Hidden Embers

by Tessa Adams

  It wasn’t like cutting a person with a scalpel, and she prayed that she’d never have to do it again. Having a hand in taking Callie’s life—even in self-defense—was the worst thing she’d ever done.

  A wave of dizziness hit her, sharper and more severe than back in the alley. She almost lost her footing. Bracing a hand against the shower wall, Jasmine slowly lowered herself to the floor, keeping her back braced against the wall as she waited for the world around her to stop spinning.

  It finally did, but it took a long time. The water went cold around her; she shivered, still not well enough to stand. Finally she attempted to get up, lost her balance and banged her sore shoulder against the shower wall. She saw stars.

  Shutting off the water, she dried herself quickly, then took a minute to poke at her shoulder. The pain was getting worse, not better, and as she ran a gentle finger over it, she could tell why. The bruise was on fire, and under the surface was a giant knot. The softest touch made her wince. If she hadn’t known better, she would have sworn it was an—

  Oh shit. Jasmine’s heart pounded faster as she went over to the mirror to get a better look at it.

  Oh shit, she thought again. There it was, in the center of the knot.

  Another wave of dizziness swamped her, the feeling having nothing to do with Callie and everything to do with the terror sweeping through her.

  Sinking down on the bed, Jasmine buried her head in her hands. Now she was well and truly fucked.

  Quinn waited impatiently for Jasmine to join him and the other dragons in Dylan’s very large family room. He didn’t know what was taking her so long, but if she didn’t show up in the next five minutes, he was going to go up to her room and drag her ass down here if necessary.

  He wanted to see her, to touch her, to make sure she was okay after everything she had seen and done that day. Phoebe, sitting on Dylan’s lap, looked shaken, and she’d been around the dragons a hell of a lot longer than Jasmine had. Was it any wonder his mate was hiding in her room? She was probably wondering the best way to get the hell out of there, and he didn’t blame her a bit.

  The only thing that kept him from storming up to her room and demanding that she let him in was their fight that morning. He couldn’t believe less than twenty-four hours had passed—so much had happened it felt like a week. She’d basically told him she didn’t want him for a mate, and it hurt to remember her words.

  Her breakthrough earlier at the lab had boggled his mind, and she’d discovered it after only four days. He had been working on a solution for years. Phoebe had been damned right when she’d said that Jasmine was brilliant at what she did. As he’d worked with Dylan yesterday—breaking down the antibodies they’d developed against the virus in an effort to formulate a vaccine—he’d been overwhelmed by his feelings for her.

  Gratitude, awe, desire, need—all had combined inside of him, mingling with love, until all he could think about was how lucky he was to have her for a mate. How he would do anything and everything to keep her safe, to keep her with him and to let her know how much she meant to him—if she let him.

  Then all hell had broken loose. He’d never in his life felt the kind of terror he’d experienced when Logan had told him he was on the run with Jasmine. His entire world had narrowed to that one thing, that one moment, the desire to do and sacrifice anything to save her. Himself, Logan, even Dylan, when he had spent the last four hundred years ensuring that his king was safe. It was a horrifying feeling, and an awe-inspiring one.

  What it meant—what it boiled down to—was that he wasn’t going to let her go. She could call him whatever she wanted, accuse him of being a Neanderthal, throw the biggest hissy fit imaginable, and it wouldn’t matter. She was his, and he would ensure she stayed with him.

  There was no other option.

  Quinn glanced up at a sudden commotion at the door. Jasmine stood there, looking even paler and weaker than before—as though she was on the verge of collapse. He was across the room before he was even conscious that he had moved.

  Tyler beat him there. Quinn stiffened as the other man held out a hand to her. What was Tyler doing? The traitor Callie had been Tyler’s sister—Quinn had known her since she was a little girl. He still couldn’t believe that she had betrayed them—and that Quinn had been the one who killed her, with help from Jasmine. Ty looked absolutely sick, but he hadn’t spoken about it yet, and Quinn wanted to make sure he didn’t take his sorrow out on Jasmine. He put a hand on the small of her back to offer support—and to ensure Ty knew she belonged to him.

  He didn’t have to worry. Ty bowed his head and slumped his shoulders, as if ready to offer an apology, but Jasmine spoke first.

  “I’m sorry, Ty. I wish there was something else I could have done—anything else.”

  Ty shook his head. “I’ve known something wasn’t right with her for a long time. It’s my fault that I never saw how far wrong things had gone. I’m glad you’re okay, Jasmine.”

  Her smile was pained. “I’m glad we’re all okay.”

  Ty nodded, then headed for the front door, as if just being in the same room with the other dragons hurt. Maybe it did. Quinn tried to imagine what it would feel like if one of his brothers had betrayed the clan, and he blanched. Yeah, it would be too painful.

  Then Jasmine looked up at him and smiled, a small, painful twisting of her lips that twisted Quinn’s insides as well. “Come on over here, sweetheart,” he murmured, grabbing her hand and hoping she wouldn’t reject him. “Dylan has food prepared.”

  She followed him quietly, which itself surprised him. He half expected her to hit him with the nearest blunt object—after all, he hadn’t been exactly courteous to her since the fight. The sight of her taking on a fully grown, raging dragon with nothing but a plastic pipe was going to stay with him for a long time, and not in a good way. He blamed himself for letting her get in that situation, but that didn’t make her close call any easier for him—or his beast—to deal with emotionally.

  About halfway across the room, Jasmine’s knees gave out and she stumbled. She would have gone down hard if Quinn hadn’t caught her and swept her into his arms. He carried her over to his spot in one of the wingback chairs near the window and cuddled her on his lap. Fight or no fight, she could damn well let him take care of her when she needed it.

  “Are you okay, Jazz?” He spoke softly, not wanting to spook her. “I can take you back upstairs to rest. Or to my place.” His gaze swept over her body, which was clad in the ubiquitous yoga pants and tank top, this time with a jacket thrown over them.

  She didn’t answer, just buried her face in his chest and breathed him in. He knew exactly how she felt. He wanted nothing more than to suck in great gulps of air himself, to absorb the sweet, wild scent of her so deeply into himself that he would never get it out.

  After a minute, she raised her head and looked straight at him, as if she were bracing herself. Then she said, “I want nothing more than to go back upstairs and sleep. But—” She held up a hand to stop him as he started to get to his feet. “I think you should probably take me to the clinic.”

  “The clinic? Why?” He glanced over her, looking for a wound he’d missed on his first inspection of her after the fight. “Do your ribs hurt?”

  “It’s not my ribs I’m worried about.”

  “Then what?”

  She took a deep breath and slid her sweat suit jacket off her shoulder. “I’m pretty sure that Brock or Callie got me at some time during the fight.”

  “Got you?” he demanded, his brain absolutely unwilling to comprehend what she was saying. “What does that mean?”

  She pointed at her shoulder, where a large, red welt had formed. “Someone injected me with something, Quinn. And judging from the way I’m feeling, I think we both know exactly what it is.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  There was a roaring in his ears, a flame in his belly, a rage deep inside that grew with each second Quinn stared at Jasmine in the goddamned hospita
l bed. He felt on fire, like his skin was too tight and his body too fragile. He felt ready to explode, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it.

  She was sleeping, her face pale and wan, her body trembling under the thick blankets, despite the fact that her temperature was dangerously high. Phoebe had already given her a mixture of Tylenol and Advil—human medicines—to bring her fever down, but they had barely touched it. They were waiting on a nurse to bring the cooling packs, but Quinn didn’t hold out much hope.

  Phoebe didn’t either. Jasmine was dying, and there was nothing they could do about it. He’d spent the last few hours frantically reviewing his notes from the day before, as had Phoebe, both of them searching for a way to cure this. But it would take weeks, months to grow a vaccine based on their ideas—and that wouldn’t help Jasmine. She was already infected.

  His beast raged at his inability to do anything, clawed at him in an effort to get out. In an effort to help its mate. But there was nothing he could do but stand and watch as Jasmine’s temperature spiked, as her legs and hands went numb.

  All they could do was wait for the worst to happen. Wait for her to die the same terrible death the others had.

  Quinn fell to his knees, hitting the floor by her bed hard. Tremors ripped through him as he buried his face in her bed sheets, trying to absorb her scent. Trying to hold her inside him. It didn’t work. All he could smell was the hospital disinfectant, the sickness, the pain that surrounded her.

  He wanted to rage, wanted to scream, but doing so would only wake her up. Only make her pain more intense. So he kneeled, tears streaming down his face for the first time in hundreds of years, and prayed like he had never prayed before.

  He needed an idea, needed a cure, needed something to help her. He’d give himself up, take her place, do anything, he bargained—if only she would get better. It should be him lying on that bed, him shaking and suffering from this damn disease. Not Jasmine. Never Jasmine.

  Phoebe came closer, rested a hand against his shoulder, and he nearly bit it off, though he knew she was only trying to comfort him. But he was beyond comforting.

  He was nearly rabid with pain, nearly blind with it.

  He couldn’t lose her.

  He couldn’t lose his mate.

  Not Jasmine.

  Not Jasmine.

  Not Jasmine.

  The words were his mantra, a refrain in his mind that played over and over as he fought for control.

  It was a long time coming, and the only way he managed to achieve even a semblance of calm was to remind himself that this wasn’t about him. It was about Jasmine, and she deserved more than to wake up to a wild, rampaging dragon who was more problem than comfort.

  There would be time for his fury later. Right now, he needed to take care of her.

  The nurse came in with the ice packs, and he placed them around her body. Phoebe tried to help and the dragon snarled at her. Jasmine was his mate—he would take care of her.

  She woke up when the ice packs touched her, her body shivering so violently that her teeth knocked together. “Qu-Qu-Quinn,” she gasped, reaching for him.

  “I’m here, sweetheart. I’m right here, Jasmine.”

  She grabbed on to his hand with her trembling one, and he was horrified at how weak she was. The disease was progressing faster now—faster even than it had with Brian and his family. Was it because she was human, the doctor in him wondered, or just because that was the new nature of this beast?

  Not that it mattered. Either way, she was dying and there was nothing he could do about it, nothing.

  “I’m c-c-cold,” she choked out. “So cold.”

  “I know, sweetheart. But we have to get your fever down.”

  “Please. Please.” The words came out on a small sob, the best that Jasmine could do in her weakened state, and they nearly killed him as he finished putting the ice packs around her.

  “Baby, I have to. We have to get your fever down.”

  She moved her head back and forth on the pillow, softly, carefully, but even that movement hurt. He could see it in her eyes, in the way she clenched her teeth to keep from crying out.

  Goddamnit! The beast grabbed hold of him by the throat, frustration and fury riding him hard as his talons punched through the tips of his fingers. He fought it back, tried to stay focused, tried to stay centered, but it was almost impossible. His mate was dying and he was causing her more pain.

  He could barely breathe with the agony ripping apart his insides.

  “Quinn.” Dylan’s voice came from the doorway—cool, concerned. “Maybe you should go for a little while. Take a walk, get some fresh air.”

  He turned on his king, had him up against the wall in a heartbeat, his hand around his best friend’s throat. “How dare you?” His voice was barely human. “That’s my mate. My mate. You want me to leave her? Just walk away from her while she suffers?”

  Dylan didn’t move, didn’t try to defend himself. He just met Quinn’s eyes, reflecting his own hell right back at him.

  “Fuck.” Quinn pulled away, thrust a hand through his hair. “Sorry, Dylan. I didn’t mean—”

  Dylan shook his head, then draped an arm around Quinn’s shoulders. “My fault. It was a stupid thing to say. I would never leave Phoebe.”

  “Quinn!” Jasmine called his name, and he was back at her bed in a heartbeat.

  “What, sweetheart?” It was his turn to take her hand. He lifted it to his lips, kissed the center of her palm.

  “Stop it! You’re acting—” Her breathing was labored. “You’re acting like a Neanderthal.”

  “I am a Neanderthal, Jazz. I thought you knew that.”

  She smiled through the pain. “There’s a lot I never got to learn about you.” She stifled a sob. “I’m sorry I was such a bitch yesterday.”

  He brought her hand to his chest, held it tightly against his heart. “Don’t be.”

  “Maybe this sick thing isn’t so bad after all,” she said with a weak laugh. “It gets you out of all kinds of shit.”

  She started to cough, turning her head away from him and fumbling for the basin sitting on the table next to her bed. He watched in horror as she spit up blood, again and again. Copious amounts. His heart squeezed so tightly in his chest that he feared it might explode.

  He rubbed the back of her head while she coughed, then handed her a small cup of water to rinse out her mouth. The disease was shifting, progressing, moving to the next stage as the virus ravaged her lungs and started in on her other organs.

  He couldn’t stand it any longer.

  Closing his eyes, Quinn tried to center himself, but it was hard. Jasmine’s pain dragged at him, nearly took him under, but he forced himself to step back. To pull inside himself.

  He placed his hands on her stomach, and the familiar warmth that came when he healed someone flowed through him.

  “Quinn, no!” She grabbed his hand, tried to push it away. “Don’t do this to yourself.”

  He opened his eyes, pinned her with a look that brooked no argument. “Relax, Jasmine.”

  “I’ve seen you after you do this. It won’t help. I’m going to die anyway. Please don’t do this.” Her voice cracked, then broke altogether. “I don’t want to think that I hurt you, too,” she whispered. “I don’t want your last memories of me to be of the pain I caused you.”

  “It’s not you that’s hurting me,” he hissed, bending close to her so that she could see the sincerity in his eyes, feel it in the way he touched her face. “If I don’t at least try to ease your pain, it will kill me. Can’t you see that?”

  “Quinn!”

  “Sssh.” He rested his forehead against hers and used every ounce of strength he had to will her to calm down. “I love you, Jasmine. Let me do this for you.”

  She sobbed, shaking her head back and forth against the bed pillow. But she made no other move to stop him, and Quinn quickly took advantage of her compliance.

  Placing his hands over her belly once m
ore, he centered himself, opened himself. And let all of her pain come into him.

  The first wave nearly brought him to his knees. It was more intense, more powerful than anything he had ever felt before. Was it because she was his mate, he wondered, or was her pain just that powerful? That intense? For her sake, he prayed it was the former.

  As he worked his way through her body, shoring up her internal organs, trying to lower her fever, working to reduce the paralysis in her legs, the agony was excruciating. She was fully human, without the dragon’s strength and power, and the disease was ravaging her much faster than normal—at least at this stage. It was as if everything had been accelerated by a good six to eight hours.

  Fuck! The realization slammed him out of her body and back into his own. He tried to get back to her, to heal her a little more, but she shut him out before he could go back in, locking barriers in place that he didn’t think she knew existed.

  “That’s enough, Quinn.” Her voice was steadier, stronger than it had been in hours. “You did too much.” She reached out a hand to him, and he took it, sinking gratefully into the chair Phoebe shoved next to the bed.

  “Look at you. You look like hell again.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “No, you’re not.” She sighed, burrowed against him. “But thank you for what you did. I wasn’t ready to leave you yet.”

  Her words had him choking on his own emotions, and he looked away, not wanting her to see him tear up. But she only laughed and said, “Come on, Quinn. If this is the last time I have to spend with you, I don’t want it to be miserable. We deserve better than that, don’t you think?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. Of course.” Neither noticed as Dylan and Phoebe slipped quietly from the room.

  “Okay, then.” She cuddled even closer. “Tell me something I don’t know about you.”

  He laughed. “What do you know about me? We’ve known each other only five days.”

  “And yet it feels a whole lot longer, doesn’t it?”