“Your voice. It’s wonderful.” She yawned again, bent her arms up at the elbows and grasped his encircling forearms that rested over her chest. “Please keep talking to me.”
If that’s what it would take to comfort her, then he’d do it until the world ended. “What would you like me to say?”
“How about that Tristan and Iseult you like to quote?”
“Anything you want.”
He recited as many lines as he could remember from the old story of love found, love lost, and love eternal. Even after her slow breaths stirred the hair on his arms, he continued. He didn’t care if he repeated lines.
Brushing his lips over her silky hair, a delicate floral cloud drifted up, mixing with the smells from dinner and the wood of the cabin. He inhaled her scent—if he ended every night like this in a cozy home, snuggled up with Hannah, they’d make love—sometimes tender, sometimes wild—until her belly swelled with a child beneath his palm.
Although her tiny frame disappeared in his arms, he sensed every inch of her soft body nestled against his. She’d relaxed, trusted him to keep her safe. As long as she needed him, he’d watch over her. He ignored the knife-lust eating at his mind. He didn’t care about all of the other elements of his surreal life right now.
Didn’t care about the minion out there.
He cared only about the woman in his arms.
• • •
Daylight blinded her when she rolled over. For a split second, she panicked, disoriented until she got a good look at the room. The cabin. She lay on the double bed, wrapped in a cocoon of blankets.
The smell of fresh, hot food awakened her stomach with a vengeance. As she stretched sore muscles, Hannah tried to recall how she got into the bed. Recalling nothing more than the memory of falling asleep on the futon in Dante’s arms, she gave up.
After stopping in the bathroom, she shuffled into the kitchen area where Dante industriously flipped more grilled cheese sandwiches and stirred a soup pot. Her heart flopped at the sight of his biceps flexing as he moved from fry pan to pot. He hummed quietly, stopping when he saw her standing there.
“It’s about time you got up.”
“Why? What time is it?”
“Three. In the afternoon.” His wide grin sent a frisson of happiness all the way down to her toes.
“I’ve never slept in that late.”
“You needed the rest.”
At an ominous hiss, he whirled back to the pot, which threatened to boil over. Laughing, Hannah scooted him over with her hip and rescued the soup before it scorched. She brushed her arm against his, enjoying the heat that flowed between them.
See? She could touch him without freaking out. Taking a calming breath, she nudged him with a shoulder.
He didn’t move, but when she glanced up, the intense expression on his face stole her breath away.
Maybe there was hope for more between them. What would he look like without that shirt on? How would those ridges on his chest feel to her bare fingertips? Would his skin be hot to the touch, or would goose bumps pebble his skin when she touched him?
When the typical wave of panic rose up, she held her breath and tamped down the fear until she allowed herself to ponder Dante’s abs again.
One tiny victory.
Clearing her throat, she pretended to care about the food in front of her as she stirred. “Thanks for tucking me in last night.”
“It was my pleasure. Anytime.” He winked.
Now that was back to the old Dante, with the suggestive undertone. Her heart fluttered beneath his avid gaze. He grinned, took his plate and bowl, and followed her to the table.
“Sorry that the meal isn’t very original.” He gestured toward the food.
“If you cook it, I’ll eat the same thing for every meal and be perfectly satisfied.”
She crunched a charred bite of sandwich and washed it down with a swig of water.
He grimaced. “A chef I am not.”
“Then we’re a good fit, as I’m not a picky foodie.”
Chuckling, they tucked back into the meal. After lunch, or dinner, or whatever meal this was, Hannah washed the dishes and Dante dried. The comfortable teamwork soothed her frayed nerves, like they’d done this together a hundred times.
In any other situation, this would be the jackpot. Now? Not so much.
Oh well, she would at least enjoy the companionship while it lasted.
• • •
Dread settled in his gut as he stacked the last dish. No more stalling. He had to tell Hannah the truth about Raymond. Had to tell her the truth about himself.
A half dozen times last night, he nearly woke her up to confess everything. But watching her sleep so peacefully in his arms, her expression finally relaxed, he couldn’t bring himself to disturb her rest. It was well past midnight when he had carried her to bed. Her exhaustion was so profound, she didn’t stir when he had wrapped the fresh blankets around her.
Last night he’d also gotten a good look at her ankle. Whatever happened had ripped skin and shattered bone. The irregular lumps told a tale of excruciating trauma. How did that happen? Who did this to her? Raymond? Someone else?
Several times he’d circled the cabin’s perimeter, checking for anything unusual, listening to the night sounds and smelling for any hint of the minion. Each time Dante had left the cabin, the desire to see Hannah compelled him back into the bedroom to make sure she was safe. For hours, he simply watched her sleep.
Something he’d never done with a woman in the bedroom.
But as much as he wanted to preserve this idyllic situation, he couldn’t do it. Wouldn’t continue pretending that he didn’t know about Raymond. Couldn’t hide the reason they were on the run.
Once she found out that he was cold-blooded killer, that would be the end of the interlude. No more fireside chats. No more domestic bliss. No more Hannah.
But she deserved the truth.
Even now, with Hannah in the bathhouse, he paced like a caged animal, fighting to stay here in the cabin and not watch over her. Truth be told, he’d dashed over there and back several times to make sure he heard her milling around in the shower. He monitored to ensure no one lurked nearby as well.
His hypervigilant behavior had increased, and it wasn’t due to lack of sleep. His kind didn’t require sleep, although he’d never gone more than three or four days without indulging in at least a period of rest. Just because he didn’t need to sleep didn’t mean he didn’t enjoy it.
When she entered the cabin, he couldn’t help himself. He flew to the door, yanking the doorknob from her hands.
“You’re quick,” she said, frowning.
“Uh, I happened to be right at the door,” he hedged.
He inhaled her clean, flowery scent and appreciated how the ends of her damp hair curled at her shoulders. She’d changed into a long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans he’d bought when they stopped in Caldwell to stock up. He approved of his selection; the denim gave her curves she never had in those shapeless skirts.
But her glasses didn’t hide the circles remaining beneath her eyes.
Time to fess up.
“You still look tired,” he said.
She studied him until he squirmed. “And you look like you’ve got a lot on your mind.”
If she only knew. “I need to talk with you about some things.”
“Uh oh, that doesn’t sound great.” She dropped the toiletry bag on the kitchen table, faced him, and took a big breath. “If you need to leave, I’ll understand completely.”
“What?” His mood went from somber to foul in a split second. Leave her? Alone to wait for ... Kristus, he didn’t want to contemplate her fate if she had no protection.
Maybe she wanted to be rid of him? Conceivable, given the minion he’d helped to attract.
She pushed her hair behind an ear. “This ridiculous situation. You’re in danger. Brandon’s coming for me. What a rotten babysitting gig you’ve gotten.”
Frustra
tion strangled him until he sputtered, “Are you kidding me?”
As he leaned forward, she took a step back. “Of course not. Isn’t that what you wanted to tell me? That you’ve got better things to do than wait around for something bad to happen? That’s what I’d say, if I were in your shoes.”
Her spine was ramrod stiff, but the shimmer of tears belied her matter-of-fact tone.
“No. No, I’m not leaving, and I’m not dumping you off anywhere. I swear.”
He grabbed her and folded her into his arms, resting his chin on her head. Perfect. She fit perfectly. Too bad, though. The pleasant picture they made wouldn’t last for long.
She leaned back and frowned. “Then what?”
“Let’s sit down. Would you like another fire?”
He hated how she went from comfortable to reacting like a deer about to bolt, her eyes wide and pulse jumping at the base of her neck.
“No.”
Fatigue etched lines on her fine features as she sat in the easy chair, alone. Even her perky button nose seemed tired. His preference was to pace, but it didn’t feel right for this conversation. Settling in the nearby futon, he turned toward her, dread weighing him down.
“I need to share some things with you.”
Fear sparked across her face.
He cleared his throat and mentally forced himself to stop fidgeting. He literally never got nervous. Why now?
Because what she thought mattered to him. A lot. More than he wanted to admit.
He couldn’t meet her expression, which was both terrified and hopeful, like an animal about to be abandoned, but he’d be damned if this conversation would remain unfinished. Where to start?
“About your time in Philadelphia ...”
She froze. Her brown stare held him in place as surely as chains. “What about it?”
“Raymond Jackson.”
The damn knife pulsed to life, insisting on blood. Jåvla skit. God damn it. Horrible timing. The cursed blade wanted to be fed. Now. And he was in no position to answer its call. He’d have to fight the urge until he was in a position to hunt and kill a criminal. But not now.
Dante dragged his gaze back to Hannah with iron will.
“You told me he’s dead,” she said.
“That’s true.”
“But?” she whispered.
“I killed him.”
Her skin bleached to a deathly white. He wanted to hold her, but she bent her legs up in front of her and wrapped her arms around them in a protective barrier.
“What?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Try me. I bet I can keep up.”
He rubbed his temple. He’d never fully revealed himself to a mortal, not even Marguerite. “I’m sort of like a hit man.”
“What the heck? ‘Sort of like a hit man’?” She pushed herself into the corner of the chair, shoulders rigid, not moving her wide stare away from him.
“Okay, I am a hit man, in a manner of speaking. But really, it is complicated. Listen, I need to tell you—”
“Are you here to kill me? Oh God, out here, in the middle of nowhere—”
Her horrified expression gutted him.
“No!” he growled, too angry, too loud.
He cursed at her response as she curled up even more and watched him. Wary, like a cornered animal. Accusing him. He deserved it.
“So what, then?”
“I was sent to kill Raymond Jackson several weeks ago.”
“What? Why?”
“Because along the line, he did very bad things to ... some people. And my job is to get rid of monsters like that.”
She unwrapped her hands from her knees and clamped them onto the arms of the chair until her knuckles blanched.
He bowed his head. “I didn’t get all the details of his crimes, but I believe the information was true. What do you think?”
A choked sob erupted from her, and she covered her mouth.
“What did he do to you?” His hands curled into fists as he struggled to rein in his fury.
“How—”
“Does it have anything to do with that?”
He pointed toward her lower leg, and he didn’t need to hear her response—she moved her hand over the denim at her ankle.
“Yes.”
“Was I right to kill him?”
“I don’t know. Probably. That was a while ago.”
Her fingertips shook as she pulled a strand of hair out from under the earpiece of her glasses. He had to strain to hear her trembling voice.
“My aunt was dying, you see. I loved her, but I couldn’t heal her. I tried. But it would’ve killed me.”
“What happened?”
“He wanted me to heal Aunt Linda of her terminal cancer.”
He held his breath. This part of the story, he hadn’t known.
“So I tried. I mean, what else could I do? She was so sick, so thin. Except for that huge belly full of tumors.” She folded an arm over her midsection. “My power went kind of crazy with that much sickness. Sucked every bit of my soul into Aunt Linda’s body. It tried to consume me, move those hard lumps of cancer into my body, push all that fluid into my lungs. It was like breathing underwater with a body that had stretched to its limits and was about to burst. The worst thing I’ve ever experienced in a healing.”
“The worst?”
“Even worse than with you.”
He flinched.
She focused on the cabin walls as she rubbed her upper arms. “Ray loved his sister. Who wouldn’t? Aunt Linda was so sweet. When I couldn’t save her, he kind of went ... crazy. I mean, he’d been having anger issues before then, but we didn’t realize how nuts he’d become. He kind of snapped.”
“How?”
“Snapped. Like threw me down the basement stairs, beat me up.” She motioned to her foot with a shaking hand. “He threatened to kill me if I wouldn’t heal his sister.”
Dante shoved his hands beneath his upper arms to keep from ripping apart the futon. He wanted to kill Raymond all over again at the idea of Hannah being beaten like an animal. His body temperature increased as base compulsion warred with rational sense.
“He got so mad. Mad about Aunt Linda. Mad at me. He just took it all out on me.”
“Took it out how?” He pitched his voice low and soft, suppressing the steaming rage that threatened to explode.
Tears streamed down her cheeks. She stared at nothing in front of her. Her dull, flat voice shredded his heart. “He was drunk. When he threw me down the stairs, that’s when I broke ...” She rubbed the fabric covering her ankle.
Dante leaned toward her. He didn’t realize it had been this bad. He had figured Raymond had hit his kids and yelled at them. Dante had no clue what she’d truly been through.
“I tried ... I mean, I couldn’t get away. But I did try,” she whispered. “Then he did ... he put his hands on me ... It hurt. It was awful. Afterward, there was blood everywhere.” She covered her pale face with her hands.
“Herrejåvlar.”
He crossed the short distance, scooped her up, and sat in the easy chair with her curled in his arms. Those noiseless, shaking sobs ripped a hole in his chest. Her small hands fisted the fabric of his shirt with a tenacious strength.
“Ålskling, you’re safe now. I have you. No one will hurt you.”
Powerful as he was, he couldn’t wrestle her pain away. He couldn’t fight those demons or undo the damage. This crime had been worse than he’d presumed when he took on the assignment to kill Raymond. Far worse.
She would’ve been no match for the burly Raymond. Dante might be an arrogant playboy and a cold-blooded killer, but he’d never harmed a helpless human being.
Taking off her glasses, she pulled away from him and dabbed at the dampness staining the T-shirt.
“Sorry. Your shirt. I’m—”
“Never apologize to me. Ever. This evil was not your fault. It was Raymond’s.” Gently he took her glasses and placed them on the arm of the
couch. He smoothed back her hair and cupped her head in his hand. “How did you get away?”
Hannah sniffed. “The first time he went nuts, he locked me in the basement for a few days. Ray had only beaten me that time. Scott had been away for the weekend, and when he came back, we called the cops. Ray went to jail, and I saw the doctor. Things were better. But before Scott and I could leave, Ray posted bail and came back, madder than ever. He rebroke my ankle. And that was when ...”
She tucked her face in his chest for a few more minutes before continuing. “That last night, Scott slipped something in Ray’s drink so he’d pass out. Then Scott drove us to Portland. We got new identities, everything. He was really helpful, going to urgent care clinics and pretending to have a sinus infection so they’d give him antibiotics, which he gave me. For the infection.” She gestured toward her leg.
“How bad was it?”
“Not good. I ran fevers and hallucinated for most of the trip. I guess it could’ve been much worse than just a broken leg and ankle. But now I still can’t feel part of my foot. It never mended correctly after it broke that second time.”
“Herre Gud.”
As she leaned back in the crook of his arm, her red-rimmed eyes glistened. “What I don’t understand is why you killed Ray. Or how did you decide to kill him?”
“It’s a strange story. I’m ... under contract to kill ... certain people. Criminals.”
“Under contract by whom?” She wiped her cheeks.
“By someone powerful. I’m forced to kill. But I am no threat to ordinary people.”
“What the hell?”
“It’s true. I made a deal ... years ago.” Before he registered the action, he’d tucked a strand of her strawberry blonde hair behind an ear. She flinched again. Damn.
“A deal?”
He hesitated. Damn it. In for a penny. “With the Devil.”
“You mean as a figure of speech, right?”
“No, for real.”
“I don’t understand.”
“My brother was dying. I made a commotion, yelling up at the heavens, promising my soul, anything, as long as he would live. Someone heard me—the wrong someone. Satan.”
“You’re joking.”
“I couldn’t create a wilder fiction if I tried.”
“How many people have you killed?” She blinked and pushed away from him.
Relentless Flame (Hell to Pay) Page 14
