Passion Bites: Biting Love, Book 9

by Mary Hughes

  And thanks to Luther I was stewing badly, fear and fury rising, fast, hot, beyond my ability to control, threatening to burst my skin. Maybe I’d opened myself to this the first time I’d opened myself to Luke, the first time my heart softened from its protective ice…but it made me so fucking useless. Luke would be dead and it was my fault, because I couldn’t control myself. Because emotion robbed me of the ability to think, to act. I clamped my eyes shut against the hot, stinging tears. I hated all this feeling, a raging river sweeping my feet out from under me, making me utterly worthless in this deadly crisis…

  “L-lex.”

  “Luke?” I whirled to see him, eyes closed but mouth working, trying to speak. “Shh. Don’t talk. Conserve your strength.” I rose up again on my toes. “If you can reach my skin—”

  “E…” His mouth puckered. “E…ahh.” He fell limp against his manacles, eyelids fluttering as he went in and out of consciousness.

  But he’d been trying to tell me something, something vital…and I knew what it was.

  ER.

  Outside the emergency room, there’s Miller Time, when things are sailing smooth, and you have the luxury of time for things like plans and dreams and feelings.

  Inside the ER there’s Crisis Time, when the paramedics cart in a gunshot victim bleeding from multiple entries, the bullet’s lodged in a vital organ and the stats are dropping. When the plan flies out the window and you have no time for luxuries like study and reflection and especially not emotions.

  Luke meant this was Crisis Time.

  Thanks to Luke, thousands of hours of ER training kicked in. My emotions shut off. My respiration faded from my awareness as my brain turned on. Mentally, I was in a clean white room, my brain rapidly suggesting, processing, discarding possible solutions.

  Could I escape?

  No windows. I backed up to the door, tried turning the knob. Locked.

  Try something else.

  Could Luke escape?

  I opened my eyes. He hung from his manacles, lids drooping, face drawn and lined. Blistering on his exposed flesh, skin beginning to singe…he must be in incredible pain.

  Empathy cracked the door to my white room. Fear and anger flashed like lightning and thunder in the gap.

  No good to us now. Gently, I closed the door. Later. I’d rage later.

  Try something else.

  Could I extend my height, so I could press my throat into Luke’s mouth? Get blood into him without his needing to suck?

  I ran to the table and tried to move it with my hips, to push it close to Luke, then hop up so he could reach a vein.

  It was fastened to the floor.

  Try something else.

  But there was nothing else. “Damn it.” My stomach began to churn, cracking through my calm. I realized if there was no obvious way to escape, I’d have to try something, anything, and see if it helped or not. If it helped, do more, better. If not, try the next anything.

  Yeah, I was forced to improvise. I really hated that. But what else was there? Dying was a plan, but not one I wanted to explore right then.

  Not when I’d just found Luke, who made me feel… Feelings weren’t helping. I jettisoned any and all, my sorrow, horror, rage and fear, even lov…attraction. I had one mandate.

  Act.

  Plan or not, here I come.

  Shouting, I wriggled my whole body. Nobody burst through the door to rescue us. The zip cuffs didn’t give but my wrist bones creaked.

  Go with that. Break hand bones? I’d heard that worked, but after you escaped, without hands, how could you open doors? Unhook latches? Free your semi-conscious vampire lover?

  Nah, it’s easy to slip zip cuffs.

  I startled. The words…thank God for a retentive memory. I’d heard them years and years ago, when I’d worked ER in Chicago. I closed my eyes and teased the rest of the memory out.

  Punk. Kid. Gang kid, single GSW, through and through. He’d been boasting to his girlfriend as I treated him.

  Snug ’em tight. Knot centered. Raise your arms and pop ’em really hard against your butt. Fast, no hesitation, or it won’t work.

  Right. If I could get loose of the zip cuffs, I might be able somehow pick the door lock…

  Wait. Luke was a vampire. If I were free, I could lift my wrist and give him blood. He could do his mist thing and get us out.

  And so I had a craptastic plan. Not great, because I didn’t know if I could trust the boast of a boy, but I had a plan, and I was nothing if not good at executing a plan.

  I thrust my fists away from my butt. Hesitated. The tie was already cutting off my blood supply. If I did this wrong, I could cause permanent damage.

  Tiny flames broke out on Luke’s skin. Yeah, if I didn’t get free soon, I’d have more than nerve damage to worry about.

  Again I raised my fists, concentrating on hitting my butt sharp and fast, not hesitating at all, pop ’em back, don’t hesitate…

  I’d forgotten the vampire blood. It wasn’t enough to make me Super Wonder Woman, but it was enough to make me overshoot the power needed by about fifty percent. I slammed my wrists into my coccyx.

  Yes, the knot burst. The plastic strip sprang off like a kangaroo, clicking and clacking as it rebounded from table to floor.

  But my wrist and butt seemed to burst too. Pain exploded, screaming agony drowning every thought but one. “Shit.”

  Luke’s eyes flew open. “W-wha…?”

  “Sprain!” But of all the pained frownie faces on the chart I was so far past “Hurts Most” I was at fuck fuck fuck.

  With a huff of air, Luke sagged in his chains. His face was bright red and his dermis roiled like magma just under the surface.

  The pain in my tailbone quickly subsided, but that must’ve used up all the healing power in Luke’s vampire blood, because when I shook circulation into my hands, fire lanced my wrist. Broken bone, sprain, whatever, it was an injury, and shock was part of the equation. I used every breathing technique I had to try to get ahead of it, not to control it so much as ride through it. Work despite it.

  One thing the teachers of pain-control methods don’t tell you—the techniques don’t stop the pain. They simply make it slightly less impossible to deal with.

  But deal with it I did, holding my injured hand above my heart and rushing to Luke’s side.

  He was so hot, emitting heat like a radiator. The lights were killing him. I spun to one, caught the tiny knob with my unhurt hand, and…my fingers slipped. I tried again. My palm was so sweaty, perspiration dripped from my fingers, part heat, part stress.

  No traction, no time. Get him blood.

  I stuck my swollen wrist in front of his face. “Drink.”

  His eyes shot open—blood red and glowing. Truly horrific fangs shot out of his mouth like twin switchblades. But even as his mouth opened automatically, he shook himself. “No.”

  “Yes.” I practically shoved my wrist into his mouth.

  He turned his head away. “T-take…t-too much.”

  “Death by exsanguination?” I had to fight to get the words out, half-hissing them. But I had to make him understand. “Better than flames—or worse: Marrone. I mean Luther. Whatever. Drink.”

  “G-go.”

  “And how the hell am I supposed to pick open a locked door?” I held up my injured wrist.

  His eyes slit open. Seeing my hand, his brow furrowed in empathy.

  His skin was charred like a cooked sausage, and he felt for me?

  And still he hesitated. Fuck that. I jammed the puffy part of the wrist, swollen with blood from broken vessels, against his fang, and slashed down.

  Skin tore. An instant of shock…dizziness…warm blood welled along my wrist. I pressed it against his mouth, and he automatically latched on.

  Groaning, he began to suck.

  My
pain fled. His mouth was hot, the suction…incredible. Dizziness disappeared. I looked up to where we were joined, flesh to flesh. The bliss on his face thrilled me to my core and was twin to the heaven invading my every cell. He sucked, intense, erotic, and it went on so long I was in danger of having an orgasm or passing out or both.

  My eyelids were flagging when his head shot up. Staring at nothing, his irises flashed from blood red to warm gold and back, as if he battled the vampire inside.

  Then his eyes changed to rose-gold and stayed that color, and his gaze cleared. He seemed to take in the situation, all of it, in a single glance. Now he’d mist free…

  Luke roared—and ripped his chains from the ceiling.

  Impressive, until he landed on the floor and staggered. I caught his arm. “What’s wrong? Why didn’t you mist?”

  “C-can’t. Mist burns.” His chest pumped like a bellows. “Sunlamp…”

  “Right.” I dragged him away from the burning rays. He stumbled against me as we cleared the lamps, but the instant he was out from under them his color improved.

  “Can you mist through the door?”

  “N-not yet.” He straightened slightly, his breathing slowing. “Soon.”

  “Make it sooner. Luther probably has eyes on this room.”

  “He would.” Luke closed his lids, then clamped them in deepening concentration. Slowly, like sand draining in an hourglass, his body broke down into a gray river of mist, which flowed along the floor to the door…and under.

  I held my breath.

  The lock clicked. The door opened. I ran to him.

  He enfolded me in his arms. “Let’s get out of here. We’ll contact Julian—”

  “Julian is already here, and Bo too.”

  “Then why aren’t they beating Luther’s ass…oh. The windows and doors have metal cladding?”

  “And electricity. We have to hide so you can recover.”

  “Yes. I’m better, but I’ll need to rest before killing Luther.” He snarled it with a grim certainty that made me shiver. “Where?”

  I thought of the furnace room, then rejected the idea. If Lizelle had been compromised, none of us would be safe. If she was safe, I didn’t want to lead Luther to her.

  So much for my great planning. I laughed ruefully. “If only there were someplace truly vampire proof.”

  His eyebrows rose. “But there is.” He grabbed my uninjured hand and pulled me into a run.

  “Where are we going? No, don’t tell me. If they have ears anywhere they might hear.”

  He led me to a door at the far end of the corridor, on the opposite side from the bedroom with the old man.

  “This is where they held me. It’s electrified and vampire-proofed—at least I couldn’t break out—which means I can rig it so they can’t break in. Bonus, it has water. A toilet. A kind of bed. Take off your shoes.”

  “My shoes?” I was acting even as I asked the question, popping off my thick-soled shoes. On the wall beside the door was a complex-looking keypad box. “But what about the lock? The electric field? Don’t those activate from the outside?”

  “Yes. Which means we’ll have to tamper a bit. But first the deadbolt.”

  The door had a bolt lock, the kind with a twisting two-winged handle. He slammed a precise palm into the handle of the lock, snapping it off cleanly. He repeated the procedure with the doorknob, then jammed it into the hole so hard it seemed to fuse.

  “Okay, now the first shoe.” He held out his hand.

  I passed it to him.

  He cracked the door and stuck the shoe in. “I’m going to activate the electrical field, but it won’t complete without the door being shut.”

  “Because it’s a rubber sole on my shoe, I get it.”

  “Yes.” He grew a single claw and did something to the keypad cover to open the box. A frown appeared on his face as he examined the contents, then cleared to a fierce grin. “Oh yes.” He did something inside the box and suddenly a hum rose up, the electricity going live.

  “Won’t Luther simply reverse whatever you did?”

  “He can try.” Luke smashed a fist into the box. “That’ll slow him. I’ve also disrupted the feed to the cameras inside the room. Second shoe.”

  Far away, a door slammed. Yelling started, and the pound of running feet, getting nearer.

  “Hurry.” Using my shoe like a mitt, Luke swung the door wide. I leaped through.

  I found myself in a small room, sparsely furnished with smooth, simple furniture like a jail cell, a couple bare surfaces as cots, a toilet and a water fountain.

  The slam of the door spun me. Luke had both shoes. I said, “Okay, so the door’s electrified so Luther can’t mist in. The lock is broken so he can’t lock us in. And the knob’s broken so it’ll take him some time to open the door. But without a lock, all he has to do is find some electrically insulated pliers, or even knock out the hinges.”

  “Not the hinges. Tamper-proof hinges are inside the room. But the pliers is a possibility. I don’t have a mechanical lock, so…” He flipped the broken wing-handle, then threw it like a dart into the crack between the door and floor, where it jammed like a door wedge. “A physical one will have to do.”

  Then, for good measure, he wedged my shoes in next to it. “It won’t stop them forever. But it’ll give us some breathing space. Hopefully I can heal enough before they get in.”

  “Crap. Right. Take more blood.” I thrust my injured wrist at him—although the gash was gone, and the wrist wasn’t quite so swollen now.

  “No.” His gaze met mine, and his lips clamped.

  “Yes. I’m still conscious, which means I only got a quart in you.” He must have used considerable willpower not to drink me dry.

  “I can move. It’s enough for now. For this.” He took my injured wrist and raised it to his mouth, the gold flecks in his eyes seeming extra-large.

  “What are you doing? If you won’t drink, we should rest.”

  “We will. This first. It will hurt—I’m sorry.”

  “What are you…ow!”

  He tore into the gash in the lateral portion of my hand, right over the injury. There was an instant of shock and pain like jagged lightning.

  As my blood welled, he raised his own palm to his mouth, slicing it on one fang with quick efficiency.

  Then he grabbed my wrist with his torn hand, blood to blood.

  It was like he’d injected analgesic. My pain subsided to throbbing.

  “It’s better.” My wonder filled my voice.

  “Not done.” He lifted his hand. The cuts were gone, both from his palm and my wrist. He gazed at his forefinger—it wavered. He touched the misty index finger to the lump of sprain or broken bone—and his distal phalanx sank in, the pointer to the first knuckle.

  I gasped, surprise as a flood of warmth released. Loud crackles, like unwrapping cellophane, came from my hand, but uncomfortable, not painful.

  He removed his fingertip. It was solid again.

  But more, my hand was healed. Broken bone or sprain, the lump was gone and as I tested it with a circle, the wrist worked normally. “That’s a miracle.” I knew vampire blood healed, but experiencing it, the intimacy, the healing, was amazing. I gazed up into his face in wonder and gratitude—and realized he’d gone gray. “You have barely two quarts of blood in your body. Can you afford to lose even drop?”

  “We can function with minimal circulation. This is the least I can do for your saving my life. Besides, it’ll take both of us working together to escape.” He went to the water fountain and drank deep. “Ahh.” His color improved almost instantly. Apparently even fluid that wasn’t blood had some restorative affect.

  “Well, thank you for healing me.”

  He gave me a small smile. “Let’s lie down where you can thank me properly. And I will thank you.”

/>   Chapter Twenty-Four

  “If you mean what I think you do, I don’t think this is quite the time. Not only is an insane vampire about to try to break down our door, you should know I hid my friend and her daughter away. I think they’re safe for now, but I want them completely safe sooner rather than later.”

  “Yes. But the thing between us…I can’t think straight. All I can think of is this.” He lay on one of the cots, and to my shock, opened his arms to me.

  I shook my head. “We can’t.”

  “Please, Alexis? I…I need you.”

  That plucked a string inside me. My head-shaking slowed. “Well…”

  “Just for a little while. It will help me heal.”

  For him? How could I not? Besides, I had no idea what this need really was, blood, companionship, sex…

  As I approached, he scooted over to accommodate me. It was cramped on the cot, but something about him, his smell or his feel or the way he snuggled against me, turned cramped into cozy.

  It started slow. He hugged me. Pressed his lips to my hair. Caressed my cheek with one thumb.

  I turned my face, eyes closed, up for his kisses. He dropped them, butterfly light, on my forehead, eyelids, nose, cheeks. I sighed and reached up with my lips.

  His mouth found mine. We kissed, less in desire and more from a need to connect, lips sealing our breath together, essences mingling in the heat of our mouths.

  I wanted to be closer. I slid my hand along his skin. My blood had helped heal him, at least on the outside; the charred swatches and weeping blisters were gone, his skin smooth and unbroken. Overjoyed that he was whole again, I caressed up his ribs, feeling the breadth of him, the long slide of muscle, the broad span of shoulder.

  His hands found my skin as well, sliding under my top, scooping knit silk up my ribs and over my head. He shucked my shirt as I freed my arms and then we were clasping each other tightly, skin to skin, only my bra between us.

  Shockingly, that skin-to-skin contact fired an inferno of desire in me. Lust, but more, I wanted to connect with him, as deeply and completely as possible.

  I threaded fingers in his blond hair. Looked him in the eye. “I don’t want to hurt you. But I want you.”