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Vomiting presently. Red blood and bile first.
And now… black.
Yes, good. His essence was taking over, propagating, magnifying—and he felt a stirring, a thrill that he imagined was like watching conception happen.
“Fuck,” Mr. Mouthy whispered behind him.
“Surely you haven’t forgotten how this works,” Lash countered dryly.
Thrusting his hand forward, he clapped his open palm on Stump’s chest, directly above the sternum.
“Come to me,” he commanded.
The heat was instantaneous, leaping up to greet his hand, not a kindling but a flame without fire. The vibration came next, the calling answered by a need to respond—
The scream was so loud and long, it broke free of the imposed silence, the ringing, high-pitched auditory explosion something Lash drank with his ears—as the rib cage broke apart and the muscle popped out, steel to a magnet.
Except unlike metal, it was warm, soft…
And wet.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Rage was a dark magic, really. Or maybe “evil” was the word.
As the vengeful emotion swept through Lassiter, it was transformative, taking him away from what he knew of himself and making a monster of him: Sitting at the foot of Rahvyn’s hospital bed, with her admission ringing in his skull, he was ready to commit murder.
And draw the shit out.
“Does he live,” he repeated, in a voice that did not sound like his own. “The male who hurt you, does he live.”
“No,” Rahvyn replied roughly. “He… does not.”
The answer should have satisfied him. Instead, he felt his fury thicken. Who had done the duty? Sahvage? Or another male relation of hers—
“Do you still…” She touched her mouth. “Do you still want… to kiss me?”
It took him a moment to translate what she was saying through all the fury. And when her words finally processed, they were probably the only thing that could have cooled him off.
Refocusing, he cradled her face in his hands, searching her beauty, wondering how he could express himself. “Of course I do. What happened to you—it’s not you. It was something that was done to you, by someone who was wrong.”
Someone who needed to be skinned alive, inch by inch. And yes, the irony of giving her earnest, heartfelt advice that also applied to himself was resolutely and firmly lost on him. She was different.
“What is it,” he said as she grew tense.
“I am changed now. Fore’ermore.”
“Yes,” he said. “But at your core, you are still you.”
“No, I’m not. And I am afraid to tell you this…”
As she hesitated, he took her hand and put it over his heart. “You can tell me anything. Anything.”
Her ragged inhale, her pale face, the way she held herself so tightly, made him want to start looking for a weapon. But he already knew without checking under the hospital bed or looking in the cabinet above the little basin, that the recovery room had no guns or knives, no flamethrowers or grenades. No axes, no hammers, no saws or crowbars.
Also, no target.
Just the damned bed. The rolling table with his absurd attempt to feed her piled high. The TV in the corner, suspended from the ceiling. The medical equipment that was not in use.
Goddamn, why did the asshole have to be dead? He wanted to kill him.
“Tell me,” he prompted. “I promise you, there is nothing that you can say or do that will make me see you in any other light than I do now.”
As she lowered her head, her platinum hair fell forward like a veil. “The truth of it is… though it was terrible, I am strengthened from what was done to me.”
When her eyes darted to his, as if to check his reaction, he nodded. “That’s because you survived.” He tucked her hair back so he could keep seeing her properly. “You know, I’ve crossed paths with a lot of survivors in my line of work. Only a few have scars on the outside, and even if they do, it’s what is on the inside that’s always been harder to heal. But you’re right. They are stronger for what they’ve endured.”
“You do not judge me, then.”
“I don’t.” He touched her chin and lifted her face. “I think you’re even more beautiful. Because you’re a survivor.”
There was a long silence, and he imagined she was testing his words, his tone, his vibe, for the truth in what he was saying. And just as he was wondering what else he could say to reassure her, she cleared her throat.
“Will you do something for me?” she said. “If it is… agreeable to you.”
“Anything.”
As he had done to her, now she did to him, her free hand rising up, her fingertips moving over his face, brushing his jaw, his cheek, his hair. The wonder in her eyes, the reverence, humbled him—and he almost told her it was misplaced.
“I want you to clean him out of me.” She looked down at her sweater and jeans. “I want the memory of… what he did taken from me. I want to think of you, never… him. Please… make that go away.”
