Consumed by Fire (Fire 1)

She didn’t sleep—tension was threading through her body like barbed wire, pulling tighter and tighter. She simply lay there in the bunk, hugging herself. If she turned on her other side she’d be able to see him up there in the driver’s seat, she’d see his reflection in that huge windshield. She stayed where she was.

She’d lost all sense of time when she felt the RV leave the highway once more, as they drove over a pitted road, too fast, of course. There was anger in the way he took the corner, she thought, burying her face in the pillow. She’d pretend to be asleep—that’s all she seemed to do anyway when she was around him. At least there was a bed up over the driver’s area, and he could just climb up there if he’d stopped to sleep.

The RV came to a stop with a lurch, one that would have woken her up if she’d actually been sleeping. She couldn’t tell if the sky was lighter or not—not without lifting her head, and the only way she was going to make it through this overpowering miasma that seemed to have come over her was to keep very still, keep away from him.

He made no effort to be quiet. “Fuck,” he said, and she could hear him getting up from the seat. To her horror, instead of heading outside or climbing up into the bunk, he headed straight back toward her.

She was having a hard time controlling her breathing enough to simulate sleep. She was practically vibrating with tension, but it was still very dark, and the tremors were so slight he wouldn’t see them; if he’d just go away, she’d be all right, she’d manage to get through this . . .

“Fuck,” he said again. “What’s wrong with you? And don’t tell me it’s claustrophobia, or fear of the dark, or any shit like that. And stop pretending to be asleep—you wouldn’t fool anyone. I’ve been listening to you shiver and shake for the last few hours.”

She opened her eyes, but she wouldn’t turn to look at him. Couldn’t turn—every muscle felt frozen in her panic. That’s what it was, she realized to her complete shame. It was a panic attack, and she hadn’t had one since she’d been a hormonal teenager.

Recognizing what it was should have stopped it, given her enormous willpower, but she still felt caught in its grip. “Evangeline,” he said in a quiet, dangerous voice.

Don’t touch me, she thought desperately. Please don’t touch me. She managed to grind out the word in a raw whisper. “Don’t.” He didn’t listen.

The moment she felt his hands on her, pulling her from the bed, something snapped inside her, something dark and dangerous that terrified her. She went wild, hitting him, kicking him, slapping him as she tried to break free from his iron grip.

He simply wrapped his arms around her, tight, so tight it cut off her breath, which made it worse. She wanted to scream, but when she opened her mouth no sound came out, and his body was clamped against hers so that she couldn’t even struggle. She was trapped, caught, there was no escape . . .

He held her a little bit away from his body and he shook her, hard, and it felt as if her bones were rattling inside her; but if he thought it would shake her out of the panic, he was wrong. He loosened his grip slightly, and she tore herself free, throwing herself toward the door.

He caught her, and she clawed out at him, her fingernails raking across his chest as he yanked her back, and she was screaming. She heard her voice in the back of her head, and she couldn’t even guess what the words were. A small, shamed part of her was standing apart, watching this with shock and horror, but she couldn’t stop, she had to get away from him before he devoured her with his darkness.

The battle was short-lived and dirty: she thought she heard Merlin’s bark, Bishop’s curse and a short, sharp order, and then it seemed like she was flying through the air, through the darkness, only to land in a dark, enclosed place with Bishop all around her, trapping her, closing her in, devouring her, his body on top of hers, holding her down as she fought.

It stopped so abruptly that for a moment she thought she was dead. One second she was fighting for her life, the next everything had drained from her body and she went limp beneath him, all her desperate fury vanishing.

But she was still breathing—her chest was rising and falling against his, and their hearts were pounding in a rapid counterpoint. Why was his pounding? He’d subdued her with little effort. It had to be something else—she could swear he didn’t even have a heart. He was a cyborg, an android, a little green man from Mars, and she wanted to laugh, but if she started she wouldn’t stop, and that was even more terrifying.

It took her a moment to realize where they were—in the sleeping compartment above the driver’s seat. The mattress beneath her cushioned her as the other one had, even with Bishop’s weight on top of her, holding her down, holding her prisoner, and she felt her breath begin to speed up once more.

“Open your eyes, Angel,” he said, his voice soft but implacable, and she realized she’d kept them tightly shut during their short, fierce battle, as if by blinding herself she could pretend it wasn’t happening. She should have known better—closing her eyes on a roller coaster only made it worse.

She opened them, and she could see his face, closer than she expected. She could see the glitter in those eyes that were all wrong, she could feel his breath on her skin, the familiar-unfamiliar weight of him pressing her into the mattress, the hard ridge of his erection pressing at the juncture of her thighs, and then realization struck her.

“That,” he said, reading her perfectly, “should be the least of your worries. It seems to have become a permanent condition ever since I found you again. I want to know what the fuck is wrong with you.”

She opened her mouth, but she had no voice and no words. Her throat felt raw, and she realized she’d screamed enough to have hurt it. And how could she explain what she didn’t understand herself?

It finally came out in an almost inaudible rasp. “Don’t . . .” she managed to begin, and she could feel the anger and frustration in the body plastered so tightly against hers.

“Jesus Fucking Christ, Angel, what do you think I’m going to do? Cut your throat and bury you in the woods like Clement? Rape you? I told you I wouldn’t hurt you.”

“Don’t . . .” she tried again; he was so close, and she didn’t want to be here, she didn’t want to be trapped underneath him, she didn’t want all these clothes between them. She wanted him inside of her, she wanted him hard and fast, pounding into her, driving all thoughts and fears from her tangled brain, and her breathing began to speed up once more, as tremors danced across her skin. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down as much as she could, forcing the rest of the words out. “Don’t . . . know.”

“Is that ‘don’t’ and ‘no’?” he said, his voice harsh. “Or is that ‘don’t know,’ as in you don’t know what’s wrong with you?”

She managed to nod. She was so cold, and so hot, trapped here in the enveloping darkness with Bishop on top of her, all around her. If he’d go away she’d be able to pull herself together . . .

He’d pushed himself up on his elbows, and was looking down at her in the inky darkness; and for a moment they were suspended in time, staring at each other. “Fuck it,” he said finally, sliding one hand behind her neck to pull her mouth up to his.

His kiss was air to a drowning man, oxygen to an asthmatic. His open mouth closed over hers and his breath filled her lungs and her veins, and she was alive again, blood pumping through her body as he kissed her, his tongue sliding against hers with such perfect intimacy that she wanted to weep.

She made a sound, and whether it was protest or surrender didn’t matter, because she kissed him back, hungry for him, desperate for him. She reached for his shirt and began yanking it free from his jea

ns, needing to feel his skin against her, needing to lose herself in him.