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He finally shut up, maybe because he realized he was giving me a headache. Or maybe because he had one himself. He looked like nine kinds of hell. He’d had the presence of mind to leave the shredded coat in the car and to toss a blanket around the two of us, which had hidden the fact that he had no shirt and his jeans were acid-washed and not in the fashion sense. His face was drawn and pale, despite the feed, there was dried blood on his chest and his hands shook. And the less said about his hair, the better.
But then, that was always true.
“You need clothes,” Caleb said roughly.
“There are some in my locker,” Pritkin told him. “Two twenty-one. Or there should be. I don’t remember what I—”
“I’ll get them. Stay here.”
Caleb looked at me sharply, why I don’t know. Like I was actually up to shifting us out of there. Or walking out. Or sitting up.
I slumped back against the stinky couch and stared at Pritkin, who stared mutely back. I didn’t know if it was because he’d fed, but his eyes were a little freaky. Almost neon green, bright and burning. And full of some dark emotion I couldn’t read, but could guess at pretty well.
“I volunteered,” I reminded him.
“To be used!” His hand tightened on the sofa cushion, until the knuckles bled white. “He wouldn’t have cared if I’d drained you!”
“He’d have probably preferred it,” I said, staring at that hand. “Save him some trouble.”
“How can you—” He stopped and closed his eyes, and just breathed for a few moments. That wasn’t a good sign; Pritkin was better when he was yelling and stomping around. But maybe he didn’t have the strength right now. I could sympathize.
I moved my hand over the top of his and he immediately pulled back, something close to horror on his face. It seriously pissed me off. “That’s a little hypocritical, don’t you think?”
“It isn’t—” He looked away. “It isn’t you.”
“I know it isn’t me. What? Am I stupid?”
That got an eye blink, and I grabbed his hand again and tugged at him. I was too weak for it to have much effect, but he came anyway, sitting beside me. I held on to the hand, partly to be an ass, but also because, for some reason, it made me feel better. And right then, anything comforting, I’d take without question.
“I’m sorry,” he said, after a moment. His jaw was tight enough that it looked like it hurt. I sighed.
“For what? For saving my life? For almost getting killed in the process? For not dying nobly? What?”
His brow tightened into a familiar frown. “You’re in a mood.”
“Yes. Yes, I am. I have had a day, and I am in a mood. So what are you apologizing for, exactly?”
“For . . . taking it that far. But I didn’t see an alternative. He’d put you under a strong compulsion, and that kind won’t break without—without completion.”
“Completion.” It took my tired brain a few moments to work through that one. And then another moment, because the only answer I was getting didn’t make sense. “Okay, let me get this straight. You’re apologizing for giving me a mind-shattering orgasm?”
Caleb slammed in the door. “I didn’t hear that.”
“Damn straight.”
He had clothes, plain gray sweats and sneakers for Pritkin, and an oversized navy T-shirt for me. “It’s mine,” he told me. “I figured it’d work as a dress on you.”
“Thanks.” At this point, anything was better than the scratchy blanket. “Is there a shower?”
“Yeah. Over by the gym.” He looked at Pritkin. “Gonna wash her back?”
And Pritkin growled—literally. Rabid pit bulls don’t make that kind of noise when going for the jugular, although that seemed to be the plan, since he was out of the seat and lunging for Caleb faster than I could blink. Only to stop when I kept a grip on that hand.
Good idea grabbing it, in hindsight.
“Not the time, Caleb,” I said briefly.
He nodded, looking a little freaked. I guess he hadn’t heard that particular tone before, either. I struggled to my feet.
