Relentless Flame (Hell to Pay) (12 page)

She sighed into his mouth, not wanting the kiss to end, wanting to stay like this forever ...

The blare of a car horn startled her. The orange Civic squealed up to the curb. Dante tensed, spun around, and tucked her into his side, encircling her with his large arm.

The crystalline happiness shattered.

“Oh, no,” she whispered. She peeked into the shadows. No one was on this quiet residential sidewalk at this hour.

“It’ll be okay,” he said.

His grip around her shoulders tightened as Scott, Brandon, and two of their friends poured out of the car. Dante pivoted so that she stood partially behind him.

Brandon whispered in her brother’s ear and winked at Dante.

Scott called out, “Sis, I thought I told you to stay away from this ass clown.”

“It’s fine. He’s only walking me home.”

Her brother’s expression wavered from anger to sympathy until Brandon nudged him again. Hannah hated that redheaded jerk.

“Looked like he wasn’t doing a lot of walking.”

“Grow up, Scott. It’s nothing.” Damn her quivering voice. And damn Scott for ruining the evening.

“Yeah. I gave an order for your own protection. Why can’t you listen to me for once? After all I’ve done for you, this is my thanks?”

The sickly sweet scent of alcohol drifted over to her.
Not again.

“It’s okay, Dante’s leaving.” She willed her shaking muscles to calm down.

Brandon again murmured something into Scott’s ear. Her brother scratched at a sore on his neck as a muscle twitched in his jaw.

“The hell he’s leaving.” Scott stepped closer.

Like the drop on a rollercoaster, her stomach fell out from under her.

“Scott, let’s go home. We’re done,” she said.

“You bet you’re done.”

Scott’s arms jumped with more energy than normal, and he kept picking at his neck.

Brandon sneered behind her brother and said, “She’d better learn to listen to you when you give an order, don’tcha think?”

“Stay out of this,
røvhål
,” Dante growled.

“Why? I’m just doing my job, same as you.” Brandon snickered.

“What does he mean?” Hannah looked up at Dante’s shadowed face.

“Nothing.”

His fingers dug into her upper arm until she let out a whimper. But she’d rather have his arms clamped around her than face these guys on her own.

Brandon tipped an imaginary hat to Dante. “Now, boys, how about let’s get busy?”

Scott and the other two guys nodded.

The cords of muscle in Dante’s arm bunched, rock hard. Waves of heat radiated from his tense frame.

“You should leave here. Please.” She ducked from under his arm and tried to give him a gentle push. He didn’t move.

“And leave you with these
oåkting
? I think not.”

“You gonna take lip from this meathead, Scott?” Brandon egged him on.

“No way, man. Get your hands off my sister, asshole.”

The guys fanned out in a loose semicircle around them. Hannah shivered in earnest now.

“Dante, get away from here,” she whispered.

“I’ve managed far worse than four morons at a time.”

Jaw set, he let go and stepped in front of her.

The guys approached Dante who, to his credit, held his ground with his arms swinging loose and knees bent. Her throat tightened. She couldn’t swallow.

Four against one? Not good
.

Scott’s two nameless friends jumped in first, landing a few blows. Dante leveled one guy with a punch to the guy’s jaw and swept a leg around to send the other one sprawling. Scott shot a worried look at Brandon, who sneered in his thin, pinched way, produced a tire iron from the car, and sauntered toward Dante.

“How about you pick on someone like yourself, shit-for-brains?” Brandon said.

Before she could intervene, Scott grabbed her, holding on tightly.

“Don’t want you getting hurt, sis.”

Scott exhaled a disgusting cloud of stale alcohol and a strange chemical smell. Like cleaning solution, fresh shower curtain, and ... cat urine? He smelled like this yesterday morning.

Meth
.

“Let me go!”

She struggled, unable to escape her brother’s freakishly strong grip.

Brandon circled Dante, grinning. “My turn.”

A few test swings of the iron whistled through the evening air, but Dante held his ground and kept Brandon squarely in front of him.

Hannah’s blood ran ice cold, leaving her lightheaded.

“This is all your fault, sis. If you would’ve listened to me, this never would have happened. Brandon’s going to teach you and your pimp a lesson.”

Scott wrenched her arm behind her back. She couldn’t move an inch. He had way too much energy tonight.

Faster than she could follow, Brandon swung the iron into Dante’s raised arm with a crack. He then clanged the iron into Dante’s lower leg, rocking the big man, but Dante didn’t fall. As more blows rained down, he grunted against each one but somehow remained upright.

Dante then countered with a blur of meaty punches, pushing Brandon back. But the jerk kept attacking, a nasty snarl pasted on his thin face. It didn’t make sense. One of the men should be dead with as many blows as they were taking.

One harsh strike impacted Dante’s ribcage, the snap loud in the evening air. Hannah screamed and pulled against Scott.

Dante spun around, his black eyes locking on to hers, blood running down his temple. He pressed a hand against his ribcage and wheezed. With an expression of murderous rage, he took a step toward Hannah and Scott.

Brandon took advantage of the distraction and smashed the back of Dante’s head. Dante went down like he weighed a ton, hitting the ground with a stomach-turning thud. The blond giant didn’t move.
Oh God, Dante’s dead
. She kicked against Scott, desperate to get to the man who’d stood up for her.

Scott’s remaining conscious friend kicked Dante while Brandon’s relentless shots with the tire iron pummeled unmoving bone and muscle. The thick weapon had actually bent. Dante tried to get up once, groaning. Brandon hit the back of Dante’s skull again, dropping Dante to the pavement. Blood stained his fair hair dark red and ran onto the cement.

He no longer moved.

Bile burned its way up Hannah’s throat.

She stomped on Scott’s instep with everything she had, freeing herself when he yelped and jumped back in pain. Throwing herself on Dante, she absorbed a glancing blow to her back when Brandon didn’t check himself in time. Her muscles knotted in fiery agony.

Beneath her, Dante didn’t move.

Sirens wailed in the distance.

“Let’s get outta here. This guy’s learned his lesson,” said the other attacker. “That is, if he survives.”

“Help him up.” Brandon ordered Scott’s friend to pull the semiconscious buddy to his feet.

Scott yanked on her arm as she lay draped over Dante’s inert form. “Come on, Hannah.”

“Get away from me!” she screamed, pulling away. “You can go to hell.”

Her wet tears dampened the back of Dante’s bloody and torn shirt. The sirens were getting louder. Police. She couldn’t be discovered here. They’d figure out who she was and what she and Scott had done to Ray. She wanted to run. But Dante—

“Come on, man. Just leave her. She’s shit.” Brandon yelled from the driver’s seat.

Scott froze, torn between Hannah and the car for a long moment. She saw a flash of her old brother, and then it was gone, replaced by a paranoid tweaker.

“Bro, come on!”

Her brother flipped her the middle finger, jumped in the car, and the guys sped off.

With extreme effort, Hannah rolled Dante’s massive body over onto his back, his strong face bruised and bloodied. Was he still alive?

His chest rose and fell.

Blue and red shadows flashed on the trees and houses as the police turned onto the street. She couldn’t drag him anywhere. His limp bulk wouldn’t budge.

She wouldn’t leave him. If he died, it would be her fault. She should’ve left him after dinner. Should’ve made him leave. Damn.

There was only one thing to do, and it was going to really hurt. Could she control her gift enough to wake Dante? And do it without killing herself? She had to try.

Hannah pressed her hands to the side of his warm face, her grip slippery from the blood pouring from all of the cuts.

Come on
.

Nothing happened.

Come on, Dante. Please
.

The transfer, fast and intense, nearly blew her off him. She held on, taking it all in, like drinking water through a fire hose. No time to prepare.

Bones shattered in her cheekbones, skull, and hands. Muscles tore. Her brain swelled. Skin on her forehead and knuckles burst open.

Dante’s black eyes shot open.

“No!” he roared.

She smiled down at him. He leapt to his feet and crouched over her. Their connection broken, the transferred injuries took over and she collapsed onto the pavement.

“No!”

Dante bolted upright. What the hell happened? The last thing he remembered was the minion getting in a good shot when he’d been distracted. By Hannah.
Herre Gud
.

She lay crumpled on the pavement, blood oozing from the injuries on her face and the back of her head. He touched his own scalp in the same areas, found sticky blood in the exact same places. But no cuts or bruises.

She healed him, but why? His body would’ve gotten around to it eventually. But of course, she wouldn’t have known about his own rapid healing abilities.

She had given him one chance to help them both.

Blaring sirens and flashing lights intruded on his thoughts. Dante rose from the pavement in time to see a police cruiser roll up. He slid his hands beneath Hannah’s limp frame, careful of her injuries.

Jåvlar
. He had to get out of here. Too many questions.

The first officer rushed out of the car, pulling his gun. “Stop! Hands up!”

In one smooth movement, Dante pulled Hannah to him, curled around her, and sprinted lightning fast around a nearby house into the backyard.

“What the...?”

As Dante heard the officer call into the walkie-talkie for backup, quick footsteps drew closer around the side of the house.

Dante shifted Hannah to his shoulder, holding her inert body to his chest. When broken bones ground together in her ribcage, his stomach churned. He had to get her to help. With his free arm, he grabbed the top of a fence and swung himself over, landing lightly. He ended up in a kennel run. With a barking dog.

Kristus
. Dante crouched and growled until the dog submitted. The canine lay on the ground, whining.

Yelling for backup, the officer began climbing the same fence, flashlight beams piercing the slats and bouncing shadows over Dante and Hannah.

Dante sprinted across the yard, vaulted another fence, landed in yet another backyard, cursed, and spun ninety degrees. Leaping over another fence, he raced around to the front of a property and followed the driveway to the street.

He sprinted for two blocks and ducked behind an unlit home.

What to do? Hannah needed medical attention. He couldn’t go to the hospital with her—it would raise way too many unanswerable questions. Create a trail. His kind avoided places requiring an insurance card, places with security cameras.

But he’d reveal his secret if it meant she would live.

She moaned, her pitiful cries torpedoing into his chest. Adjusting so she rested in front of him but still in his arms, he studied her grotesquely bruised and swollen face. Sick rage almost incapacitated him at such destruction of her smooth skin. He needed to kill something, someone. He wanted to track down Brandon. The knife pulsed, eager to participate. Gritting his teeth, he pushed back the killing urge and focused on the broken body in his arms.

“Dante?”

Her soft voice tethered him to reality but barely.

“Yes,
ålskling
?” Sweetheart. He hadn’t called anyone that for 150 years.

“Are you okay?” she whispered.

He blinked. She was asking about
him
?

When she tried to reach for him, her arm dropped away. Dante removed her smudged glasses and slid them into his pants pocket. He knew she couldn’t see without them, so he’d try to keep them from breaking.

“Am I okay? Of course. I have a hard head. What about you?”

He swept her matted hair back from her bruised forehead. His normally steady fingers shook.

“Not so good.”

She winced when she moved, and he tucked her into his arms, holding her steady as he surveyed the damage.

“Why did you heal me back there?”

“... thought you might die.”

If only she knew.

“I’m pretty tough to kill.”

“They hurt you. Badly. Especially Brandon. He’s ... bad.”

“I agree.” At least she’d woken up and could talk to him. “But you took on the injuries yourself.”

“It’s just something ... I can do.”

“You’re hurt now.” A lump formed in his throat.

“Yes, but it’s never quite as bad as the original injury.”

Really? Because she looked like she’d gone five rounds in an MMA bout and should’ve tapped out four and a half rounds ago.

“How bad is it now?”

“Well, I thought they had killed you, and I took on all of your injuries.” She moaned. “So, not great.”

“Can you reverse it? The healing?”

He couldn’t handle her being in this much pain.

“I don’t know if it’s possible.” She wheezed.

“My friend Barnaby thinks the healing can be reversed back into the original person who was hurt. Can you try, please?”

When she closed her eyes, it took too long for her to open them again. “I can try. But it makes more sense for you to be healthy than me,” she rasped.

He couldn’t argue the logic. She knew he’d protect her. He’d challenge the hounds of hell to keep her safe.

“Well, I’m just fine now, so put the injuries back into me, please.”

Sirens rang out in the distance, and he tensed. She coughed and cried out, holding her ribs.

He wanted to kill Brandon. Needed to. Now. The knife was hungry. He dragged his gaze back to her face.