"I'm glad you are here. It's a miracle. "
Yeah, she was probably right. He had no idea how he'd gotten out of that one alive. He hadn't been wearing a vest.
Maybe his luck was changing.
Little late in the game, unfortunately.
Staring up at her, he took in her lovely features, from her dove gray eyes to her pink lips. . . to the elegant column of her throat and the pulse that beat beneath her precious skin.
Abruptly, her gaze went to his mouth. "Yes," she said. "I will feed you now. "
Heat and raw power resurged in his body, jerking his hips up and oversolving that blood pressure problem of the surgeon's. But all the off-the-chain was still a no-go. The part of him that wanted things from her, things that she wasn't going to be comfortable giving anybody. . . things that were all about what he had done in the shower and in his bed alone during the day. . . was not getting airtime here.
Besides, his mind and his heart weren't interested in any of that shit, and this was another reason she was perfect for him. Layla might well take his body up on the arousal; No'One never would. And there were worse betrayals to his shellan than wanting the unattainable. At least with No'One, and thanks to his self-control, those impulses would forever be just a fantasy, a harmless, unrealized, masturbation fantasy that had no more substance in his real life than porn on the Internet -
God help you, a small voice pointed out, if she ever wants you back.
Too right. But as she appeared to hesitate, he was certain that was never going to happen.
In a guttural voice, he told her, "I'm in no hurry. And know this, the lights will stay on this time. . . and I will take from your wrist only as much as you care to give me. "
Chapter Twenty-Eight
As No'One sat beside Tohrment, she heard herself say once again, "Yes. . . "
Dearest Virgin Scribe, something had changed between them. In the thick, charged air that separated their bodies, some kind of heat was sparking, the current of electricity warming her skin from the inside out.
This was totally different than when she had been in the dark of the pantry with him, struggling against the past's perennial stranglehold.
Tohrment cursed softly. "Shit, I should have them clean me up first. "
As if he were naught but a countertop that had been spilled upon, or a bolt of cloth that required laundering.
She frowned. "I care not what you look like. You breathe and your heart beats - that is all that matters to me. "
"You have very low standards for males. "
"I have no standard for males. For you, however, if there is health and safety, I am at peace. "
"God damn," he said softly. "I really don't get it. . . but I believe you. "
" 'Tis the truth. "
Staring at their entwined hands, she thought about what he had said. . . about the past, about the cobbled-together family the three of them had formed in the Old Country.
About how she had shattered that for them all, including her daughter.
Indeed, she had always viewed the resurrection she had been given as an opportunity for penance for taking her own life, but yes, she realized once again, now there was another purpose to serve.
She had hurt this male, but she had also been granted the opportunity to help him.
It was the Scribe Virgin's fundamental tenet at work: all things coming full circle so that balance could be retained.
Assuming she could help him, that was.
With a sense of purpose, she looked down his body - or what she could see of it under the surgical sheeting. His chest was padded with muscle, a star-shaped scar marking one pectoral, and his abdomen was ribbed with strength. All along, there were a number of bruises that she didn't want to guess the causes of, and small round holes that scared her.
But what was happening below his waist captured her eyes. He was holding the blue sheeting in place over his hips as if hiding something, his forearm and hand tightening up as she stared.