different.

Shea shoved at her hair. Her tongue swept her lower lip, teeth biting nervously. It was something out of a fairy tale. Or a horror film. Impossible. Wasn't it? A man could not survive seriously wounded, buried seven years in the earth. No way. It couldn't happen. But she had found him. It wasn't a lie. She had uncovered him herself. So how could one's sanity remain after seven years of being buried alive, of being in agony every moment? Her mind shied away from that question. She didn't want to dwell on it.

And what was happening to her body? She was different. Many changes had started seven years ago, with sudden pain driving her to the point of unconsciousness. That episode had never been explained. Then the nightmares, so persistent, so relentless, never giving her a moment's peace, had started.
Jacques
. Always Jacques. The picture, two years ago, the human butchers had shown her. The seventh one.
Jacques
. Something drawing her, calling her insistently
to that horrible place of torture and cruelty.
To Jacques
. They had to be connected. Somehow, some way. Intellectually it seemed impossible. By every standard she knew it was impossible. Yet wasn't her very existence strange? Her need to transfuse blood wasn't psychosomatic; she had tried everything to overcome it. So maybe there was another explanation, one her human mind and prejudices could not comprehend, even with the facts in front of her.

Shea!
The call was loud, a flood of fear and confusion, an impression of strangling, of darkness and pain.

I'm here, Jacques
. She sent her answer back so easily it startled her. To reassure him, she tried to fill her mind with every beautiful thing she saw.

Come back to me. I need you.

She smiled at the demand in his voice; her heart somersaulted at the raw truth in his voice. He never tried to hide anything from her, not even his elemental fear of her leaving him to face the darkness alone.
Spoiled brat
. She sent it tenderly.
There's no need to sound like the lord of the manor. I'll be right in.
There was no reasonable explanation for the joy flooding her at the touch of his mind lingering possessively in hers. She shied away from looking at that one too closely, too.

Just come to me.
He was more relaxed now, beating back his fear of isolation.
I do not want to wake alone
.

I do need an occasional break. How was I supposed to know you would wake at this precise moment?

She was teasing him. Warmth curled in the pit of his stomach. He had no memory of such a thing before Shea. There was no life before Shea. There had been only ugliness. His world had been torment and hell. He found himself smiling.
Of course you should know when I wake. It is your duty.

I should have known you would think that way.
Shea laughed aloud as she raced across the rough terrain back to
the cabin, reveling in her ability to do so, at the sudden surge of strength she had never before experienced. For just a brief moment a heavy weight seemed lifted from her shoulders, and she knew carefree happiness.

Jacques found he couldn't take her eyes from her. She looked so beautiful, her red hair tangled and wild, just begging for a man's fingers to straighten it. Her eyes were sparkling as she came across the room to his side.

“Are you feeling any better?” As always she examined his wounds to see for herself if he was making progress.

He lifted a hand, needing to touch the silk of her hair.
Much
. It was a blatant lie, and she scowled at him.

“Is that so? I'm beginning to think you need a monitor like we have for newborns. I want you to lie quietly. I can tell you've been squirming around again.”

I have nightmares.
His black eyes never left her face, burning his brand into her heart. No one had the right to have eyes like his. Hungry eyes. Eyes that held fire and the promise of passion.

“We'll have to do something about them,” Shea said with a slight smile. She hoped her own eyes weren't revealing her confused, unfamiliar feelings for him. She would get over them soon; it was just that he was the sexiest thing she had ever encountered.

No one had ever needed her as he did. Not even her own mother. Jacques had a way of looking at her as if his life, the very air he breathed, depended solely on her. Intellectually she knew that any living person would really do for him, but she wrapped herself up in his hunger and fire anyway. For this time in her life, when she was alone and hunted, near the end of her endurance, and coping with many bizarre happenings, she would enjoy this unique experience.

His black eyes smoldered, a velvet seduction.
I need a dream to rid myself of nightmares.

She backed away from him, holding a palm outward to
ward him off. “Just you keep your ideas to yourself,” she warned. “You have that devil's look, the one that says no woman is safe.”

That is not true, Shea
, he denied, the hard edge of his mouth softening into temptation.
Only one woman. You.

She laughed at him. “I think I'm very grateful you're in no condition to move around. The sun is coming up, and I have to secure the cottage for daylight. Go back to sleep. I'll be here when you wake up.” Shea patted the one comfortable chair she had.

You will lie beside me where you should be,
he informed her.

Shea carefully closed the shutters on the windows and fastened them. She was always cautious in locking her home. During the day she was very vulnerable. Already she could feel her body slowing, becoming heavier, more tired.

I want you to lie beside me.
His voice was a sinful caress, enticing, insistent.

“I think you can manage all by yourself,” she answered, refusing to look into his dark, hypnotic eyes. Instead, she shut off her computer and the generator and locked the door.

I have nightmares, little red hair. The only way to keep them at bay is to have you close beside me.
He sounded very earnest, innocent, hopeful.

Shea found herself smiling as she poured him another unit of blood. She was beginning to think the devil himself had shown up at her doorstep. Jacques was temptation incarnate. “I removed a stake from your heart just a couple of nights ago, and you have a major wound there. If I move around while I sleep, I could easily bump into you and start it bleeding again. You wouldn't want that, would you?”

He took the container from her hand, his fingers curling around the glass precisely over the spot where her fingers had been. He did things like that, intimate things that sent butterfly wings brushing deep within her.
Not my heart,
Shea. They did not get me in the heart, as they should have. It is here within my body—can you not hear it? Your heart beats with the same rhythm so that it matches mine.

“Were you a playboy before they buried you?” she asked him, tossing a mischievous grin over her shoulder. Shea checked her gun to make certain it was clean and loaded. “You need to drink that, Jacques, not just hold it. And then go back to sleep. The more rest you get, the faster you'll heal.”

You persist in being my doctor when I so need my lifemate to come and lie beside me.
Again his voice was temptation itself.

“Drink, Jacques.” She tried to sound stern, but it was impossible when he was looking so desperate for her company.

I am desperate.

She couldn't help but shake her head. “You're outrageous.”

He made an attempt to raise the glass to his mouth, but his arm wobbled.
I cannot lift this without your aid, Shea. I am too weak.

“Am I supposed to believe you?” She laughed aloud but crossed to his side. “You were strong enough to lift me off my feet with one hand when I found you. Don't give me that poor-little-boy look, Jacques, because it won't work.”

But it was working. He needed to feel her touch, the brush of her fingers in his hair, and she stroked his thick mane without conscious thought. Her fingers lingered as if she enjoyed the sensation as much as he did. Jacques took the gun from her hand and pulled her down beside him, as hungry for the feel of her warmth beside him as he was for the sustenance she provided. Her scent drifted to him—the forest, the flowers, and the night air itself. He wrapped an arm around her and held her to him. She relaxed, allowing her eyelashes to drift down.

Shea slept fitfully, her body cumbersome in the light of
the day. Jacques lay beside her, motionless, his arm a heavy weight curved possessively around her waist. Several times she struggled to surface during the afternoon hours, but it was an impossibility. Once she heard a noise outside the cabin, and her heart pounded in alarm, but she was unable to summon up enough energy to do more than clutch the gun beneath the pillow tightly. She knew she was responsible for their safety, yet she couldn't pry her eyes open or force herself to rise and check around the cabin to ensure no one was near.

The sun had long since sunk beneath the mountains before Shea managed to rouse herself. Hunger was a gnawing, relentless ache, but the thought of food made her stomach heave. She struggled to sit up, far weaker than she had ever been. She pushed a hand through her heavy fall of wine-red hair.

Jacques' fingers circled her arm, slid the length from shoulder to wrist. She was small and delicate, yet she had such inner strength. It amazed him how brave and courageous she was, how compassionate. He found her intriguing, mysterious even. The world as he knew it had begun seven years earlier: pain, isolation, and darkness. The monster in him had grown, eclipsed his soul. At first he had had no emotion at all, simply a will that would never die, an icy determination, a promise of retribution made in exchange for his lost soul. He would find them—the betrayer, the human assassins—and he would destroy them. But once he had found his lifemate, despite the distance that separated them, he had begun to feel. To smolder with a black fury that would never cease until he had found a way to retaliate for the loss of his soul. Every emotion he possessed was dark and ugly. Until Shea had changed him. Since the moment he had merged his mind with hers, he had stayed there in that haven, a part of her, a shadow so quiet she didn't al
ways know he was there. He could not bear to be away from her.

Jacques' fist tangled in her thick, luxurious hair. She stirred things in him he had no name for. He would never endure closed-in places again, never endure being alone again. And he would never allow Shea to place herself at risk. Silently cursing his weakened body, he brought the silken strands of her hair to his face, inhaling her fragrance.

“I'm so tired, Jacques,” she confessed, swaying slightly as she sat on the side of the bed. She found it strange to have someone to talk to, to wake up and not be alone. Shea should have been uncomfortable in the situation—she had never shared her life with anyone—yet with Jacques there was a weird familiarity, as if she had known him forever.

Her life had always been one of isolation, a certain distance always present between herself and others. Jacques had no respect for that barrier, slipping in and out of her head as if he belonged there. His touch was possessive, even intimate. Shea was bewildered by her own feelings, by her acceptance of their strange affinity. She was excited at her rare scientific find, perhaps holding an answer to the terrible disease that branded those so afflicted as
nosferatu
, unclean. The undead. Her kind was condemned to a life of hiding and loathing, always living in fear of being discovered. It was important to find out whether they were a separate species or whether some rare genetic code had given them a need for blood to sustain their lives.

Shea studied Jacques' worn but handsome face. He looked young, yet ageless. He looked tormented, as if he had suffered greatly, yet he looked like stone. She could see the power in him now; it clung like a second skin. Biting her lip, she drew away from him, her emerald eyes thoughtful. The strength and power in him was growing. His body might be mending slowly, but his unusual capabilities
seemed to be recovering at a much faster rate. It occurred to her that she should be afraid of the creature now lying motionless in her bed. It was apparent that he could be extraordinarily dangerous, was capable of extreme violence. Especially with his mind so fractured, his rage so deep.