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DIASPORA
I woke with a sudden start, legs sprawled across the bed, arms crossed beneath my head so that the bracelet pressed into my face.
“Sentinel,” Ethan said quietly.
“I’m all right. I’m fine.” I sat up, pushed damp hair from my face. My body was dotted with sweat, my pajamas damp with it. I’d slept like a rock—deeply, heavily, and with no memory of Balthasar.
“Did he . . . ?”
I shook my head. But I had dreamed about a bevy of white-toqued Navarre chefs, carving me up with very large knives. No more late-night Mallocakes.
“You look a bit peaky.” He cocked his head. “You also have the imprint of a raven in your face.”
I rubbed groggily at the sleep wrinkles. “I feel like I ran a marathon.”
“You did a lot of running yesterday, which was long enough, and you’ve slept in the embrace of magic. Blood, I think, would help.”
“Shower first. Blood later.”
He paused. “I’d like to join you. But I don’t want to push you if you aren’t ready.”
I must not have been ready, since my first reaction was to tell him no.
“He hurt you,” Ethan said, pushing a lock of hair behind my ear. “It’s all right to take time to heal, to feel yourself again.” He smiled softly. “As I said at dawn, Sentinel, I’m not going anywhere.”
I knew what he was doing—little touches, small caresses, intended to comfort and help me adjust to him again, help me build comfort in intimacy.
“I’ll be fine,” I promised him. “I’m sorry that I’m letting him use me to hurt you.”
“You’re doing no such thing. You’re taking care of yourself. As I love you, I prefer that you do just that.” He ran his hands down my arms. “Let me do what I can, Sentinel. Let me take care of you.”
* * *
Ethan Sullivan had many fine qualities. He was honorable. Intelligent. Funny. Sexy as hell. Sarcastic at all the appropriate times. And when the need arose, the very alpha Master of Cadogan House cared for his Sentinel very, very well.
“Stay there,” Ethan said, pulling on jeans that slung low on his hips. While I lay among pillows and quilts, he opened the apartment’s door, brought in the tray Margot had left outside. I watched with amusement as he arranged and simplified the contents, then carried it to me. Blood, bacon, a still-warm croissant.
I looked up at him. “Are you wooing me?”
“I’ve been wooing you since the moment our eyes locked on the first floor of this House.”
I gave him a flat look. “No, that’s when you accused me of being spoiled.”
“Details,” he said lightly, mouth drawn into a crooked grin. “Helen is helping move the Navarre vampires, and Morgan won’t be here until that process is done. We’re allowed to take a few minutes to ourselves before we rush out the door to solve others’ problems. Let me tend you, Sentinel.”
I could hardly have argued with that, so I nodded, watched him rise and disappear into the bathroom. A moment later, the water in the bath began to run.
I ate the croissant slowly, tried to put aside lingering nerves, the fact that the House—or vampires, anyway—currently faced trouble from two directions—the Circle’s issues with Navarre, and Balthasar’s reemergence into Chicago, into Ethan’s life, our lives together. It would have been glorious if we could have locked the door, kept the world on the other side, and simply lived there in peace and quiet for just a little while.
With Margot occasionally leaving trays outside, of course.
When I looked up, Ethan was in the doorway, hand outstretched, green eyes fairly glowing. “Your bath awaits.”
I smiled, thinking of a movie scene. “Are you going to paint my nails, too?”
His eyebrow popped up. “No. Should I?”
“No,” I said on a laugh, then put aside the tray and walked to him, looked up at him. He was beautiful enough to still take my breath away, and I knew I hadn’t been the first—and wouldn’t be the last—vampire to think so.
