AllFreeNovel
Share Us
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.
