Kyla scampered, adjusting her clothes as she ran as fast as her legs could carry her out the door, not looking back, running down the hall, past a tuxedo-wearing hotel employee who was just standing dumbfounded with a room service cart near the elevator, and she burst through the doors to the stairwell. There were two (presumably dead) men in dark uniforms tangled up together on the landing of the stairwell. They both had bloody, mangled throats. She couldn’t stop to think, to even take in the grisly scene; she hopped over them and bolted down the stairs, two steps at a time, down several flights and then out into the lobby, out through the revolving door and then she was in the street --- a busy main street in downtown Phoenix with traffic and noise and people everywhere.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Where do I go?
God, Tristan, where are you?
She was dressed in her jean skirt, a tank top, and ballet flats. She had no phone, no purse, no money, no underwear. Her throat was bleeding in multiple places and she was trembling all over. There was pain between her legs where he’d tried to force his way in and something hideously filthy blooming inside of her right now. She pushed that emotion away and bolted for an alley and watched the front entrance of the hotel, partially hidden by a dumpster.
Minutes ticked by as she tried to catch her breath and then she saw Sam emerge from the hotel. He was wearing faded jeans, a black suit jacket, un-tucked grey button down, and he had dark glasses on. As he stepped out, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, looking completely composed but then she saw Tristan emerge from a nearby car, tackle Sam, and roughly pin him against a wall.
Thank God!
She tried to send calming vibes to him, so he’d know she was okay, although she wasn’t even a little bit okay. He must be out of his mind if he was feeling anything remotely close to the fear and other emotions she had to have been emanating.
Sam was explaining something to him with a lot of hand gestures that looked like an effort to calm Tristan down and then he flashed his blazer open, quickly showing Tristan the handle of that dagger, which was in an inside pocket. Tristan let go of him.
Tristan’s palm flew to his forehead and he paled and then looked around the street and Kyla started to feel the thrumming of him tracking her. She leaned against the stone wall beside the dumpster and slid to the dirty ground, staring right at him, tears trailing down her cheeks.
Goosebumps prickled her skin. She wanted to call his name but couldn’t find it in her to even form a single word. It dawned then that this alley was so much like the stone tunnel of her nightmares. This was daylight and there were other things around but the stone? It looked the same. Where she’d touched it, she’d left blood.
Her blood?
No, Liam’s blood where she’d dug her nails into his shoulders. Maybe her own blood from the wounds on her throat? She didn’t know.
She shuddered and frantically wiped her hands on the ground. As she looked up from the ground their eyes met. Tristan had seen her. He pointed at Sam and barked out something and Sam slipped back into the hotel as Tristan made his way across the street.
Then Tristan was there, squatting in front of her, his hands examining her throat. His irises were coal black.
“He will die the slowest most painful fucking death I can give him!” he snarled as he took his blue and grey striped button down shirt off and put it on her. He lifted her into his arms but said nothing. The word livid didn’t even begin to describe the vibe coming off him. He carried her to a black car and put her in the passenger seat and got in and looked at her throat. He ripped a piece of the shirt, tearing a strip off the bottom and then he used the fabric to dab at her throat.
“Fuck,” he growled and then put his mouth to one wound, and then the other. The pain in her throat was instantly gone.
“I can fucking taste him. Fuck!” he roared, making Kyla’s body jerk in response.
Tristan left the car, slamming the door and leaning against the door, effectively blocking her from Sam, who was back, standing there with the duffle bag, Kyla’s purse, and the other bags from the room. He was talking to Tristan.
People passed by, oblivious, on their way to work, to wherever, with no idea they were watching two vampires talking to one another. Well, it was more like Tristan barking orders than talking.