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She yanked her finger from her mouth and started shivering. What was wrong with her? What had she done?
Closing her eyes, she let a brokenhearted moan escape her before plunging her head into the pillow, and muffling her sobs beneath another pillow. She'd ruined everything. Desmond thought she was some sort of psychopath, a deranged Black Widow who literally wanted to devour him. If he wanted an immediate divorce, no judge would refuse him after seeing the injuries she'd inflicted on him. The one man she'd ever love, and she'd chased him away in horror. But why? Why?
Stifling a sob, she let the tears course down her cheeks and wash away the blood staining her face. If only she could as easily wash away the memory of what she'd done.
DESMOND CROUCHED on the floor of the bathroom, the cool tile wall soothing against his back. He was probably staining it with blood. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except Rebecca, and what he'd done to her.
He'd lived with the blood thirst for so long, he'd ceased paying attention to it, much as normal human beings drink water as a matter of course, and only think about it on long trips or after exerting themselves. But she'd been unprepared for the fierce craving.
They'd wanted to be close to each other. Whether he'd lowered his shields too far, or she'd mastered her telepathic powers enough to break through them, didn't matter. The result was the same in either case. A complete merging of thought, so that they truly had been united in body and mind. And while he could control his cursed needs, she could not.
He buried his face in his hands. And to think he'd been worried about protecting her from accidental infection. Instead, she'd chosen the most direct source of contamination, by drinking his blood. The memory of her hot tongue, lapping at his neck, flooded him with desire. He wanted nothing more than to go back out there and rip open a vein, filling her with his essence. And he would no longer confine himself to tasting her sweetness. No, he would plunder her spirit, and absorb her into himself. They'd share each other so deeply, they'd be transformed by the experience.
He'd already stood and walked halfway to the door, but that phrase stopped him cold. Transformed.
Clutching the marble sink top, he bent his head. No. He couldn't risk it. He could control his own urges, but it was a control won after decades of effort. She couldn't afford that kind of time to master her desires, not when one mistake could mean her death. The only solution was complete and total abstinence. Not only couldn't he touch her, he couldn't even open his mind to her. He didn't dare risk anything less comprehensive. This was one error he couldn't repeat.
A sudden cold chilled him from the inside out, as he realized it might already be too late. She could have already become infected. What if she was dying now?
He threw open the bathroom door. She lay face down on the bed, naked and still, a pillow over her head. A brief fear that she'd smothered herself slashed through his heart. But no, she was breathing, and her heart beat steadily. Her mind held only the blank fog of a dreamless sleep.
Not daring to touch her, or even go any nearer to the bed, he pulled on the clothes he'd worn earlier, before changing into the tuxedo. Grabbing one of his medicine bottles, he left the room. He needed to think, and he couldn't do it near her. With any luck, the shopping arcade was still open, even if the stores were closed. He'd like to see the sunrise again.
He was forced to settle for a secluded back booth in the 24-hour cafe. After ordering a cheeseburger, rare, and a pot of coffee, he opened the medicine bottle and took a swig. It had warmed to room temperature. He drained the rest of the bottle, feeling the kick of renewal as his body started converting the liquid.
He set the empty bottle on the table and stared at it. Plain black glass, nothing to reveal the dark secret it contained. Modernized, sanitized, it was as far removed from a living, breathing human being as his coming cheeseburger was removed from a steer. But it hadn't always been that way.
In the early days of their curse, he and Philippe wore masks and robes to drink sacrificial blood at Voodoo ceremonies, restoring the strength sapped daily by the sun. Then one day, after too many hours riding under the harsh summer sun, they killed a man.
That night, Desmond made a vow. He would never allow his need for blood to blind him to others' humanity. He vowed to take only that which was freely offered, and no more. It was a vow he'd never broken in all the years that followed, no matter how desperate his situation had been.
His order arrived, recalling him to the present.
Not two hours ago, he'd made another vow. To Rebecca. He'd promised to love, honor and cherish her. Less than two hours, and he'd already failed her. Or maybe not. He didn't knew how the blood he drank made it into his bloodstream, but there was no similar route in normal human beings. It was possible that the infected blood Rebecca had swallowed hadn't been able to contaminate her system. When Desmond stopped to consider it, the odds were fairly high against his cursed blood surviving intact in her system. But even a million-to-one chance was too much risk to ever take again.
He glanced at his watch. They'd never make it back to the Institute before sunrise. Then he smiled grimly, remembering his earlier comment to Rebecca. The Lamborghini had a top cruising speed of 196 miles per hour. They'd make it.
REBECCA PULLED her head out from under the pillow and glanced sleepily around the room, wondering what had awakened her. The bathroom door was open, and the room beyond was empty and dark. Desmond. She sat up and searched the room. His clothing was gone. He was gone.
She threw off the sheets an
d climbed out of bed. The time for tears had passed. It was time to take action. She wasn't sure exactly what she'd do, yet, but she'd start by taking a shower.
When she flipped on the bathroom light, she saw blood stains, smeared down the white tile wall. She looked at her hands, seeing the dark brown stains beneath her nails, and remembered the way she'd clawed at Desmond's back. Dear God.
She stepped closer to the wall, then screwed up her courage and touched the stain. Flakes of red-brown fell from the tile. Spinning around, she grabbed a wash cloth and doused it with hot water. The stain yielded to her scrubbing, and in no time at all, the wall was clean. No trace remained of what she had done to Desmond.
Stepping into the shower, she blasted herself with scalding hot water, trying to erase all signs of what had happened. The dried blood washed away, even the stains beneath her nails. But no matter how hard she scrubbed, she couldn't remove her own horror at her actions.
She conceded defeat, and toweled off. She dressed in clean clothing, and put away the clothes she'd worn earlier. The wedding dress seemed to mock her, with it's virginal white. She'd been anything but timid and innocent.
Finished with her own clothing, she folded and put away Desmond's tuxedo. She traced the satin edging of the lapels with her fingers, and sighed. It was supposed to be so different. This should have been the happiest day of her life. But she'd ruined it. The script didn't call for her to attack her new husband and send him fleeing in horror.
She stuffed the tuxedo into a drawer, and turned her attention to the bed. The stains wouldn't come out, but she could hide them. Struggling to make the bed, despite sheets that stuck to each other where the blood had matted, she tried to puzzle out the twist of her psychology that had made her react like this.
Since she'd made love to Desmond before without attacking him, the difference had to be that they were married now. And the only explanation she could think of that made any sense to her was that deep down, she was reinforcing her childhood image of marriage, by trying to kill her husband. When she got back to the Institute, she'd look up a local psychiatrist, and make an appointment to try and work this all out. But in the meantime, it would be safest for both of them if she didn't get too close to Desmond.
The hotel room door opened, and Desmond walked in, a black medicine bottle in his hand. She winced. He suffered from a blood disorder. Maybe she'd remembered that, subconsciously, and attacked him at his weakest point.
