“Ha-ha.” Her voice sounded weak and drugged, the words slurred. “Your hand . . .”
“You crushed it to pieces,” he said against her temple, maintaining a rigid hold on his emotions. “Now you will have to kiss it better, inch by inch.”
No sound, her body losing all tension again. Swinging her up into his arms, he stepped out of the elevator and strode straight to his car.
He’d never seen her like this, and he hated it. She wasn’t meant to be so still, so lifeless. Ash was life and wickedness and wildness. Starting the engine after clipping in her seat belt, he drove not to his spacious Tower apartment but to her home. She’d be more comfortable in her nest, and, truth be told, he liked it, too. The Tower didn’t have the scent of home for him.
It didn’t have the scent of her.
At her building, he parked in the same space her doorman had used the previous night. It took him a bare two minutes to carry her to the elevator and get into her apartment after he dug out the key he knew she carried in her left jeans pocket. Placing her on the bed, he tugged off her boots and jacket, removed her weapons. “Not the way I want to undress you,” he said to fill the silence that was vicious metal claws around his heart.
No, he’d never survive her loss.
Her skin was a little hot when he checked, but her breathing was steady.
Janvier wasn’t about to risk anything; he called the Guild and a medic was at the door within seven minutes. Ripping off his motorcycle jacket and dropping his helmet on the carpet, the heavyset male checked her over. “Her vitals are within safe levels.” A piercing look at Janvier after he made that pronouncement. “Sara sent me because I’ve stitched Ash up before. I know what she can do. If that’s what’s caused this, we’ll have to monitor her and see what happens.”
“I’ll do it.”
The medic didn’t argue with Janvier, simply showed him what to do to check her vitals, then said, “I’m not far.” He gave Janvier his direct line. “Call me the instant you think she’s in distress.”
Kicking off his boots after the other man left, Janvier stripped off his jacket and blade holster, as well as his belt to ensure the buckle wouldn’t dig into her. An instant later, he was curled around her. Ashwini was so vivid in life that he forgot how fragile she was as a mortal—today, he couldn’t help but notice that despite the toned muscle that made her so beautiful and dangerous in motion, her limbs were slender, her bones all too breakable under his vampiric strength.
And her mind . . .
Sliding one arm under her head and refusing point-blank to go into a future that wasn’t yet written in stone, he undid her braid with his other to make her more comfortable, murmuring to her in the language he’d spoken as a boy, skinny and wild and often hungry. “The first time I saw you, you had a crossbow pointed at me and a seriously pissed-off look on your face.”
The memory was one of his favorites: she’d had a streak of oil on her cheek, her olive green tank top smudged with dirt, and her combat boots planted a foot apart, black cargo pants hiding her long, long legs. He’d wanted to wrap his hand around her ponytail and pull back her head to arch her throat for a blood kiss that would ram erotic pleasure through both their bodies.
“Never had I felt such lust,” he said, stroking his hand down her arm to lace his fingers with her own. “I could’ve devoured you, even had I to pay for it in crossbow wounds.” He chuckled. “Imagine if you’d permitted me to seduce you then, cher.”
No movement, her skin temperature clammy enough to make a ball of fear lodge in his gut. “Don’t go.” It was a harsh plea, his heart and soul laid at her feet. “Please don’t go. It’s not our time. Not yet. Not so soon.”
34
Dmitri was briefing Raphael about the second victim when Elena appeared in the doorway to Raphael’s Tower office.
Hello, hbeebti.
Hello, Archangel.
She leaned against the doorjamb and he watched as she and his second acknowledged each other with a glance. The two had come to an understanding that they both had the best interests of the city—and its archangel—at heart. Not that it stopped either one from sharpening their knives on each other.
Today, however, Dmitri had more critical matters on his plate. “A distraction won’t work this time,” the vampire said. “Too many people saw the victim, even with how quickly Illium picked her up, and while the media knows not to push the Tower, the talking heads are speculating on every channel.”
“Shut it down.” Raphael would permit no one to seed fear in his city. Not the enemy and not its own citizens.
“It won’t cure the problem,” Dmitri responded, proving why he was Raphael’s second. Where many would’ve snapped to his command, Dmitri had the confidence and the intelligence to dispute Raphael’s decisions when necessary. “The rumors will continue to circulate beneath the surface, doing worse damage.”
“Suggestions?”
“Ahem.”
“You have an idea, Consort?” Raphael asked the hunter who stood with her arms crossed and her wings held off the floor as per Galen’s training—of course, Elena would say his weapons-master had beaten the habit into her, but the end result was that she had the posture of a warrior.
Her lips twitched at his formal address. “I was about to suggest we tell the truth.”
Dmitri’s expression was distinctly sardonic. “The Tower does not share its concerns.”
Rolling her eyes, Elena sauntered into the room to stand with her hands on her hips at Raphael’s side. “I wasn’t suggesting we start doing a daily Tower broadcast. But what’s the harm in pointing out that our enemies are attempting to use underhanded techniques to disrupt the city?”