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.
Chapter Four
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 reborn 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 1 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 always 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.