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She refilled it in the bathroom and brought it back to him. "Drink more."
He did, finishing the whole eight ounces. When he put the glass back on the bedside table, she focused on his mouth and as the scientist in her became fascinated by him.
After a moment he curled his lip off his front teeth. His fangs positively gleamed in the lameplight. Sharp and white.
"They elongate, right?" she asked as she leaned into him. "When you feed, they get longer."
"Yeah." He closed his mouth. "Or when I get aggressive."
"And then they retract when it passes. Open again for me."
When he did, she put her finger to the hard point of one - only to have his whole body jerk.
"Sorry." She frowned and took her hand back. "Are they sore from the intubation?"
"No." As his lids lowered, she figured it was because he was tired -
God, what was that scent? She breathed in deep and recognized the mix of dark spices that she'd smelled on the towel in his bathroom.
Sex came to mind. The kind that you had when you lost all your inhibitions. The kind you felt for days afterward.
Stop it.
"Every eight weeks or so," he said.
"Excuse me? Oh, is that how often you..."
"Feed. Depends on stress. Activity level, too."
Okay, that totally killed the sex thing. In a gruesome series of Bram Stoker scenes, she imagined him tracking and preying on humans, leaving them chewed raw in alleys.
Clearly her distaste showed, because his voice got hard. "It's natural to us. Not disgusting."
"Do you kill them? The people you hunt?" She braced herself for the answer.
"People? Try vampires. We feed off members of the opposite sex. Of our race, not yours. And there's no killing."
Her brows lifted. "Oh."
"That Dracula myth is such a f**king bore."
Her mind spun with questions. "What's it like? What does it taste like?"
His eyes narrowed, then drifted from her face to her neck. Jane quickly brought her hand to her throat.
"Don't worry," he said roughly. "I'm fed. And besides, human blood doesn't do it for me. Too weak to be of interest."
Okay. Right. Good.
Except, what the hell? Like she wasn't evolutionarily good enough?
Yeah, whoa, she was so totally losing it, and this particular subject matter wasn't helping. "Ah, listen... I want to check your dressing. I wonder if we can even remove it altogether by now."
"Suit yourself."
The patient pushed himself up on the pillows, his massive arms flexing under smooth skin. As the covers fell from his shoulders, she had a moment's pause. He seemed to be getting bigger as he recovered his strength. Bigger and... more sexual.
Her mind shied away from where she was headed with that thought and latched onto the medical issues he faced like they were a lifeboat. With steady, professional hands, she pulled the covers completely from his chest and eased the adhesive tape off the gauze between his pecs. She lifted the bandage and shook her head. Astounding. The only thing marring the skin was the star-shaped scar that had been there before. The residual marks from the operation were reduced to a slight discoloration, and if she extrapolated, she could assume the inside of him was just as well healed.
"Is this typical?" she asked. "This rate of recovery?"
"In the Brotherhood, yes."
Oh, man. If she could study the manner in which his cells regenerated, she might be able to unlock some of the secrets to the aging process in humans.
"Forget it." His jaw set as he shifted his legs off the far side of the bed. "We're not going to be used as lab rats for your kind. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to take a shower and have a cigarette." She opened her mouth and he cut her off. "We don't get cancer, so spare me the lecture, okay?"
"You don't get cancer? Why? How does that - "
"Later. I need hot water and nicotine."
She frowned. "I don't want you smoking around me."
"Which is why I'm going to do it in the bathroom. There's an exhaust fan."
As he stood up and the sheet fell from his body, she glanced away fast. A naked man was hardly a new thing for her, but for some reason he struck her as different.
Well, duh. He was six feet, six inches tall and built like a brick shithouse.
As she headed back to her chair and sat down, she heard a shuffling noise, then a thud. She looked up in alarm. The patient was so unsteady on his feet, he'd lost his balance and landed on the wall.
"Do you need help?" Please say no. Please say -
"No."
Thank you, God.
He palmed a lighter and what looked like a hand-rolled cigarette from the bedside table and lurched across the room. From her vantage point in the corner she waited and watched, ready to pull a fireman's hold on him if she needed to.
Yeah, and okay, maybe she watched him for a reason other than wanting to keep him from getting a carpet burn all over that face of his: His back was amazing, the muscles heavy yet elegant as they spanned his shoulders and feathered out from his spine. And his ass was...
Jane covered her eyes and didn't drop her hand until the door shut. After many years in medicine and surgery, she was pretty clear on the "Thou Shalt Not Mack on Your Patients" part of the Hippocratic oath.
Especially if the patient in question had kidnapped you. Christ. Was she really living this?
Moments later the toilet flushed, and she expected to hear the shower come on. When it didn't she figured he was probably having a smoke first -
The door opened and the patient came out, waving like a buoy on the ocean. He grabbed onto the bath's jamb with his gloved hand, his forearm straining.
"Fuck... I'm dizzy."
Jane flipped into full doctor mode and rushed over, putting aside the fact that he was naked and twice her size and that she'd eyed his ass like it was up for sale about two minutes ago. She slipped an arm around his hard waist and tucked herself against his body, bracing her hip for the onslaught. When he leaned on her his weight was tremendous, a load that she barely got over to the bed.
As he stretched out with a curse, she reached across him for the sheets and caught an eyeful of the scars between his legs. Given the way he'd healed up without a trace from her operation, she wondered why those had stuck on his body.
He whipped the covers from her with a quick jerk of the duvet, and the comforter settled over him in a cloud of black. Then he put his arm over his eyes, the thrust of his goateed chin all that showed of his face.
He was ashamed.
In the quiet between them he was... ashamed.
"Would you like me to wash you?"
His breath stopped, and when he was silent for a long time, she expected to be refused. But then his mouth barely moved. "You would do that?"
For a moment she almost replied in earnest. Except then she had the sense that would make his awkwardness worse. "Yeah, well, what can I say, I'm going for sainthood. It's my new life goal."
He smiled a little. "You remind me of Bu - my best friend."
"You mean Red Sox?"
"Yeah, he's always got the comeback."
"Did you know wit is a sign of intelligence?"
The patient dropped his arm. "I never doubted yours. Not for an instant."
Jane had to catch her breath. There was such respect shining in his eyes, and all she could do as she took it in was curse to herself. There was nothing more attractive to her than when a man was into smart women.
Crap.
Stockholm. Stockholm. Stockholm -
"I would love a bath," he said. Then he tacked on, "Please."
Jane cleared her throat. "Okay. Right."
She went through the medical supply duffels, found a large bedpan, and headed for the bathroom. After she filled the basin full of warm water and grabbed a washcloth, she went back out and set herself up on the bedside table on the left. As she wet the little towel and squeezed off the excess, water chimed through the silent room.
She hesitated. Dipped the washcloth again. Squeezed.
Come on, now, you opened up his chest and went into him. You can do this. No problem.
Just think of him as the hood of a car, nothing but surface area.
"Okay." Jane reached out, put the warm cloth to his upper arm, and the patient flinched. All over. "Too hot?"
"No."
"Then what's with the grimace?"
"Nothing."
Under different circumstances she would have pressed, but she had her own problems. His bicep was damn impressive, his tan skin revealing the very cords of the muscle. The same was true of his heavy shoulder and the slope leading down to his pectoral. He was in sublime physical condition, not an ounce of fat on him, lean as a Thoroughbred, muscular as a lion.
