Authors: Christine Feehan
Jacques sighed.
I do not like that you fear me, Shea.
“If you wouldn't persist in reading my thoughts, Jacques,” she said gently, afraid she had hurt him, “then you wouldn't have to see these things I worry about. You are capable of violence. You cannot deny it. I see it in you.”
She stood up with a return of her quick, restless energy, and he allowed her silken hair to slide through his fingers. With half-closed eyes, Jacques watched the transparent thoughts slipping across her expressive face. Shea was incapable of subterfuge. What she was, who she was, was an open book.
“I didn't think things through, you know. I just rushed out and rescued you. I caused you great suffering.” Her large green eyes fastened on his face. Storm clouds gathered instantly when she felt his faint, mocking amusement echoing through her mind. “What? What's so funny? Some idiot tried to put a stake through your heart, and he didn't even hit the darn thing!”
For which I am grateful. And I am even more grateful that you rescued me. I did not like being imprisoned and in such pain.
“I guess I'm glad I rescued you, too, but the truth is, Jacques, I have watched you healing faster than is possible. You're even more dangerous now. You are, aren't you?”
Never to you,
he denied.
She raised an eyebrow. “Is that strictly the truth? I've been in your head, too, remember.” She had touched his mind and had recoiled at the seething cauldron of raw violence and black fury often swirling within him. “Sometimes I can even read you as well as you read me. You have no
idea what you're doing half the time. You have no idea who you are.”
Perhaps not, Shea, but I know you are my lifemate. I could not harm you now
. His face remained granite, his eyes dark and ice cold. She was right. He was dangerous. He knew it in his soul. His mind was not to be trusted. Her presence kept him tranquil, calm, but his mind was a maze of dark, deadly trails. He had no idea if he would be able to distinguish reality from nightmare if their delicately balanced world tilted in any way. His black eyes went a glittering obsidian, and he looked away from her, ashamed. He should allow her to leave, give her her freedom, but he could not. She was his only sanity, his only path to the surface from the hellish nightmare he lived in.
I have sworn to protect you, Shea. I can only promise it is in my heart to do so.
Shea stepped away from the bed, suddenly close to tears. He was in a treacherous labyrinth; he walked a fine line between sanity and a world she did not want to try to comprehend. “I will protect you, Jacques. You have my solemn word, I won't let you down. I'll see you through this until you're right again.”
And then?
His black gaze slid lazily over her.
Do you intend to leave me, Shea? You save me, and then you think to desert me?
There was a kind of dark humor in his voice, a secret amusement that stirred something in her she hadn't known existed. Something that went beyond fear. Terror.
Her chin tilted a little belligerently. “What does that mean? Of course I won't desert you. I'll stay with you and see you through this. We'll find your family.”
It was too late. Even if she attempted to put distance between them, she could not break their bond. His blood ran in her veins; his mind was familiar with the path to hers. Their souls called to one another. Hearts were following, and it was only matter of time before he possessed her
body. Running would not save either of them. Jacques knew it with a certainty with which he knew few other things. But imparting the knowledge to her would frighten her more. His heart twisted, a funny somersault. His Shea feared death far less than she feared personal commitment. She really had no idea they were already bound together. She would need him, need him close, need him touching her in her mind, in her body.
I feel your need to perform the human functions you seem to enjoy. Go bathe. I am in no hurry to have you examine my wounds.
Shea blinked once, her green eyes thoughtful before she turned away to disappear into the other room. He was making an attempt to put her at ease, but it sent a chill through her. His voice held some note, one she realized was beginning to emerge more and more, one she found disturbing. It was possessive, holding complete authority. She had the feeling Jacques was slowly taking over her life. He was in her thoughts, in her head. He was everywhere, and she was allowing it to happen.
Jacques lay quietly, staring up at the ceiling. Shea was worried about the way she responded to him. Her brain intrigued him, the way she addressed every problem from a scientific or intellectual angle rather than an emotional one. He felt the smile that wanted to tug at the corners of his mouth. He knew her thoroughly; he spent more time in her mind than out of it. He was taking no chances on losing her.
She had been trying to reassure him with talk of his family. He had no family other than Shea. He wanted no other, needed no other. She hadn't accepted her role as yet. Half of her persisted in looking at him as a patient. She was a healer first, a researcher second. He was in her mind. He knew very well she never entertained the idea of a long-term arrangement. She didn't expect to live long, let alone
share her life with anyone. The idea was so foreign to her nature, she couldn't yet conceive of it.
He listened to the water running in the other room, knew it sprayed over her bare skin. His body stirred uncomfortably, the beginnings of an unrelenting ache. It amazed him that his body was coming back to life, that he could feel signs of sexual awareness. He had a vague feeling he had not known such a thing in many centuries, let alone with his body so battered and his mind so fragmented. Shea had given him back life. More than life. More than existing. He couldn't wait to see the smile on her face, the way her hair was always such a flyaway mess begging for his attention. He loved to watch every gesture she made, every movement and turn of her head. He liked the way her brain worked, focused and absolute, the way her mind was filled with humor and compassion.
Jacques cursed the weakness of his body. He needed fresh blood desperately. He stilled his mind and body, calling on all of his reserve strength. He lifted a hand, concentrated, and focused on the cabin door. Pain beat in his head. Fire raced along his wounds. Cursing, he slumped back against the pillows. He could use physical powers, yet when he called on his mind for the simplest task, he could not perform it.
He smelled her first, her clean fragrance, the scent of flowers drifting from her hair. She had rushed in to the room so silently he had not actually heard the sound of her bare feet on the floor, but his mind never completely separated itself from hers, and he knew the exact moment she had caught up a towel and run to him.
“What is it, Jacques, did you try to move, tear something open?” There was anxiety in her voice, but her touch was coolly professional as she examined his wounds.
The towel was large, a pale peach sheath of cotton encas
ing her slender body. As she bent over him, a bead of water ran from her shoulder across the swell of her breast to disappear beneath the towel. Jacques watched the little bead of moisture and suddenly was incredibly thirsty. Her eyelashes were ridiculously long, her lush mouth set in a slight frown as she searched her small, precise stitches for signs of damage. She was so incredibly beautiful, she took his breath away.
“Jacques? What is it?” Her voice whispered over him like a caress.
No memories, no abilities. The simplest task is impossible.
His thumb feathered gently back and forth along the inside of her wrist.
“You'll heal, Jacques. Don't be impatient. If you need something, I can get it for you.” His thumb was sending butterflies winging through her stomach. It amazed her that she was so susceptible to his charm. She just wasn't like that.
Although his harshly sensual features remained a mask, something inside him melted, and he felt a leap of joy. He wanted to smile in spite of everything. The pain ceased to matter, his shattered memories and impotent body were merely inconveniences he would eventually get over. Shea mattered.
Open the door for me that I might breathe the night,
he said and tried not to devour her with his eyes. He was well aware she was beginning to see that no oneâcertainly not Shea with her gentle, compassionate natureâcould oppose his will, a will honed in the fires of hell.
She did as he asked. “You didn't try to get up, did you? You can't, Jacques. You'll do too much damage. And if you keep adding scar tissue, you'll end up looking like Frankenstein.”
He had closed his eyes to inhale the fresh, clean night air.
Carpathians never scar.
It came out of nowhere. He was
elated he remembered something. He was even elated he remembered Frankenstein.
Her eyebrows shot up. “Oh, really? Then what's that thin line around your throat? I barely caught it, but it's there.”
His black eyes snapped open, a merciless fury burning there. Shea stepped away from him quickly, her heart pounding. She could actually see red flames burning in the depths of his eyes. He looked like a demon, an invincible predator. The impression was so strong that she brought a protective hand to her throat to cover the evidence of the ragged wounds there.
Jacques was unaware of Shea, the room, even his own weak body. The sensation of battle was strong in him. He touched the uneven, faint white scar curving around his jugular. The impression of danger was so strong, he felt the beast in him rage for release. Fangs exploded in his mouth, and his nails began to lengthen. His muscles rippled and contracted, and his power and enormous strength bonded briefly with his will. A slow, venomous hiss escaped him. Then the pain in his body from muscles waiting for release made him aware of lying helpless in a bed. He dimly remembered a woman's anxious face, tears swimming in her large blue eyes. He should know her. He should know. Fists clenched, and he welcomed the exploding pain that drove the fragment of memory from his mind.
Shea saw his hands come up, clutch at his head to try to stop the pain. Instantly she was back at his side, soothing fingers brushing at the hair spilling across his forehead. “Jacques, stop tormenting yourself. It will all come back to you. Believe me, I know what I'm talking about. Things are already coming back.” Shea padded across the room to her dresser and pulled out fresh clothes. “You persist in thinking your body can instantly set aside the trauma it suffered.
It needs rest to repair itself, rest and care. So does your mind.”
I cannot do the things I must. I remember nothing, yet I feel there are things important to both of us I need to know.
She smiled at his frustration. Jacques was a man unused to being ill or injured. “You referred to yourself as a Carpathian. You know you're from this mountain range. You remembered that.”
She moved into the other room. He could hear the sound of her dressing, the whisper of silk panties and cotton jeans sliding over her bare legs. His body clenched, burned, the rush of heat adding to his discomfort.
“Jacques?” Her voice was so soft, playing along his skin and nerve endings like the touch of fingers. “Please don't be discouraged. Technically, you should be dead. You beat all the odds.” She moved back into the room, towel-drying her hair. “You thought I was one of your people. A Carpathian. Who are they? Can you remember?”
I am Carpathian. We are immortal. We can
â¦He stopped, the information eluding him.
Shea leaned against the wall, regarding him with fascinated awe. Her mouth was suddenly dry; her heart slammed hard against her chest. “What are you saying, Jacques? You live forever?” What
was
he? And why was she beginning to believe him? Seven years buried alive. Surviving on the blood of rats. She had seen the red glow in his eyes on more than one occasion. She felt his impossible strength, even injured as severely as he was.
Her hands, clutching the towel, were trembling so much, she put them behind her back.
Vampire
. The word came unbidden to her mind. “It isn't true,” she denied in a whisper. “It's impossible. I am not anything like that. I won't believe you.”
Shea
. His voice was calm, tranquil, as she became more
agitated. He needed all his memories, not these shattered bits and pieces that frustrated him so.
“Jacques, you might be a vampire. I'm so confused, I'll almost believe anything. But I am not like that.” She was talking more to herself than to him. Every horrible tale of vampires ever told rose up to haunt her. Her hand crept up to her neck as she recalled the vicious way he had taken her blood the first time they had met. He'd nearly killed her. “You didn't because you needed me to help you,” she said suddenly, softly. It didn't occur to her that she had become so accustomed to his reading her mind, she simply accepted that he would know what she was talking about. Was he controlling her all the time? Couldn't vampires do that?
Jacques watched her closely, his body motionless, his icy black eyes unblinking. He could taste her fear in his mouth, feel it beat at him in his mind. Even while she was afraid, her brain processed information at a remarkable rate. The way she shoved emotion aside to concentrate on the intellectual was a protection. He had given her a glimpse of the darkness in him, the violence. It was something that was as natural to him as breathing. Sooner or later she would have to face what and who he really was.
Shea felt caught in the trap of his merciless, empty black eyes, like a mesmerized rabbit. As frozen as she was, her body wanted to move toward him, as if under a strange compulsion. “Answer me, Jacques. You know everything I'm thinking. Answer me.”
After seven years of pain and starvation, little red hair, after torment and suffering, I thought to take your blood.