by Joey W. Hill
Selene, fuck...
He moved swiftly along the wall, already pulling out the right key. Thank God she hadn't pulled a Mistress move and made him give up the key to that little storeroom. He would have broken the damn door down regardless if needed, used that third mark strength to splinter it in its frame.
As he pushed open the door, he saw her immediately. Or rather, he saw the lump beneath the covers and inhaled her scent with his relieved breath. She was here. But that stale-blood scent was way too strong here. Emanating from his Mistress, who was so clean all the time.
He forced himself not to lunge at her. Instead, he approached the cot with soft footfalls and touched that lump, detecting her body beneath the fabric.
Her weak moan sliced into his heart. She had a lamp by the cot, and now he switched it on, seeing she had a scarf over it to keep it dim. She'd placed it there only a few days ago, romantic lighting.
The memory stabbed his gut. It was the first time she'd let him be with her here. Perhaps remembering the pleasure of sleeping with him at Butch's, she hadn't sent him away at the end of the night or left him upstairs. Instead, she'd brought him down here to make love once more, then sleep with her past dawn. Quinn hadn't risen until mid-morning to go back to the ranch, a rare luxury he couldn't resist. He'd brushed his lips over hers, stroked back her hair. Young vampires slept hard, she'd told him, and he'd seen the proof of it, because she barely stirred, but he'd felt a tendril of something inside her mind reach out to him, like a dreamlike caress.
He swallowed hard. Kneeling beside the bed, he drew the blanket back very gently. His stomach heaved at what he saw.
Fucking shit. That bastard.
Selene was on her side, facing the wall, and there wasn't an inch of her skin from nape to buttocks that wasn't marked, covered with blood. In the few spots where it had dripped away to the covers before it dried, leaving some skin exposed, he saw a pattern of dots crusted with blood, as if she'd been beaten with a dozen tiny knives. Pushing back the bile flooding his throat, he put his mouth close to her ear.
"I'm here, Mistress. I'll take care of you."
And then I'll kill that fucker.
As carefully as possible he lifted her, turned her over so she was facing him on the other side, keeping pressure off her abused back. She made a pitiful noise like a badly wounded animal, which told him she was still out of it. His Mistress had far too much pride to make such a noise. He'd go to the grave before ever telling her she'd made it.
The crusted blood was even thicker on her face, but not thick enough to hide the long cuts from a knife. Her nose was swollen and discharge from it had mingled with her blood. Forcing a calm he didn't feel, he managed to take inventory of her injuries, sickened by the moans she kept trying to stifle.
Then she reached out a weak hand, showing him she was aware of his presence. He took it in his large one, wrapping his fingers around it the way he'd handle anything delicate, breakable and unspeakably precious.
"I'm here, Mistress," he repeated. "I'm going to take care of you."
He'd never in his life had the genuine urge to take a man's life, but now it consumed him. He'd have to tamp it down until he saw to Selene, but then--
No. Quinn, no. Just help me. That's all I need.
The one eye was swollen shut, but the other focused on him, pleading. She was afraid, and he'd never seen her show fear. It was fear for him, damn it all.
It took every bit of discipline he had to lock away the thoughts in his head and make his mind a blank except for her needs.
I will help you, Mistress. He bowed his head and rested his forehead on her hip. I will help you. Tell me how.
Blood...I need your blood. And then...it would be nice to be clean.
He wanted to weep or snarl. He wanted to get on the bed and hold her in his lap, let her nurse at his throat like a baby until she drained him dry, took every drop she needed, but he knew that would hurt her torn back. So he drew his pocket knife, flipped it open and cut his wrist, holding the artery under his thumb so every drop would belong to her. Then he set the knife aside and brought his wrist to her mouth, cradling the back of her head. She was so weak he had to shift his hold a bit, tease the corner of her mouth, paint some of the blood on her lips, her tongue. She pressed her lips together, tasting, and then they parted, seeking more.
He brought his wrist close again, tilting her head back so the blood now free flowing from his wrist would obey the laws of gravity and just trickle into her mouth. Some of the tightness in his gut loosened when she finally swallowed. Her lips molded around the wound, and he felt the play of her tongue over his skin as she started to actively feed. A little moan escaped her again, as if the first active taste was so critical it almost added to her pain. He kept his big hand supporting her head, his fingers stroking the strands of blood-stiffened hair from her face.
Those tiny bites that had taken her skin had to be made with a whip. Something with multiple barbed tips. The face was clearly knife work. Her dress was torn down the front, such that it was more of a loose wrap than clothing, one sleeve off her shoulder, the front gaping open to show the curves of her breasts, also stained with blood.
Had Laurent done worse to her? Anguish and rage flooded him at the thought. This was the world she inhabited? Where a fucking overlord was allowed to torture and rape her? His mind worked at a hundred ways they could escape such a life, such a world, but she'd made it clear that wasn't an option. You learned how to survive it, enjoy the times that weren't about this. That's what she'd said. But right now all he could think about was whether it had taken all sixty-two of her years to reach that level of acceptance, because he sure as hell wasn't there with it.
She made a noise as if picking up on his agitation, and he tamped it down again. He reminded himself of the lesson she'd taught him, over and over. Focus on serving her, caring for her, and let everything else go. For now. He wasn't the type of man who could let it go unanswered forever. Right or wrong, he knew that about himself.
As his gaze roved over her face, it stilled there. The cuts still crusted with blood were less angry-looking than they'd been a few minutes before.
I will heal completely, cowboy. It will simply take a day's deep sleep after I feed. We're resilient that way.
But how did you heal the heart and soul when it was torn apart by such brutality? Did blood help with that?
No. You holding me does.
He met her gaze, her blue eyes beautiful to him even with streaked makeup and one closed by the swollen flesh around it. "I don't want to hurt your back," he rumbled.
She shook her head, a denial of that, and closed her eyes, a silent reinforcement of what she wanted. He didn't want to disrupt her feeding, but she lifted her mouth from his skin herself, licking her lips. She'd closed the wound for him as she always did, a courtesy that made his throat ache. When she opened her eyes this time, he saw the swollen eye was now visible, the tissues less engorged over her cheekbone. Bolstered by the further evidence of her healing, he did what she wanted. Though he lifted her like porcelain, he sat down on the bed, bracing himself against the wall and settling her into the cradle of his lap. She let out a soft noise of relief so strong those unmanly tears came to his eyes again. He fought them back, focused on tending her.
This time she did lift her mouth to his throat, and he was ready for her. Her fangs cut against his flesh, a jagged and painful strike, not her usual precise, quick penetration. When she made a frustrated noise, he figured it out quick. Cupping his hand around the back of her head again, he gave her the pressure strength she needed and the fangs broke through, sinking into the artery, her lips sealing over his flesh.
He banded the other arm around her, holding her, trying not to squeeze when all he wanted was to hold her so tightly and never let her go.
She drank until he was feeling lightheaded, but he wouldn't have said a word if she'd drained him dry. She eventually sensed it and started to withdraw, but he tightened his hol
d on her head. "Take everything you need, Selene," he said roughly. "I can handle it."
"I know you can," she murmured against his skin. "But that should be enough for now. Just hold me, Quinn. And...forgive me. Don't speak for a bit, all right?"
Hearing her speak aloud was a gift, but his brow creased, uncertain of her meaning or why she was apologizing. Then it became clear. She started to shake, badly. And cry.
She buried her face in his throat, not wanting him to see. She could let him see where that bastard had hit her, but she was ashamed of tears. Even though she'd held fast through all of it, he realized. Not trusting herself to let it go until now, when he held her.
It amazed him, broke his heart. It also told him just how much he loved her. Because of that he let himself trust her and cried a little himself. While holding her, rocking her, murmuring to her in a broken tone, telling her he was there.
At length, the shaking started to recede, and her sobs became more muffled. She let out a deep, shuddering sigh.
"I'd really like a bath, Quinn. And a change of clothes."
He wanted to do that for her too. Damn it, there was no way from the cellar to the upstairs apartment except through the office entrance or that hallway, and that required walking through the bar.
"It's all right," she said. "We'll stay here until they close."
The bar wouldn't close for hours. "Yeah, we will. But we're closing now."
"No. You need the money and the customers..."
"Thought we talked about this long ago." He touched her chin, gave her his best attempt at a stern look. "You may be the boss of me after quitting time, but when this bar's open, I'm the boss. The boss says we're closing early."
He eased her back to the blanket, humbled when her hands tightened on him, an involuntary sign of her not wanting him to leave her. "I'll be right back, Mistress. Promise."
It said a great deal that she didn't argue further, lying limp on the mattress in the way that drunks did, as if they were boneless. The comparison didn't reassure him. Kissing her hand, he folded it back against her. It took an act of will to go, but he strode through the cellar, went upstairs and locked the door firmly behind him. Taking a breath, he squared his shoulders and went to find Manuel.
*
Thirty minutes later, every customer was out of the bar, with the excuse that it was a family emergency. There was some grumbling from non-regulars, but getting their meal and drinks on the house helped. As did the regulars, bless their rowdy hearts, who helped him shepherd them out. He reassured Manuel, Carol and Maria in low tones that all was well, but that Selene needed quiet tonight. It said a great deal for their regard for Selene that they were far more concerned about her well-being and helping him with anything she needed than a work night cut short.
It didn't matter though. He knew he'd pay them for their time that night as if they'd worked the full shift. Loyalty deserved that. Selene would agree. She'd probably bitch about the revenue they'd lost tonight, but he'd look forward to that spirited argument when she was back on her feet.
Once he had the door locked and the shades pulled, he went back to get her. She hadn't moved, in the kind of somnolent doze she usually only demonstrated right before dawn. But when he lifted her, she wound an arm around his neck, let out that little relieved sigh again, like he was her fucking savior instead of the guy who'd gotten here way too late.
You couldn't have changed this, Quinn. It's over. The lopsided smile looked like it pained her. He had two of his territory vampires with him, and Claudio, his servant. Otherwise I would have taken him.
Yeah, you would have kicked his ass all the way back to the Statue of Liberty. He wanted to howl when he looked at her.
The worst thing was, it was only over if the Region Masters decided in her favor. Right then and there he realized if they didn't, he'd leave everything behind, do everything needed to help her run, hide. If they couldn't run and hide... His jaw tightened. He'd go back with her to New York. No matter what she'd worked out with Butch, Quinn would be at her side through anything she needed, no matter how horrible it got, and they'd figure out how to get away from Laurent again, another way.
So many times, he'd questioned why he felt so strongly for her so quickly, but in the end it didn't really matter, did it? It was the way he felt, and it wasn't changing, even in the face of all this shit.
He carried her up the stairs. Though her petite body had that dense weight thing happening that always surprised him, tonight she weighed nothing to him. He'd have carried her to the ends of the earth. If anything, it was like his feelings had expanded and grown three times since he saw her crumpled on that cot.
Setting her down on a towel on a chair in the bathroom, he started running the bath. Once it was warm enough, he stripped off all her clothes gingerly, steeling himself for what else he might see. There was blood on her thighs, but as he ran the pad of his thumb over her mound, he realized it came from a cut over it.
"He didn't...they didn't..." He was kneeling before her, and she reached out a hand quivering from physical stress, trailed it along his face. "They didn't do any of that."
He let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. On top of everything else, if that bastard had raped her--violated his Mistress--he'd never be able to contain his rage. "I know it's stupid, given what else they did..."
"No it's not. I felt the same way when I was afraid...that he might. One is less...personal, if that makes sense. I didn't want him where...I only want you." Her face creased with a personal pain. "Christ, I'm a terrible vampire. The things I say to you, vampires aren't supposed to say to humans."
"Your secret's safe with me," he managed, his heart clenching.
She nodded, lifting her arms in mute appeal. Rising, he scooped her up, lowered her into the tub. Taking up the softest cloth he could find, he began to sponge her off, finding he had to hold her steady with one hand while he did it, like bathing a baby that couldn't hold itself up. She leaned against him, laid her cheek on his opposite shoulder. As he removed the blood from her back, he revealed that pattern of pinpoints, but also saw they were the first thing healing because of their size, many of them disappearing. He shifted her to do her face with another clean cloth, and found the slices there and on her breasts were closed and diminished as well.
They'll all be gone by morning. A good nap solves everything... She let out a snuffled sound, somewhere between a sob and a chuckle. He held her again, bending his head protectively over her, heedless of his sleeves getting soaked with blood-tinted water. She noticed though, her fingers moving to the buttons, fumbling it until he took over, shrugging the shirt off his broad shoulders so her hands could play over his skin, fingertips digging into his flesh as if reassuring herself he was really there. He let the water drain out, refilled it, keeping her warm with his arms around her until the clean water helped with that again.
The tub was just a small thing for the efficiency apartment, not big enough for them both, else he wouldn't have quelled the temptation to get in there with her. But she solved that one as well, lifting long-lashed blue eyes to focus on him, since the one eye had improved enough she could use both again.
"I'm strong enough for a shower now. I want you with me."
He doubted that first part, but if he was in there with her, he could help prop her up if a shower was what she wanted. Nodding, he guided her hands to the tub edge to ensure she had something to hold on to. Rising, he stripped off everything. As she lifted her hands to him, he stepped in, drew her to her feet. She curled her hands around his waist, her cheek on his chest, as he adjusted the water, held the spray away from her until the shower heated. Then he let the water stream down on her.
She tilted her head back, eyes closed, still holding on to him. He framed her face, kissed her cheeks gently, her forehead, her closed eyes, even as the spray made him close his own. His thumbs slid over the knife scars. In some way it seemed obscene that they were disappearing, as if Laurent's brutalit
y could be dismissed so easily.
He ran his hands over her, sluicing off the remaining blood. When she indicated she wanted him to wash her, he lathered up his hands with her fragrant soap, the one with a honey vanilla smell, and washed her thoroughly. He had no intentions of anything sexual at all. She could arouse him with nothing more than a look, but all he wanted to do was care for her. She had other ideas.
As she turned to lean back against him, letting him soap her front, she molded her hands over his as he ran them over her breasts, keeping them there, kneading. She rotated her hips against his cock and the mindless thing immediately responded, starting to harden. "Selene..."
"I need you, Quinn. Make him go away. Drive him from my head. From every part of me."
As she rubbed herself against him, something surged up in him. That rage he'd tamped down to care for her asserted itself in a glorious, territorial haze. He hated that Laurent had hurt her, hated that he'd touched her, torn off her clothes. And more, he felt something deep inside her that matched his rage. Fury of her own. Fury at her helplessness, that she couldn't control that situation or this one, that her fate was out of her hands, his proud Mistress who simply wanted to be free to command her own destiny.
He couldn't be rough with her, but he sensed she wasn't seeking that. He crowded her face forward against the steam-slick shower wall, pulling her hair to the side to kiss her neck, nip at her ear. Still cradling her breasts, he teased the nipples with his fingers, pressing his cock to her ass. She made a pleasurable sigh, a tremulous thing, her eyes shutting more tightly. He saw her throat move as she swallowed and he wondered if it had a hard ache like what was stuck in his own. Turning her to face him, he put his hands to her waist, lifted her, adjusting his cock so it slid without any resistance into her tight channel, slick and ready for him. She stared at him, the one eye almost fully healed. Her fangs showed, and he kissed them, let her scrape at his mouth as he tangled his fist in her hair, held her, pushed easy inside her as her legs lifted, locked over his waist.
