Page 116 of Dark Lover

And she knew why he wanted it. She pressed the tip to his lips and he bit down hard on the leather. Sam repositioned herself behind him and pulled.

Because she was exceptionally strong, she tore the pike free in one motion. Two horrible seconds felt like a hundred. Ian choked on the leather but didn’t scream.

She threw the pike aside, wadded up each piece of her shirt against both wounds, and wrapped her belt around his chest to keep the pads in place. “You need to lie on your back so I can put more pressure on your chest,” she said harshly.

He instantly did so, eyes closed. He wasn’t white now. He was green.

“This would be a good time to pass out,” she said, using both her hands to press down on the compress.

He didn’t answer her. She hadn’t expected him to.

Sam looked down at his beautiful face, now etched in pain and strain. More tears came. No one deserved the kind of life he’d been destined for, and no one deserved what he was going through now. The pain, the torment, it had to stop. Ian needed—deserved—peace. Not death, but a life with happiness. “You deserve a break, damn it,” she whispered. “I will always have your back, Ian.”

His lashes fluttered.

She blinked rapidly as the tears dripped. She couldn’t lose him. It was too soon. They were just getting to know each other. God, this wasn’t fair. She loved him.

She went still, shocked.

Then she looked at him and he was looking up at her intently.

She prayed this wasn’t one of those few times when he could read minds. She looked at her T-shirt, which had been light blue, and was relieved to see that it wasn’t soaked with his blood. “I think the bleeding is slowing. Don’t move. I’m going to keep the pressure on.”

His mouth curved. “That’s a nice bra…I like what’s inside it…even better.”

“A Maclean comeback. You must be on the mend.” She looked at him carefully. Was his color better? He certainly wasn’t green now. She looked at the T-shirt between her hands. The bleeding had stopped, she was almost certain, but she kept the pressure on.

“Where are we?”

Sam glanced around. “I don’t know. But we’re not in medieval times. I’d say we were in the twentieth century, or even our time.” Then she looked down at him. “Rather, my time.”

“I guess ye won’t let me off…that hook.”

“Why should I?”

His smile was odd. “Yer mascara’s run all over yer face.”

She made a sound. “So much for waterproof. I told you, the chemicals in here are problematic.”

“Let me up.” He started to sit.

“Like hell!” She was actually alarmed.

“I can sit. I can also get us out of here, if the door has locks.”

Sam went still. “Yeah, I guess you can.” She would never let him leap in his condition.

Sam released the pressure on his chest and he sat up. To her relief, he grunted but did not pale. They both looked at his chest and the wadded T-shirt there, under her belt. There was blood, but half her shirt remained blue. Sam went behind him. The exit point was even better.

She started to stand. He seized her hand, pulling her back down to her knees. They were eye to eye, mouth to mouth. His gaze was steady and unwavering. “Thank ye.”

She wet her lips. She wanted to throw her arms around him and hold him, hard. Of course, she’d never do such a thing. “For what?”

His gaze became searching. A moment passed. In the silence, Sam became aware of the sound of cars outside. She thought she heard a horn, distantly. She thought she could barely hear a subway rumbling, too. “For having my back.”

She searched his eyes. “It’s no big deal,” she lied.

“Yer the bravest human being I have ever met,” he said.