“That’ll be Seth or David,” Ami gritted out. She started to twist to one side and retrieve her phone, but stopped with a grunt and a wince.
“I’ll get it,” he said. “Where is it?”
“Back right pocket.”
He didn’t know if he’d be able to slip his arm behind her and reach it without brushing or jostling the stab wound.
The music stopped just as his fingers touched her hip.
“Damn,” he said in an attempt to distract her from the pain. “I was hoping to cop a feel.”
A weak smile lit her pinched features. “And I was looking forward to your copping it.”
Smiling, he ran his hand over her hair, cupped her face in his palm.
He felt so much for her in that moment it terrified him.
His phone bleated. Passing a slow-moving SUV, Marcus drew his cell out and answered. “Seth?”
“No. David,” a deep voice with a melodic North African accent replied. “What happened?”
“How did—”
“I heard her scream.”
Marcus looked askance at Ami. “She didn’t—”
“I’m telepathic, Marcus. She doesn’t have to scream out loud for me to hear her.”
Ami had screamed mentally. Probably when he had yanked the knife out of her flesh. It killed him to know he had hurt her so much.
“How badly is she hurt?” David asked. “Does she require healing?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you?”
Marcus told him.
“I’m too far away. I’m in Asheville. You’ll have to take her to Roland. He and Sarah finished their hunt early tonight.”
“I’m already on my way.”
“Good. Please keep me informed.”
Chapter 8
Ami ground her teeth. Every bump the Tesla hit inspired a new tsunami of pain. “Was that David?” she asked as Marcus ended the call.
“Yes.”
He must have heard her scream. If David had tried to speak to her telepathically, she hadn’t heard him. Her thought receptors tended to get a little hinky when she was in excruciating pain.
Marcus gripped the steering wheel so tightly she expected it to break. Ahead of them a car and four SUVs drove with their bumpers practically touching behind a slow-moving truck. The highway was one lane each way with double yellow lines indicating a no-pass zone. Swerving into the opposite lane, he zipped past the other vehicles and cut back in front of the slow driver just in time to avoid a head-on collision with an oncoming, horn-blowing logging truck carrying a full load.
“I’m sorry I hurt you, Ami,” he said, breaking the silence.
She looked at him in surprise. “What? When?”
“When I jerked the knife out. I could’ve removed it more slowly and—”
“Slower would’ve caused more pain.”
He shook his head. “I just don’t like hurting you.”
“I know,” she assured him. She would’ve reached out and taken his hand, but knew the movement would sting too much.
As though reading her thoughts, Marcus peeled one tense hand off the wheel and covered hers where it rested on her thigh.
They exchanged a look, both were comforted.
Then Marcus refocused his attention on the road.
Ami glanced through the windshield. “This isn’t the way home,” she pointed out. “Where are we going?”
His shoulders tensed.
Not the network, she thought with dismay and a touch of that hated fear. She would rather open the car door and throw herself out of the moving vehicle than face the doctors at the network. No matter Seth’s assurances, she would never trust them.
“Marcus? Where are we going?” she repeated when he remained silent.
Marcus gave her an uneasy look from the corner of his eye and muttered something.
“What?”
He sighed. “Roland’s house.”
“Roland Warbrook?” she demanded, cursing the fact that her voice rose in alarm.
“Yes.”
Oh, no, they weren’t. Not if she could help it. “I’m fine, Marcus. Really. A little bed rest and—”
“Bollocks! That knife probably pierced your kidney.”
It had, but the damage had already begun to heal, something she couldn’t tell him because she didn’t want him to realize she was different and ask what she was. Not because she didn’t trust him. But because she didn’t want him to view her as some kind of freak.
Yes, he was different himself as a result of both his advanced DNA and the virus that infected him. But there were many others like him.
Ami was alone.
Besides, the kidney wound wasn’t the worst of her injuries. Earlier she had balled up her shirt just above the knife wound to prevent Marcus from drawing it up higher and seeing the similar puncture wound just beneath her arm. The vamp who had inflicted it had nicked her aorta and missed skewering her heart by mere centimeters. If her body didn’t heal and regenerate as quickly as it did, she would be dead by now.
And there were other injuries he couldn’t see. Organs badly bruised by punches and kicks backed by preternatural strength. A possible concussion.
Though it wouldn’t kill her, it all hurt like hell. “Seth or David could—”
“Seth is unreachable. David is too far away.”
“Then have him meet us halfway!” She would rather wait and endure the pain than face Roland Warbrook.
Marcus frowned over at her. “Roland is only minutes away. Why don’t you want to see him?”
She gave him a duh look. “Because he’s Roland.”
Marcus rolled his eyes. “He isn’t as bad as everyone says he is.”
“Um ... yes, he is. I was at Seth’s castle in England a couple of times when Seth brought Roland in to talk to Bastien.” A great deal of blood had been spilled. Furniture had been shattered. Stone walls had cracked. Roland had attacked Bastien like a rabid dog both times, doing his best to tear him apart with his bare hands.
“Oh, don’t judge him by that,” Marcus said, unconcerned. “Roland has a legitimate beef with Bastien. Bastien fractured Sarah’s skull and nearly killed her.”
Sarah had been human at the time. She was immortal now and, according to what Ami had heard, had long since forgiven Bastien for hurting her. Though she did hold a bit of a grudge against him for trying to kill Roland several times.
While Ami could understand their lingering anger, it still didn’t make her want to go anywhere near Roland. “Couldn’t we—”
“Too late. We’re here.”
An epithet left her lips before she could stop it.
Marcus laughed and turned onto a dirt and gravel drive that really didn’t warrant the name. So many weeds and saplings choked the entrance that she hadn’t even noticed it, which was probably the way Roland liked it. If no one noticed it, no one would venture down it.
Roland would never be described as a people person.
The poor condition of the road didn’t exactly endear the immortal to her. Marcus couldn’t avoid bumps and dips and potholes when they were all the road offered. A steady stream of sorrys spilled from his lips, accompanied by winces and grimaces and colorful curses. So many that amusement whittled away at Ami’s anxiety.
Halfway down the endless drive they encountered a ten-foot security gate with a small intercom lodged on a short pole in front of it.
Marcus pulled the car up to the speaker and rolled down his window.
“Leave or die,” a deep voice intoned ominously with a British accent.
Marcus sent Ami an apologetic smile and answered, “Roland, it’s me ... Marcus.”
A pause ensued, then ...
“Leave or die,” the voice repeated.
Irritation tightening his features, Marcus opened his mouth to retort.
A female voice, softer, as though distanced from the other end of the intercom, beat him to it. “Ro-land,” she chided in laughing tones. “Let him in.�
�
Ami assumed that was Sarah, his wife. Sarah had never accompanied Roland on his visits to Bastien, so Ami had never met her.
“No,” Roland responded with no heat whatsoever. “We’re busy.”
“We are not.”
“Yes, we are. We’ve been hunting all night. This is our us time.”
Roland wanted us time?
“Am I going to have to come over there?” Sarah asked, a playful warning in her voice.
“Do you want to come over here?”
Ami blushed at Roland’s heated tone.
Marcus’s patience snapped. “Oh, for shit’s sake! My Second is bleeding to death and you’re talking about sex? Open the gate!”
“Your Second! You brought a mortal to my home? After what happened last time?” Roland sounded furious.
“Okay, first of all,” Marcus gritted, “that was Sarah, and you are the one who brought her home with you.”
“That’s neither here nor there. I—”
“Roland, honey,” Sarah interrupted sweetly, “open the gate. If you don’t, Marcus will just jump it with Ami in his arms. And she doesn’t need the increased pain that will cause her.”
“Who the hell is Ami?” Roland demanded. “Wait.” Pause. “Seth’s Ami?”
“Yes.”
Beside her, Marcus bristled.
“Ami is Marcus’s new Second?” Roland asked doubtfully.
“Yes.”
Marcus leaned out the window and bellowed, “Yes! Mine! As in not Seth’s! Now open the bloody gate!”
Another pause.
“Hmmmm.”
A buzz sounded, and the gate swung open.
Ami was so surprised by Marcus’s possessive declaration that any bumps and jounces that followed on their drive up to the house made little impression.
She didn’t get much of a look at the couple’s home. There were no exterior lights. Immortals didn’t need them. But the Tesla’s headlights briefly illuminated a quaint single-story house with solar panels on the roof and half a dozen hanging baskets overflowing with colorful pansies swaying in the breeze on the front porch.
After killing the engine, Marcus raced around the car to open the passenger door. “See,” he said softly as he leaned in and unfastened her seat belt. “He may be a crotchety old fart on the outside, but deep down he’s a real softie.”
He slid one arm under her knees and, with great caution, the other behind her back.
Ami wrapped her arms around his neck. “What about that conversation should have convinced me that he’s soft?”
“He adores Sarah and will do anything she asks of him.”
Golden light spilled onto the porch as the front door swung open. “You make me sound whipped,” Roland said, his large frame filling the doorway and plunging the porch into near darkness.
“You are,” Marcus informed him. “And couldn’t be happier.”
Ami sucked in a breath when Marcus lifted her.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, brushing his cheek across the top of her hair as she buried her face in his chest. “It’ll all be over soon.” Turning, he scaled the steps and crossed the porch.
Roland—not what one would expect of a crotchety old fart—stepped aside and motioned for them to enter. An inch or so taller than Marcus, he bore the same deep brown eyes and raven hair all gifted ones and immortals boasted. His shoulders, clad in a plain, gray T-shirt, were as broad and muscular as Marcus’s, his hair much shorter. His face, admittedly handsome, remained impassive as he watched them enter.
The interior of the home was bright and cheerful, sparsely furnished and decorated with modern paintings and large flourishing plants.
Ami didn’t know why, but most immortals tended to be minimalists, their homes lacking all of the excess furniture and froufrou items pricey designers tended to cram their masterpiece rooms with on home decorating shows.
“Hi, Marcus,” a woman in the living room called. As petite as Ami, she possessed long brown hair and sparkling hazel eyes. Extremely unusual for a gifted one or immortal.
She approached with a smile, her small feet bare. She wore white, blue, and black-striped pajama bottoms and a white tank top. Her wavy hair was dry at the ends and damp closer to her head.
“Hi, Ami. I’m Sarah. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, too,” Ami responded. Sarah seemed very kind and approachable—the polar opposite of her husband.
“Marcus, put her over here on the sofa where she’ll be more comfortable.”
Marcus lowered Ami onto a comfy dark leather sofa. New tears sprang to her eyes when he scraped the puncture wound under her arm, and she hastily blinked them back, hoping he wouldn’t notice.
Remorse swept across his handsome, though blood-speckled visage. “Roland?”
Marcus’s friend and mentor approached. “What happened?” he asked. “Was my training so lax that you were unable to sneak up on a lowly vampire without his hearing you and calling in reinforcements?”
“Your training,” Marcus drawled, “didn’t allow for the possibility of new Seconds phoning you as you approached the vampires to inform you that the vamps would summon reinforcements if they heard you coming.”
Roland turned a disapproving glare on Ami.
Ami scowled. “It wasn’t me.”
Marcus frowned at Roland. “Not Ami. She’s perfect. The best Second I’ve ever had. I meant Sheldon, Richart’s new Second.”
Sarah groaned and rolled her eyes.
Roland grimaced. “Sheldon is pretty green.”
Ami’s pulse picked up nervously when Roland knelt beside the sofa, far too close for her peace of mind. She damned the fear the monsters had instilled in her when the older immortal hesitated and Marcus moved closer and took her hand.
They must have heard her quickening heartbeat.
Roland’s face and voice softened. “I won’t hurt you, Ami. I’m just going to heal you with my hands. You’ll feel a tingling warmth, then the pain will disappear.”
Surprised by his gentle demeanor, she nodded.
Sarah moved to stand behind the sofa and smiled down at her. “The first time he healed me I thought he was holding a heating pad to my head.”
Marcus smoothed Ami’s hair back from her face. “Turn onto your side, so he can tend the stab wound first.”
Roland would realize there was more than one puncture wound as soon as he touched her. Then Marcus would want to know why she hadn’t mentioned the other and, worse, would discern how much the two wounds he had tended had already shrunk. She needed to get him out of the room.
“Marcus, would you please get me a drink of water?”
When Sarah opened her mouth to offer to fetch it, Ami gave her a quick look.
Marcus didn’t seem to notice, just squeezed her hand and said, “Sure. I’ll be right back.”
“Don’t hurry,” she admonished. “You need your strength to recover from your own wounds.”
He nodded and left the room at mortal speed.
As soon as he was gone, she turned onto her side, drew her shirt up, and yanked down the bandage, revealing both wounds.
Sarah gasped.
Roland muttered a curse and covered the wounds with gentle hands. As Sarah had suggested, heat blossomed as though he instead held a heating pad against her. The agony swiftly eased, then vanished completely as both wounds knitted themselves back together, leaving no sign that they had ever existed other than the dried blood.
Marcus returned with a glass of water as Roland turned his attention to the gash in her hamstring.
“Feeling better?” he asked, kneeling beside Roland and handing her the glass of water.
Ami rolled onto her stomach, giving Roland better access to the back of her thigh, and leaned up enough to sip some water. “Yes.”
Marcus placed a light hand on her back, his eyes on the cut Roland healed.
Relief loosened the knot in Marcus’s shoulders when Roland removed his hand and rev
ealed unblemished flesh.
“Don’t relax yet,” Roland warned. “I’m not finished.”
Brows drawing together, Marcus looked to Ami, who avoided his gaze by drinking more water, then to Roland, whose eyes glowed faintly with anger.
“There’s a lot of bruising, both external and internal,” his friend announced grimly. “Some hemorrhaging, too.” Roland drew the back of Ami’s shirt up almost all the way to her neck.
Fury flooded Marcus. Just like last time, vivid bruises had formed, appearing days old and painting her pale flesh in large, ugly smudges.
Roland began at her shoulders and drew his hands down her narrow back, erasing the fearsome wounds. “Would you please turn onto your back again, Ami?” he asked.
Marcus lifted his hand, let it hover above her as she rolled over, then settled it on her shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
She nibbled her lower lip. “I didn’t want to worry you.”
“You didn’t want to worry me?” he repeated, voice rising.
“Not any more than you already were,” she confirmed.
“You could have died, Ami!”
“No. It ... it isn’t that bad,” she protested and looked to Roland.
“Yes, it is,” he corrected her.
Her lips tightened in annoyance as she narrowed her eyes.
Roland drew her shirt up to just beneath her breasts.
Her stomach was as black and blue and—in some places—puffy as her back. Marcus wondered if she might suffer some illness that made bruises form so quickly. Seth hadn’t seemed concerned about it, but ... it didn’t seem right. Normal.
Roland flattened his palms on her stomach.
Ami flinched.
His anger draining away, Marcus shifted, sat on the floor, and leaned in close to settle his chin on the cushion, inches away from her ear. He curled one arm around her head, playing with her hair, and stroked the other up and down her bloodstained arm.
She turned her head, her nose nearly brushing his.
“A little bed rest?” he murmured, repeating her earlier claim that that was all she needed.
She raised her forearm and brushed the back of her hand against his shoulder. “If I’m too much trouble, you’ll want to be rid of me.”
“Don’t count on it. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.” Two weeks with her and he wasn’t sure what he’d do without her. Didn’t want to know what he’d do without her. Her companionship. Her laughter and teasing. Her incredible fighting skills, always at the ready when he needed her.
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