Dark Hunger

by Reinke, Sara

  Her entire body felt stiff, like the hinges in her hips, knees and shoulders had all rusted in place. When she moved, trying to stretch her legs slowly beneath the blankets, a dim tremor of pain shooting through her midriff reminded her of why she was bedridden in the first place.

  She groaned softly, pressing her palm to her belly. With her free hand, she pulled aside the blankets. She was naked beneath the covers, save for bra, panties and a large square of gauze taped in place just below the edge of her underwire cups.

  “Well, good morning, sunshine,” Rene said, coming out of the bathroom and blinking at her in surprise. This was the first time she could remember coming to and not finding him at her bedside. No matter how many times she had opened her eyes, no matter the quality of light in the room to indicate the passage of day or night, she had found him sitting in a chair next to the bed, his fingers laced through hers.

  His hair was wet, his face freshly shaved, his body nude except for a white towel worn swathed around his waist. She could see the skeletal frame of his prosthetic beneath the bottom hem of terry cloth. He’d been swatting at the nape of his neck with another towel, drying his hair, but set it aside now as he walked toward the bed. “Are you hurting, pischouette? I can get you another pill…”

  She shook her head, wincing as she propped herself slowly onto her elbows, a somewhat seated position. “No,” she said, the sound of her voice—croaking and hoarse—startling her. She tried to summon enough spit with which to clear her throat and settled for coughing dryly. “No more pills. I’m tired of sleeping. How long was I out, anyway?”

  “Three days,” he said, making her groan again. He went to her side, slipping his arm around her as she swung her legs from the bed and sat up. “You shouldn’t…” he began but she shook her head again.

  “Stop telling me what to do,” she growled, shoving her hand against his chest and using him to help steady herself as she rose to her feet. It hurt like hell, as much from having been flat on her back for so long as from the wound. That, at least, was healing; she could tell just by moving. Not to mention the fact she and the baby were both still alive.

  “I’m not telling you what to do,” he replied. “I’m trying to help you.”

  “Good.” She stumbled, feeling momentarily dizzy and having to lean against him. “Then help me to the bathroom so I can take a shower.”

  “You shouldn’t be out of bed yet. Not until you’re feeling better.”

  “I am feeling better.” Tessa snagged the towel from his waist, snapping it loose as she limped into the bathroom. As she closed the door, she heard him laugh behind her.

  “I can see that, oui.”

  When she came out again, he dressed her wounds, tending to her with a remarkable and gentle ease. “You’re healing well,” he observed as she sat against the side of the bed with her bare back to him. He’d put his jeans on, but remained bare-chested, while she sat nude against the bedspread, holding a towel demurely over her chest. There was a little soreness as his fingers prodded carefully against her, taping a fresh gauze square in place, but nothing unbearable.

  “We both are,” she said, smiling at him over her shoulder, touching her stomach. “Thanks to you.”

  He glanced up from his work and dropped her a wink. “It was my pleasure, pischouette,” he said, adding after a slight pause, “Don’t ask me to do that again anytime soon or anything, but…”

  She laughed. “You seem to have recovered none the worse for wear.”

  He canted his head slightly, awarding her a brief peek at the side of his neck, where she could see the fading imprints of her teeth still against his skin. “Not too shabbily,” he said. The playful edge to his voice faltered. “And the bébé? It’s still all right, too, no? I’ve felt for it a time or two while you were sleeping, but I didn’t want to too much or anything. Not my right and all.”

  She pivoted on the bed, turning to face him. “Not your right? You saved his life. You have every right in the world.”

  She touched his face and he smiled, looking uncharacteristically shy and moved. After a moment, however, his expression shifted as her words sank in and he blinked at her in sudden, wide-eyed surprise. “Saved his life?” he repeated. “C’est un garcon?” It’s a boy?

  She laughed and nodded. “Can’t you tell now? I don’t know how or why, but I can. I feel it inside. It’s a boy.”

  “That’s fantastic, Tessa,” he said, laughing against her mouth as he kissed her. “Saint merde, congratulations, pischouette! I’m so happy for you.”

  “Us,” she said, and he raised a puzzled brow. “Be happy for us, Rene. There’d be no reason to celebrate, nothing to feel happy about if it wasn’t for you.”

  When he kissed her this time, he let his mouth linger against hers, his tongue slipping between her lips to brush her own. She lifted her head, touching his face to draw him near and the kiss deepened. His mouth lingered against hers, and as his heartbeat quickened with arousal, it sent a rush of aromatic chemicals through his body, infusing the air around him.

  She turned to face him fully, scooting her hips on the bed, but at a twinge of pain in her abdomen, she winced, sucking in a sharp breath against his mouth, giving him immediate pause. “Stop, pischouette,” he said, resting his hands against her shoulders and drawing back from her. “It’s too soon, and you’re—”

  “Healing,” she said, pressing her fingertips to his lips to quiet him. When his brows lifted and she felt the intake of his breath against her hand in protest, she smiled. “Really, Rene. What is it you told me after that kid shot you in the hand? There’s hope for me yet. I promise.”

  “Don’t.” He caught her hand as she reached for his fly. When she blinked at him, somewhat hurt now, he reached up, brushing his hand against her face. “If we’re going to do this, pischouette, then we’re going to do it right.”

  Rene hadn’t made love with a woman beneath him since Irene. Having Tessa astride him, making love to her face-to-face had been an emotional breakthrough for him, something that had required unprecedented trust from him, not just because he’d wanted to hide his leg but because he’d likewise wanted to hide his heart. Now there was nothing he wanted to hide from her, not any longer, and he wanted to face her with all of his insecurities pushed aside. He wanted to make love to her like any other man; he wanted to watch her move beneath him, look down at her face as she climaxed.

  “Here, pischouette,” he breathed, laying her back against the bed. He pushed his jeans down, kicking his feet to rid himself of them, then fumbled along the head of the bed before hooking a pair of pillows. He removed his prosthetic, sliding the silicone sleeve away from the stump of his thigh.

  Tessa understood what he was doing, what he meant to do, and moved her thighs apart as he positioned the pillows carefully between them.

  “Can you do this?” she asked as he lay down, settling his weight atop her.

  He raised a speculative brow. “It’s not me I’m worried about.”

  She smiled, stroking her hands against his arms. “I’m fine, Rene. I promise. I want this. I want you.”

  I want you. She meant more than just in a sexual way; she meant in her life, a part of her world—a part of her baby’s world. He knew this without opening his mind. It was apparent in her eyes, evident in her touch. She wanted him, needed him. Just like I need her.

  He could have left the prosthetic on and made love to Tessa, but he wanted to experience her, enjoy her on his own, no props. Tessa wrapped her legs around him as he used his arms, balancing his weight between his hands, knee and stump, with the pillows to support him on the right side. He could bear at least some of his weight on his stump, he discovered; not as much as he might have had he still had his leg, but enough and without a lot of immediate discomfort.

  He pressed himself against her threshold and slipped inside. Tessa gasped, tightening about his waist with her thighs. Immediately concerned about hurting her—her wounds had begun to heal but still had a
long way yet to go—he froze, wide-eyed with alarm. “Tessa…” he began uncertainly.

  “Don’t stop,” she whispered, hooking her fingertips against his forearms, urging him. “Please, Rene…don’t stop.”

  He leaned down, kissing her, feeling her ragged breath against his mouth as he slowly, deliberately withdrew from her, only to plunge down again, filling her once more. Again and again he did this, taking her long, slow and deep, savoring the slick, velveteen friction, the rhythmic undulations of her hips as she rose to meet him.

  For the first time since he’d lost his leg, he felt whole. He could look the woman he loved in the eye and make love to her on his own terms—not in a way that made him feel safe or that spared his ego. He made love to Tessa the way that he wanted to, and for the better part of the next half hour, he marked a strident, steady rhythm inside of her, until her voice had dissolved into moans and she writhed beneath him, her body glossed with a light sheen of perspiration. All of that time, he’d been building toward release and when he saw she could no longer stand it, when she clutched at him, pleading in soft, breathless whimpers, he gave it to her.

  Tessa tightened against him inside and out. Her hair was swept about her face, clinging to her brightly flushed cheeks in sweat-dampened strands; her eyes were closed, her brows lifted, her mouth ajar as she cried out.

  My God, you’re beautiful, he thought, and then he came, a powerful shudder of pleasure wrenching through him, plowing the senses momentarily from him.

  He crumpled against her, resting his weight on his arms, relieving his sore stump of the burden. “Are you all right?” he whispered as he pushed himself up, propping himself somewhat on his left side so he could look down at her. “I didn’t hurt you?”

  “No.” She raised her head and kissed him softly on the mouth. “I love you, Rene.”

  A man could never get tired of hearing those words, he decided, as he lay back against the bed and she snuggled up to him once more, pressing her cheek against his heart and letting her hand rest against the flat plane of his stomach.

  “I love you, too, Tessa,” he said, because a man could never get tired of saying those words, either, as he was rapidly learning.

  “It’s never going to be over, is it?”

  He’d only meant to close his eyes for a moment, maybe two, but when he opened them again, he could see the quality of sunlight against the motel room ceiling had shifted, brightening. Time had passed, maybe an hour or so, and Tessa had apparently been lying there all the while, awake and thinking.

  “What?” he asked, groggy and bewildered.

  Tessa sat up, looking down at him, her dark eyes round and troubled. “It’s never going to be over, is it?” she asked again. “The Brethren, I mean. Not until they hunt us down, me and Brandon. They won’t kill him now, you know. The Grandfather needs Brandon if he wants to stay dominant, especially once he finds out Caine is dead. But as for me…?”

  Her voice faded and she cut her eyes away, her hand drawing unconsciously to her stomach. She didn’t have to say more; she’d explained the harsh ways of the Brethren to him, their brutal and unflinching methods, and he understood.

  They’ll kill her now, but not until she has the bébé, he thought. She’s carrying a boy—a son. They’ll keep her alive long enough to deliver, then they’ll punish her for what happened to Monica. They’ll kill her.

  He watched as her eyes grew clouded. “I’m scared, Rene,” she whispered. “How can we live like this? Always running, always looking over our shoulders, jumping at every shadow? We may have escaped the farm, left Kentucky behind us, but we’re still just as trapped as we ever were.” A tear spilled, rolling slowly down her cheek in a thin, glistening trail. “We’ll never be free, Rene. Any of us—Brandon, Lina, you or me…the baby.”

  “Hush now,” he said, wiping away her teardrop with his fingertips.

  “I’m scared, Rene,” she said again, and he cupped his hand against her nape, drawing her to his shoulder in an embrace.

  “Hush,” he said again, pressing his lips against her hair. He could look down the graceful length of her spine and see the bandage covering her wound, the place where Monica Davenant had run her through, trying to kill her. She’s right, he realized in dismay. They’re never going to stop trying now, never going to give up the hunt.

  “No one’s going to hurt you—or the baby,” he whispered. “I promise you, pischouette. With everything I have, no matter what it takes, I’ll make sure of that.”

  She drifted back to sleep. Even though she’d fed, her body had gone through so much in such a little amount of time and she was still fairly fragile—despite her stubborn insistence to the contrary. This time it was Rene’s turn to lie awake in bed while she slept, but once her breathing had slowed, growing rhythmic and deep, he slipped carefully away from her.

  He hauled himself onto the bed and sat against the mattress to put his prosthetic back in place, then dressed once more. He put a clean shirt on, shrugging his ski jacket over top. His car keys were still in his coat pocket; he heard their muffled jangle as he pulled up the zipper. Martin Davenant’s ledger, all of the invoices Tessa had inadvertently stolen from him were stowed away together in Rene’s duffel bag; he crossed the room and fished them out, along with the Sig Sauer P228 pistol he’d brought in from the car. A quick check of the clip revealed a full thirteen shots. Not that he was planning on using that many.

  “One ought to do the trick,” he murmured to himself as he gave one last sweep of the room with his gaze from the doorway. He let his eyes linger on Tessa’s sleeping form, still curled peacefully on the bed. Some of the severity that had knitted his brows, cleaving a deep furrow at the bridge of his nose, softened. Then he turned and stepped out into the early dawn, closing the door behind him.

  A Jaguar sure as hell wasn’t as nimble along the rutted mountain roads as the four-wheel-drive Jeep had been, but Rene figured it wasn’t his goddamn transmission or suspension to worry about fucking up, so he made do. He drove around the basin of Emerald Bay, then cut up into the hills, past the locked gate that marked the perimeter of his property, and from there, deep into the lush pine-covered slopes.

  For three days now, they’d topped the news all around Lake Tahoe. A historic landmark like Vikingsholm had pretty reliable security systems in place, and between Monica Davenant tossing Tessa through an upstairs window and Brandon battering one in on the ground floor, alarms aplenty had apparently been sounded. Rene was frankly astonished that Brandon had managed to get Tessa out of the house and both of them clear of the area before the police had arrived. What had probably started out as nothing more than a simple vandalism investigation had quickly shifted to full-blown murder with the grisly discovery of Monica’s body. Rene listened as a local morning radio personality recapped viewers with all of the gory details as he pulled the Jaguar to a halt beside his vacant watch house.

  “…and I have a friend down at the local precinct who tells me—hand to God here, gang—that this dead woman’s got one of those carved dragon crossbeams sticking out of her head. I’m not kidding. Someone rammed one of those big old things—have you seen them over there at Vikingsholm?—clear through this lady’s skull. Now I don’t know about you, but in my book, that’s some weird sh—”

  Rene turned off the engine, killing the radio. As he got out of the car, he paused, looking over his shoulder into the trees. He felt inexplicably like he was being watched. It was a sensation he’d come to expect from this place; usually it was a comforting, welcome sort—like he was home, he’d told Tessa, and that had been the honest to Christ’s truth—but it felt different that morning. The air felt heavy and still to him, the pervasive cold seeping through the insulating layer of his down coat and permeating clear down to his bones.

  He mounted the stairs leading up to the wraparound porch and fished his keys from his pocket. Before unlocking the door or stepping foot into the house, he unlatched several of the window padlocks and propped open the sh
utters, sending a spill of pale sunlight across the interior floor. There was no promise of making love to Tessa that morning to distract him from his claustrophobia, and he needed to be at the top of his game for what was about to come.

  He could see Martin Davenant inside, still bound to the post and gagged; he squinted, baring his teeth in a grimace around the washcloth in his mouth at the sudden, blinding glare.

  “Bon jour,” Rene said, opening the front door and walking inside.

  Martin didn’t say anything. He glared at Rene from over the edge of his gag, keeping his teeth clenched deeply into the fabric. The scratches on his face had all but healed, but there was still dried blood crusted around his nostrils, caked on his upper lip and the corners of his mouth. When Rene leaned over, jerking it sharply, freeing the washcloth from his mouth, he turned his head to the side, gulping and gagging loudly for breath.

  “You…you son of a bitch…” he spat at Rene. “What are you?” Without Tessa there, he could clearly sense Rene now, the Brethren component of his nature without mistaking it for hers. “Who are you, you…you bastard fuck?”

  “I’m the guy with your ledger, shit for brains.” Rene pulled the little leather-bound volume out from the inside pocket of his coat, waggled it just beneath Martin’s nose, then tossed it on the floor.

  He had Martin Davenant’s attention now, whole and undivided, and he smirked, shaking his fingertip at the other man. “I know what all of that is, mon ami. You’ve been a naughty boy, helping yourself off the top of the till all of these years. It sure would be a shame if Tessa’s granddaddy found out what you’ve been up to, no? Especially since from what I understand, Augustus Noble isn’t the sort of man one crosses…unless of course you like the idea of being introduced headfirst to your own ass.”