by Aja James
Mostly, he recalled a small hand grasping his (it was hard to forget when his hand sometimes lost feeling from being used as a pillow), the even breaths that accompanied his own, the soft sighs in that sultry voice he knew so well by now.
When he tentatively peeled his eyes open, Grace Darling was standing over his bed, staring unblinking down at him. Something he was becoming accustomed to seeing her do.
“You’re awake.”
Simply, tonelessly said. No leaps of jubilation or dances of rapture at his remaining among the living. But strangely, Devlin heard the affection and concern in those sparsely uttered words nonetheless.
“How do you feel?” she asked matter-of-factly.
“Better,” he replied.
“Are you still in pain?”
“It’s manageable.”
They stared at each other for long moments, and then:
“Thank you for saving me.”
They’d said it at the same time, to each other. Then, simultaneously, as if each were a mirror of the other, they smiled.
“I didn’t really save you,” she said, somewhat shyly.
“You were very brave,” he declared firmly, in a tone that brooked no argument.
“You were magnificent,” she blurted out, something fierce brightening her eyes, a mix of bloodthirstiness and pride.
He shook his head.
“I got lucky. And I had a little help.” He squeezed her hand in his to emphasize the point.
He’d never forget the way she charged in with the potted plant, wielding that thing clumsily but effectively. He’d never been on the receiving end of such fierce protectiveness and bravery before. Particularly from someone so much smaller and weaker than himself.
“If my closest comrade didn’t happen to be a shadow ninja himself and showed me some tricks in the decades that we’ve trained and fought together, I wouldn’t have lasted two blows with those assassins. I’ll have to confer with Ryu when he’s back in the City.”
He pulled her closer so that she sat down beside him on the bed.
“What did they want with you, Grace?”
“I don’t know,” she said, almost apologetically, frustrated.
Then she blinked in memory. “It’s not the first time that I saw them,” she said slowly.
“Just this morning I saw them in a little girl’s drawing, and when I went to my bi-monthly session with my psychiatrist, I remembered a little more.”
Her eyes unfocused on a distant white blob of furniture as she lost herself in thought.
“I have these recurring dreams, so vivid and real when I’m having them that I wake up in a cold sweat, often at the foot of my bed, having fallen off in the process, heart pounding and pulse racing. But I can never remember what the dream was about. My psychiatrist encourages me to write down everything I feel and anything I can recall after each episode, but aside from what I just told you, I never have much more to write about.”
She looked back at Devlin and remembered the way he fought the shadows so fearlessly, with lethal grace and efficiency. The shadows had enveloped him like fog, dissipated like smoke when he tried to pin them down.
“I recall some of the dream now,” she said softly, as if afraid that she’d lose hold of the fragments and images in her mind if she voiced them too loudly.
“But it’s less of a dream and more of a memory. When I was twelve, on the day that my parents left for work, I went upstairs in the morning to have my favorite breakfast that they left me. Then I spent the whole day until late at night in the basement working on my programs.”
“They always call for me to come up to dinner when they get home from work because I lose track of time. But no one called me to dinner that day. I fell asleep on my computer keyboard, and by the time I went up, it was well into the night, maybe even early hours of the morning.”
She looked down at their clasped hands as if focusing on their bond would give her courage to recall the rest.
“The kitchen looked exactly as I left it in the morning. There was no dinner on the table or even stored away in the fridge, as sometimes they did when they didn’t want to disturb me. I made myself a sandwich and ate it at the kitchen counter. I was still groggy from sleep and didn’t think much.”
“Then I saw a large black shadow sliding down the stairs that led to our bedrooms, even though there was no object to cast it. As I stared at it, the shadow stopped moving. And then, it simply pooled onto the floor of the kitchen and flowed like spilled water out onto the patio until it disappeared into the night.”
She was breathing in quick little bursts now, and didn’t notice that Devlin was gently rubbing her back with his free hand to soothe her rising anxiety.
“It was so bizarre I thought I’d imagined it. After I finished my food, I went back to the basement to finish my coding. I didn’t hear any of the heavy gales and rain outside that had apparently hit my neighborhood and several others around it. It wasn’t until the next day that the police came to tell me my parents had d-died in the hurricane because of a collapsed bridge.”
At this, her voice dropped to a raspy whisper.
“I never even saw their bodies. The police just presented me with what remained of their things. A couple of beat-up Blackberries and work badges. They said my parents were crushed beyond recognition. But somewhere, deep down, I think I always knew that they had died the night before. Perhaps in our own home…”
She raised her eyes and looked directly into Devlin’s bright blue orbs.
“And that the shadow I saw had something to do with it.”
Chapter Twelve
“We’ll figure this out together,” Devlin made the promise to Grace.
She might not know it, but he’d make it his personal mission to keep her safe, to hunt down those responsible for her parents’ death as well as the attack on her, and ruthlessly end them.
He wouldn’t rest until he did.
He let go of her hand to use both of his to push himself to a sitting position. Pulling out the IVs for his blood transfusion, he swung his legs to the side of the bed and attempted to stand. He would have fallen on his ass had Grace not rushed around to provide support, looping one of his arms around her shoulders.
“Are you sure you’re well enough to move about?” she asked.
She didn’t sound worried as much as simply making a logical inquiry given the extent of injuries he received just twenty-four hours ago, but a little furrow appeared between her striking brows.
Devlin was starting to appreciate those fulsome brows.
“Well enough to leave this chamber—with your help,” he replied with reluctant qualification. “The tech center adjoins my personal quarters. All of Zenn’s files are there. Maybe you can work your magic and find something useful that I missed over the last two weeks.”
“Later,” she said firmly. “First, we should get you washed up and changed into clean clothes. I can’t even tell how your injuries are healing for all the blood and stains.”
“Are you planning to give me a sponge bath, my faithful little nurse?” the teasing quip was out of his mouth before Devlin could stop it. He didn’t mean to flirt with her, given how she felt about their…non-relationship.
Grace stopped in their slow hobble down the corridor from the healing chamber and looked intensely into Devlin’s eyes.
“Grace, I didn’t mean—”
“I was thinking I would help wash you in the shower instead,” she said succinctly, her dark, clear eyes almost hypnotic as they regarded him unblinkingly.
“I think…” Her brows scrunched slightly as she concentrated on finding the right words. “I think I’ve missed you, Devlin Sinclair.”
“Have you?” He meant to say it with smooth nonchalance in his usual devil-may-care tone, but it came out instead like a breathless, needy query filled with uncertainty.
She didn’t answer, simply providing the crutch he needed to move down the corridor again.
Whe
n they reached his quarters, he opened an unmarked door just like that of the healing chamber, and they hobbled inside together.
Grace paused just beyond the threshold for a few moments taking in his spacious apartment.
The place was as large, if not larger, than her own basement studio. Also open floor plan and with clearly delineated areas for different purposes. No windows. Lots of books.
Instead of a kitchen and dining area, there was an entire alcove lined with shelves full of books, with a laddered loft that provided the perfect place to relax and read. The bathroom was separated from the living space by an intricate ceramic and metal screen. A gigantic platform bed dominated almost an entire wall on the other side.
“Very elegant and masculine,” Grace commented matter-of-factly.
“Like you.”
Devlin rubbed the back of his neck with an alarming degree of shyness.
He’d never brought anyone inside his private quarters before, not even the other Chosen. He had always been extremely reserved in the sharing of personal details, perhaps because he didn’t fully trust anyone.
He’d always been the friendly yet unknowable member of the Dark Queen’s guard. Ryu was his closest friend, and not even he knew Devlin’s story.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he murmured, feeling decidedly uncomfortable, “I’ll go wash up.”
“Let me help you,” she said, and took hold of the bottom of his shirt to pull over his head, not waiting for permission.
“I can do this,” he insisted, staying her hands in his.
She looked up at him questioningly. “I thought you wanted me to be your faithful nurse.”
He tried to smile with cavalier flair, but it came out more like a wince. “I’m not sure your touching… more than my hands… is such a good idea.”
“But I want to touch you,” she said firmly. “I’ve been thinking about it. A lot.”
“Touching me,” he echoed weakly.
She nodded. “And kissing you.”
“Huh.”
“All over.”
All Devlin could do was inhale and exhale deeply. This was all music to his ears, but he had to get something straight first.
“I thought you didn’t want to become attached,” he reminded her cautiously, as if he didn’t really want to remind her of any such thing.
She frowned a little and he worried.
“I don’t like attachments, this is true.”
A gust of breath left his body at her words, as if his chest suddenly deflated.
“I don’t know if I’ll become attached,” she continued, still trying to puzzle it out. “But I think I’m already obsessed.”
“Obsessed,” he repeated inanely.
She held his gaze directly and declared, “I want you, Devlin. I just want… you.”
At this her eyes widened, and he watched it happen right in front of him—the dilation of her large black pupils, the brilliant light that entered her clear brown irises, as if something sparked within her, a realization perhaps of a profound truth.
She didn’t elaborate on whatever insight that had dawned upon her, however.
What she said was, “Can we get you washed up so I can check your wounds, maybe give each other a few orgasms—if you’re up to it—and talk about this afterwards?”
Devlin made a sound in the back of his throat that was somewhat strangled, as if he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
This time, when she tried to lift his shirt, he didn’t stop her. He stood mutely while she undressed him, focusing on staying on his feet. When she undressed herself just as efficiently, he wobbled and swayed a bit, struck hard by how much he wanted her.
Needed her.
Wordlessly, she led him to his luxurious rain forest shower tucked in the back of the suite. She turned the water to the right temperature and looked around for something to scrub his body with.
“I just use soap,” Devlin explained, “Habit from my human life.”
Grace found the large, man-sized bar of soap in a corner cutout within the shower wall and built up a lather in her hands. The fresh, clean scent infused through the heated fog the hot water created.
It was a simple fragrance, one that wouldn’t cover up the original scent of a person’s skin, but rather enhance it, embrace it.
Grace realized that this was the unique combination she’d inhaled from Devlin’s skin, but only when she was close enough to pick it up. He wore no other colognes or even strong deodorants.
You wouldn’t pick up any smells on him in passing, only when he let you come close. And then… you’d never want to leave the orbit of his body again.
At least this was Grace’s particular dilemma. She was helplessly addicted to everything Devlin.
It wouldn’t do to melt into a puddle of lusty urges now, she thought. She had work to do. All business-like, she began running her frothy hands all over his body, beginning with his arms.
“So you weren’t always a vampire?” she asked, finally getting to appease some of her curiosity.
Devlin tried to be as no-nonsense about this naked-shower-touchy-feely stuff as Grace was apparently being, but it was an extremely difficult act to pull off. Even if he could keep his expressions and voice neutral, there was one part of his body that flatly refused to remain dispassionate.
“I was born human and turned into a vampire,” he managed to reply.
“When were you born?”
Her meticulous little hands were traveling up his shoulders and neck now, as far as she could reach on tiptoe, then down his collar bone and pectorals, her thumbs rubbing across his nipples.
Devlin was struggling mightily to concentrate on the conversation.
“Ah… seventeen…seventeen ninety, that’s the year I was born,” he finally got out. “July eighteenth.”
She paused in her soaping for a moment to gape at him. “You’re two-hundred thirty years old?”
“If you round a little, yes,” he said, then added, “I’m practically an infant in vampire terms.” Lest she thought him too old.
Grace’s right hand pressed over something puckered near his shoulder high up on his chest. Curious, she stepped closer to take a better look. The wound appeared to be old and scarred over, unlike the faint lines and discolorations left by his recent injuries.
“How did you get this?” she asked, a bit mesmerized.
It looked like it must have hurt terribly. A bayonet wound? A bullet wound? She hadn’t seen enough severe injuries first hand to know.
“It’s not important,” he answered gruffly.
Immediately, she noticed a drop in temperature despite the hot shower blasting overhead. Despite its age, the wound still seemed fresh in Devlin’s psyche.
She didn’t press for more information. Instead, she rubbed the soap bar vigorously between her hands again to build up more bubbles.
“A two hundred and thirty year-old vampire. Fascinating,” was all she said as she went back to his body, moving her hands down his ribs.
As she pushed against a particularly sensitive area where a few broken ribs had yet to heal completely, he angled away a little.
“Sorry,” she murmured, gentling her touch. “There are no more open wounds, it seems, but I guess not everything has healed on the inside?”
He merely shook his head, as if to say it was nothing to be concerned about.
As her hands became less purposeful in terms of cleaning and more sympathetic to his wounds, her touch became caresses.
Caresses that stoked a different kind of pain within him. A pain that was somehow pleasurable. A pleasure so acute it resembled pain.
“How did you become a vampire, then?” she continued to ask, seemingly unaffected by his naked, aroused body beneath her roaming hands.
They moved around his narrow waist and then slowly from his obliques up the symmetrical sides of the upside-down trapezoid that defined his broad back. Her fingers and thumbs rubbed gently in a circular motion to cle
ar his skin of grime.
“It’s a long story,” he bit out, barely managing to prevent a hiss of pleasure as her hands massaged their way down the deep groove of his spine.
“I’d like to hear it someday,” she said leisurely, in no hurry to interrogate him further this night.
And maybe he’d tell her, Devlin thought. She would be the only person apart from himself who knew his story. It might even be a relief to share with her. He’d been so alone and isolated for so long.
They were alike in that way.
“Where else do you hurt?” she asked briskly, coming back to his injuries, “How do you know if there is internal bleeding?”
“My body will sort itself out,” he answered, “there’s no need to worry. It just takes time.”
She looked up at him. “Is there anything to speed up the healing process? Have you received enough blood?”
Devlin swallowed, his eyes involuntarily straying to her throat, elongated and exposed as she craned her head up to look into his face.
“Fresh blood… taken from the source…” he swallowed again and unconsciously wet his suddenly parched lips, “…accelerates the process.”
“Would you like to drink from me?”
Oh God, the things she said.
Devlin didn’t trust himself to speak. He wanted to sink his fangs into her throat more than anything right now, apart from perhaps sinking something else of his into a different part of her body. And he knew he was well enough to have the self-control to stop before he took too much. But somehow he felt that tasting her sweet nectar would take too much out of him.
“You may take my blood, Devlin,” Grace invited, oblivious to his inner battle. “I want to make you better.”
“Grace…” Her name hissed out through his teeth like a prayer. His fangs had already descended in his mouth, pulling his lips slightly apart.
“Does it hurt?” she asked, curious and unafraid.
“Not… not between you and me. Not given the way we feel.”
Her adorable bushy brows furrowed a bit. “What do you mean? Isn’t it like two little stabs? Your teeth are bigger than needles, smaller than knives, so the pain is somewhere in between the kind caused by one or the other?”
