by Nadine Mutas
Anjali’s muffled scream snapped him back to attention.
Coughing out the mouthful of dirt he’d inhaled, he rolled to his feet. As he straightened, he winced at the sting in his side and chest. The beast had stopped moving, its huge body lifeless, but it had apparently hit Anjali in its death throes. She lay as still as the skelos, half-covered by one clawed leg.
No. The blood froze in his veins. She couldn’t be—no.
He was at her side the next second, the throbbing pain of his injuries a mere pinch compared to the fear spearing through him. One shove, and he’d freed her from the beast’s leg. Heart racing, anxiety a cold fist in his stomach, he checked her pulse on her neck. A faint beat greeted his fingers. Faint but steady.
Exhaling on a sigh of utmost relief, he hung his head for a moment, his hand still on the soft skin of her neck, his shadow cloaking enveloping her along with him. So close. He’d almost lost her tonight. He regarded her face, almost peaceful in her unconscious condition. Graceful brows arched over her eyes. Her black lashes fanned out over the top of her cheeks in an elegant curve, caressing her skin the color of Sahara sand warmed by the sun. Her lips were parted, causing him to have absolutely inappropriate thoughts. He shouldn’t be fawning over an unconscious woman.
Sliding his arms underneath her knees and back, he hefted her up. The wound in his side screamed bloody murder at the strain, and every breath sent waves of fire through his chest. He gritted his teeth and staggered to his feet. With his jaw clenched until it ached, he stood still for a second, getting his bearing. Come on, Thorne. Not the first time you’re wounded and bleeding. Not the worst pain you’ve felt.
He sucked in a breath through his nose and walked.
3
The scent of books hit Anjali’s nose even before she regained consciousness and opened her eyes. Hmmm, like walking into one of those cozy little stores filled to the brim with literature. She’d always loved that moment of stepping into a bookstore, of entering a world of fiction, fantasy, and beautiful escape into other realms.
Her eyelids fluttered open. Dim light greeted her, coming from a single steel reading lamp on a nightstand to her right. She rolled over and sat up, and immediately a throbbing in her head punished her for her movement. Darn, that hurt. She rubbed at her temples, trying to alleviate the pain shooting through her skull. Her hand came away wet, and she frowned at the blood.
Right. The rhino monster in the tunnel had hit her, and she’d fallen down, crashed head first into the wall—and blacked out. How’d she gotten here? Had her shadow demon brought her here? And where was here? Was this his home? And what in the world was his name?
With too many questions and not enough answers in addition to a pounding headache, she gingerly scooted to the edge of the bed, and looked at the room. A simple bedroom, with a nightstand, a dresser, a bed—and, oh, just about a thousand books crammed into every nook and cranny.
It really was like being in a bookstore, one of those charming old ones that had every available space filled with reading material, shelves lining the walls up to the ceiling, and stacks of books separating the room like pieces of furniture.
Letting her fingers glide over the neat piles of novels, she walked toward the one door in the wall to her left. It led to a living room with three more doors, one of which looked like the entrance to the apartment, the other two standing open to allow a peek at a small kitchen and a bathroom, respectively. Again, books filled the room, arranged in shelves, stacked on side tables, piled up against the couch—on which lay her unconscious shadow demon.
On silent feet, Anjali approached him. He still wore his clothes from before. The black hoodie had tears in it, revealing his skin beneath—and the injuries he sported. She gasped. Underneath all the blood—lots of it—gaping wounds were visible. How in the world had he been able to carry her, injured like that? Good gods. He had to be in so much pain.
She made a beeline for the bathroom, and quietly raided the vanity for a first aid kit. Finding it, she returned and knelt at his side. Eying his torn hoodie, she took out scissors from the kit. The best way to access to the wounds was to just cut the fabric. The hoodie was ruined anyway.
With baited breath and trying to hold her hand steady, she slid the scissors under the material, making sure not to touch his skin. She’d barely made the first cut when he grabbed her wrist and pushed her arm away. He’d wrapped his other hand around her throat, squeezed hard enough to make her choke for breath. Glacier-colored eyes focused on her, glinting with instinctual defensive menace.
“Want to…help,” she pressed past the strangulation.
He blinked, and the predatory aggression left his eyes, to be replaced by something akin to regret. With a muttered curse, he let go of her throat, but kept his other hand holding on to her wrist.
“You’re injured. Let me tend your wounds.”
He swallowed, shook his head. “I’m fine. I heal fast.” Pushing away her hand, he added, “I just need some rest.”
Like hell she was going to let him bleed like that. She leaned in, pressing back against his hold, and infused her words with determination. “Let me.”
He stared. She stared back. A silent match of wills, lasting about a minute. He let go of her wrist, nodded and leaned back against the couch once more. Without further ado, she cut away the remains of the hoodie and the T-shirt underneath. A battlefield of blood and torn skin came into view. From what she could see, the monster had sunk its claws deep into his chest and parts of his shoulder, not just damaging skin but also piercing muscles.
“Some of these will need stitches,” she whispered, her chest aching in sympathy for him. She flicked her gaze up to his face, anxiety rushing through her.
“Not necessary. It’ll knit on its own.” When he saw her undoubtedly incredulous expression, he added, “Perks of being a shadow demon. Crazy fast healing.” He shrugged then grunted, his face hardening. He’d apparently forgotten how torn-up his shoulders were.
“Keep still.” She laid a hand on his arm, the need to soothe his pain paramount.
Turning to the bowl of water she’d gotten, she wet a towel and dabbed at the wounds, as little as possible, as much as necessary. He didn’t flinch when the towel touched his shredded skin. Every now and then, she’d check on his expression, but he didn’t show the slightest strain or indication of pain. Quite the poker face.
After cleaning away all the blood, the wounds didn’t appear as serious as before, though they would have killed a human male. Against all decency, her gaze took in the planes of his torso. Built like a lithe, lethal martial arts master, with toned muscles in all the places that mattered in hand-to-hand combat, he seemed to have gained his strength not from gym workouts, but from the harsh reality of fighting for real.
Despite the seriousness of the situation, the lingering air of danger they only escaped by a hairbreadth, and the absolute inappropriateness of ogling a wounded man, heat rose up in her face, her chest—and in places far below.
She turned to the first aid kit and pulled out the tools. He’s injured, for the gods’ sake. Stop appraising him like a favorite treat. She poured alcohol on a cotton pad then glanced at him. His eyes held a focus they hadn’t had before, and he tilted his head, his expression much too discerning for her taste.
She lowered her gaze, coughed, her face flooding with more heat. Distract. “Uh, I feel like Captain Obvious stating this, but this will hurt like hell.”
He let his head sink back against the couch’s armrest. “I’m used to pain.”
Her heart constricted. His words spoke of experiences much deeper than getting into a fight here and there. He didn’t sound like he was boasting or trying to impress her. Something lurked behind his statement, a hollow sadness so great, it threatened to choke her. What kind of hurt could cause that level of resignation?
She dabbed at the slashes on his chest, holding her breath for what must be teeth-gritting pain. He flinched minimally at the first sting of t
he alcohol, but after that, he lay stoically and endured.
Ask him something. This is your chance to get to know him. She needed to find out whether he was good or evil, and since she couldn’t outright ask him that very question—nice condo, wow, so many books, oh, by the way, are you by any chance a murdering psychopath?—she had to slowly dig deeper. Plus, pulling him into a conversation would dissolve the oppressive silence that weighed on them both like a heavy coat.
She cleared her throat. “Um, so, do you live here?”
“Yes.”
She waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t.
Like pulling teeth. “How long have you lived here?”
“A while.”
Come on, give me something to work with. “You’ve got a lot of books.”
“I know.”
“Have you read them all?”
“Yes.”
She uttered a frustrated grunt and dabbed at one of his wounds with more force than necessary. The jerk didn’t even twitch. Or did he? His chest trembled, and she glanced at his face. Pressing his lips together, he looked at her with a mischievous glint in his eyes, almost as if he were—suppressing laughter?
She growled and threw down the cotton pad. “You’re making fun of me!”
“Of course not.” He made a valiant attempt at keeping a straight face. It lasted five seconds. Laughing, he conceded, “Yes. Yes, I am.”
Dumbstruck, she stared at him. It wasn’t the fact he was messing with her that had her gaping, though. It was the transformation his face went through when he laughed. His eyes lit up, sparkling like fresh sunlit snow, small lines fanned out from the corners, and a mind-blowingly gorgeous smile broke across his face, lending him a boyish charm that tugged at her heartstrings and did weird things to her belly.
By the Powers That Be, did she want to kiss him right now. Kiss him while he was still laughing, give the corners of his mouth each a peck, nibble at his lower lip and smile against his smile, lips to lips. Would he caress her face while they kissed? Would he cup the back of her head, tangle his fingers in her hair? Would he take the lead, or let her explore?
Her breath stuttered. Tingles of awareness sparked all over her skin. Heat pooled in her core, and she pressed her thighs together, balled her hands to fists.
She shouldn’t feel this way about him. This…whatever it was that was now brewing between them, it would only complicate her plan. She needed to get to know him, yes, but she had to keep her calm, stay neutral, and not let her judgment be clouded by an unbidden and totally inconvenient attraction to a demon who could yet turn out to be an enemy. The fact he had saved her life now on numerous occasions already didn’t mean he couldn’t pose a danger to other witches.
She cleared her throat, lowered her gaze, reined in her unruly hormones, and picked up a new cotton pad to disinfect his wounds. He shifted on the couch, the movement revealing another injury on his left hip, the one on the side of the couch’s back cushions. She hadn’t even noticed that one before. Holy powers. An involuntary sound of shock escaped her. Was that—the outline of a huge jawline? The beast had bit him there, its razor-sharp teeth slashing into the demon’s flesh and ripping parts of his side open.
She covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh my gods. That—” Sucking in a breath, she met his gaze. “How in the world did you manage to carry me here with that?”
His jaw worked, and he looked away, his face flushing with color. “Not a big deal. It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“Being so damn self-deprecating all the time. Like you’re not worth any praise.”
His eyes turned hard. “I’m not.”
Her chest heaved with the huge breath she took to calm herself. “What you did was great. You saved my life. You carried me to safety while almost bleeding to death. If I hear one more humble mumble from you about this, I swear I will forget my peaceful nature and smack you.”
“Smack me?” His mouth twitched up at the corners.
Her face burned. She sat up straighter. “That’s right. I can be fierce.”
He pressed his lips together. His eyes danced with unconcealed amusement. “I’d like to see that.”
She stared at him for a moment. Then, without warning, she moved, intending to flick her finger against his ear for good measure. She never even got close. He’d snatched her hand and hauled her against him before she could draw a breath. Shocked and rattled, she sprawled half over him, her chest pressing against his, her butt on the couch next to him, with her feet still on the floor. Her face was now only inches from his. Way too close to that damnably kissable mouth.
“Why?” His question was a low rasp.
She wrenched her gaze from his inviting lips to his eyes, swallowed past a throat gone dry. “Why what?”
“Why did you spare my life all those years ago?”
Anjali’s beautiful eyes widened. That emerald green…it would drive him insane yet. Flecked with tiny dabs of amber that he’d never noticed before—what with the distance he’d had to keep from her—her eyes were even more dazzling up close than he remembered.
Splayed on top of him, the feel of her breasts pressing into his chest dulling the throbbing of his wounds, she stared at him, her mouth opening on a surprised “oh.” Damn, now all his attention homed in on those lips, the full curve he so desperately wanted to lick, taste—bite.
Focus. He cleared his throat, dragged his gaze back to her eyes. “Tell me why.”
She glanced aside. “Um, I don’t remember.”
“Bull. You said my image has been haunting you. You’d never have forgotten. Tell me.”
Something shifted in her eyes. “Okay. If you tell me your name.”
“No.”
“You want to have something, you gotta give something. Truth for Truth. Trust for trust.”
His first impulse was to shove her away again. So deeply ingrained was his instinct to build and keep walls around himself—especially from her—that he wanted to shut this whole thing down, push her away, and return to whatever precarious status-ante-quo they’d had before.
But—something in him burned for change. A yearning, deep inside, to share, to open up, to connect, especially to her.
“Thorne.” It tumbled from his mouth before he could further analyze that dangerous longing to be seen.
Her facial features softened. “Thorne,” she repeated, and his name on her lips was the sweetest benediction. She smiled and inclined her head. “It’s nice to meet you, Thorne.”
Waves of heat and prickling awareness rolled through him, centering in his groin. He wanted to say something, give a clever reply of some sort, but he didn’t trust his voice. He settled for a hopefully composed-looking nod.
Swallowing, Anjali shifted a little. The movement of her supple curves on his body made him tense his muscles to keep from hauling her fully on top of him.
“When I saw you back then,” she began, her voice quiet, “I just had this feeling. Like you were special, your life was special. I saw something in you. Goodness. Light.”
He barely held back a scoff. The irony. “Only you.”
Her eyes met his, mesmerizing amber-flecked green. “What?”
“Only you would stop to see the light in a shadow demon.”
A small smile graced her lips, gone again in a second. “How long have you been protecting me?”
“Eight years, give or take a few months.”
She sucked in a breath. “Why?”
He frowned. “What do you mean, why? You saved my life.”
“Yeah, and you’ve saved mine a hundred times by now. I’m sure you paid your blood debt soon after you started shadowing me. So why did you keep on guarding me?”
He hesitated. Truth for truth. Trust for trust. He wanted her to know, yearned for her to realize how much her simple act of kindness touched him. “At first, I was curious. Fascinated. You were nice to me for no apparent reason at a time
when…let’s just say I wasn’t used to kindness from strangers without strings attached.”
After his family had kicked him out, left him to fend for himself in the streets, he’d had to scramble for scraps, for shelter. As a shadow demon, he could use his cloaking at night to sneak into places and steal whatever he needed. Sometimes, though, finding a safe place to spend the day—when he couldn’t rely on his demon powers and was vulnerable to sunlight—was tough. And sometimes, that shelter came with the kind of strings attached that left scars in your soul…
Anjali’s eyes darkened. “You were just a kid.”
“Yeah, well, the world can be a dangerous place for a kid on his own.”
“On his own?”
He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter right now.” His hand tightened on her wrist, his thumb stroking her soft skin. “You,” he rasped. “You were kind. I didn’t understand why. So I found you again, later. I watched you, trying to figure you out. I owed you, so when you got in trouble, I helped you. By the time I’d saved your life, I had to keep going. I couldn’t just stop protecting you.”
She held her breath, hanging on his every word, her gaze darting between his eyes and his lips. “Why?” It was an intimate whisper.
His voice dropped to a low murmur. “Because that’s what happens when you wake up one night and realize someone else’s life has become more important than your own.”
Her face flushed with color. “What—”
“You gave my life meaning. Protecting you, it gave me a purpose. That’s what I lived for when I didn’t have much else.” Swallowing, he paused for a moment, a storm of contradicting emotions raging inside him. He shouldn’t tell her, and yet he needed to. “You’re the one thing that gets me through the day. I look forward to seeing you, even knowing you won’t see me. Just making sure you’re safe—it makes me…happy.”
