Rare Vigilance (Whitethorn Agency)

Once his hands were free, Cristian glanced at Atlas. He wanted to zip his open shirt closed, to hide the bandages and patchwork of pale scars marring his skin, but it seemed wrong in response to the banked heat of Cristian’s appreciative gaze. It had been so long since he’d let another man look at him like that, since he’d trusted someone to not humiliate him for wearing the badges of his survival on his skin, so he pushed down the urge to hide and instead stood as he normally would. “Grab a quick shower and then we’ll pack,” he said. “You can have some of my extra clothes until we can pick up others. We’re almost the same height.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Cristian rasped. He held himself in place, body taut, until Atlas retreated back to his bedroom before closing himself into the bathroom. Atlas picked out a few things to offer Cristian, grabbed a spare towel on his way to the bathroom, and knocked on the door before entering.

The room was thick with steam and he could hear Cristian splashing under the shower spray on the other side of the curtain. “Where do you want your towel?” he asked as he set the clothes on the counter.

“Over the rod.”

He obeyed and started to back toward the door, but Cristian continued talking. “Got a text. Father’s alive. He’s reached his contact and wanted to know where we were.”

“Did he say how long it would take them to get here?”

“No.” The shower shut off and the towel disappeared from Atlas’s view. “Hopefully soon.”

“We’ll be ready,” Atlas said, trying to focus on what was left to do, rather than what Cristian would look like as he dried off.

It didn’t help. He was so lost in the images, he jerked when the shower curtain pulled open. He couldn’t help swearing when he saw the reality standing in front of him.

“That bad, huh?” Cristian teased, sliding his thumbs down into the band of the towel wrapped tightly around his waist.

Concern for his gruesome injuries distracted Atlas from what should have been an alluring sight. The claw marks over Cristian’s pecs and stomach were closing before Atlas’s eyes, a slow knitting of flesh over the deep gouges. Dark blood welled up in those depressions, but didn’t overspill. No, that was reserved for the horrific wound in the join of his shoulder and neck. Blood trickled down the defined muscles of his chest and stomach before staining the towel.

The gouges left by the claws were ripped wider from Cristian’s battle for freedom. The flesh above his collarbone was rent open, individual punctures torn into open channels. These wounds were deep, sluggishly pulsing blood despite the body’s efforts to heal. Atlas fumbled for gauze and doused it in rubbing alcohol. Only when he lifted it did he realize his hands were trembling worse than they had at the mansion.

The scarred bites on his neck already burned in sympathy, and he knew that every movement of Cristian’s arm, the neck, the head, hell, even his breathing, made the pain sharpen until it would overwhelm everything.

“You’re still bleeding,” Atlas whispered.

“Haven’t fed yet,” Cristian said, not moving away from Atlas’s attempted first aid. “I’m sure Father’s contact will bring blood bags. I’ll heal eventually.”

“Eventually isn’t good enough. You need to feed now,” Atlas said.

“Without a donor around, that’s not really possible,” Cristian mumbled, close, too close to Atlas. He’d leaned in at some point, his breath warm on Atlas’s neck.

He knew the risks of the bond. He’d already decided to tell Cristian the truth. Whether that truth came out later in words, or right now in shared memories, didn’t really matter. He couldn’t stand there and watch Cristian bleed out in front of him.

“Feed from me,” Atlas urged.

“No,” Cristian said. He met Atlas’s glare and said seriously, “You said you never wanted to experience it again. I told you I would respect your decision.”

“Well,” Atlas said as he continued dabbing at the injury, “I’ve changed my mind.”

“Why?” Cristian asked. “Out of guilt? Duty?”

The mangled flesh was as clean as he could get it, so Atlas turned back to his kit. He taped gauze over the wound, pressing down the edges of the tape lightly with his finger.

“You’re thinking again,” Cristian murmured with far too much concern for a man whose own blood was already staining the fresh bandage.

“I’m not offering out of guilt, or because I want another paycheck,” Atlas said at last.

He trailed off, unsure how to explain what he truly meant. Cristian reached out and took hold of his hand. He trailed his fingers over Atlas’s skin, tracing his scars with a gentle touch. “Then why?” Cristian asked.

“I don’t know,” Atlas admitted quietly. “The last time you fed, you saw the attack. Tonight, you knew what we were facing, but you were still brave enough to step between me and the strigoi.” It wasn’t guilt gnawing at him. This was something else, something deeper and harder to accept. “How could you put my life before yours?”

“How could I not?” Cristian breathed, reaching up to cup Atlas’s face with his good hand. His thumb skimmed along his cheek, and Atlas closed his burning eyes to revel in the gentleness of the touch. “What man couldn’t learn to be brave from you, dragostea mea?”

It was too much. The dam broke, and Atlas surged forward, desperate to feel Cristian’s mouth against his, to know they were alive after everything they’d been through. Soon, Decebal’s contact would find them and send them out into the world on the prayer the strigoi and their sire wouldn’t hunt them down. They would take everything from him again, until Decebal ended their threat. He had no idea how long he and Cristian would be on the run, where they would go, how they would survive. But none of that mattered. Right now, all he needed to know was the press of Cristian’s body against his own, and he lost himself to the sensation.