McKell could have maimed or killed her, but had written on her instead. McKell could have chosen elegant Noelle, but had chosen tiny Ava instead. He could have left her naked and defenseless, but he’d let her keep her underwear, and part of her still suspected he had followed her home, despite what common sense told her. Just to ensure she arrived safely. And last night, he could have attacked her, but hadn’t.
What had she done?
Breathe, you have to breathe.
Even lost to her rage as she’d been, she had managed to avoid all his major organs. Good, breathing. Calming. He would be fine. If the inside of his vampire body was humanoid. Oh, God. Bye-bye, calm. What if it wasn’t? What if she’d damaged him irreparably?
Perhaps she’d overreacted to his slur just a wee bit, she thought now.
Maybe she’d check on him tonight. Mia would want a status report. Right? Would McKell still be in that forest, though? Would he attack Ava this time? He would have every right to do so. She’d have to find a way to protect herself without hurting him further.
Damn him, why hadn’t he frozen her after she’d stabbed him? He could have. Right? Except, maybe when injured, his ability to manipulate time—and people—failed him. If so, that meant … oh … shit. If so, he was in major danger. He wouldn’t be able to protect himself. Especially if Mia sent other AIR agents after him. Real agents, this time.
Knowing Mia, that was a strong possibility.
The new agents might not be as gentle as Ava had been, and the thought of someone else hurting McKell … angered her, she realized as her nails cut into her palms with the same precision they had when she’d thought of him with another woman. Not to the red-haze degree that Noelle-bashing did, but still. Definite anger.
How odd. She’d never cared about anyone else’s well-being. On the streets it was survival first, everything else second. Although, when she thought about it, McKell was her target, so she had a right to be proprietary toward him.
Okay, so. Game plan. She’d visit him tonight. If he was still in the forest, she would subdue him as needed, then protect him from any and all threats. Human, animal, it didn’t matter. And when he healed, she would take him into AIR as ordered. That way, she could feel proud of a job well done. Not embarrassed by a job done just because the guy was weakened. At least, that’s the rational she used.
Except, when he healed, she would face the same problem as last night. No one could make McKell do anything he didn’t want to do. Damn him, she thought again. His ability to manipulate time put a serious damper on her ability to force him to do what she wanted.
A heavy, insistent knock sounded at her door.
Ava pushed to still shaky legs and threw her mug in the sink. Noelle was coded into the ID pad, and loved to enter at the most awkward times, so Ava knew her friend wasn’t the intruder. Mia, maybe? With new orders? Not McKell. He would have kicked the door in.
As another knock sounded, she trudged to her bedroom and tugged on a loose pair of shorts. She didn’t like the way her hands shook. By the time a third knock rang out, this one harder, more insistent, she stood at the entrance, gaping. And still shaking.
She’d been wrong. McKell’s (not so beautiful anymore) face consumed her ID screen. He was here. He was alive. And acting civilized.
He stood in her building’s hallway, fist lifting to once again bang at her door. His other hand was curled into a fist, too—with a long, black whip dangling from both sides. “I know you’re there, Ava. I can smell you. Open. Now.”
Heart slamming against her ribs, she did just that. She opened the door. He towered over her, scowling, fangs bared, clutching his bleeding side. Worse, his skin was red and blistered, and those blisters were oozing. Obviously he’d battled the sun to get here. Which meant he had a specific purpose for seeking her out. Killing her? With that whip?
Probably. He smiled slowly, but that smile promised she would like the way he ended her.
She wasn’t scared, though. She could take care of herself. What she was, was shocked. Big, strong, okay, fine, still gorgeous even with those blisters, McKell was actually, finally here. Intense relief swept through her, followed on the heels of heat … need … Don’t go there.
“Did you come for revenge?” she asked, gaze immediately lowering to the whip. At the moment, they were the only words her reeling brain could form.
“I’m not healing,” he said. The smile vanished, and he shook the whip at her. “Why aren’t I healing, woman?” He didn’t wait for her reply, but stormed inside her apartment.
His body brushed hers, and despite the clothing between them, despite the situation and the consequences, despite the increase of heat, she shivered. “Come in,” she said dryly. He. Was. Here. She couldn’t get over that fact.
He tossed a feral growl over his shoulder, gait never slowing. “I asked you a question.”
She shut and locked the door, then followed the path he had taken. In her living room, she watched as he fell onto the couch. He studied his surroundings with a single sweep—and she would bet he’d memorized every exit, every conceivable weapon—before glaring over at her. What did he think of her home? Did he see how hard she’d worked for every piece of furniture, or did he merely view her as poor?
There was a flicker of admiration in that gaze, she realized. He knew how hard she’d worked. Now her heart skipped a beat. He shouldn’t have been more beautiful just because he was surrounded by her stuff in her place, admiring, but he was. His black hair hung in disarray, his violet eyes gleamed brightly. His skin, already healing. His lips were parted, kissable.
Don’t think like that. Swallowing the lump forming in her throat, she rested her hands on her hips. “You asked me a question, yes, and I ignored it. Twice. Take a hint and stop asking. So how’d you know where I lived, anyway?” Was that breathless tone hers?
“I have your ID,” he grumbled.
Oh. Duh.
“And I followed you the other night.”
A shattering confirmation of her suspicions. She was delighted to her very soul.
Now she experienced fear. Fear that she was allowing attraction to overwhelm her. Time to paint him in a negative light, and put a stop to the craziness.
“Are you here for revenge?” she asked again, squaring her shoulders.
He ran his tongue over his teeth. Those sharp, deadly teeth. “That will come. Later.”
The thought of this man, this killer, having revenge excited her, she realized, and the fear grew until she had to rub her chest to ward off the ache. She could suddenly imagine tongue-lashings and well-placed nibbling, moaning, groaning, begging. All because of that butterscotch voice.
Oh, yes. Fear. Her attraction was overwhelming, not dulled in the least. Fight it.
“What comes now?” she asked. “The whip?” His answer would determine how they proceeded. Sugar and spice, or absolutely nothing nice.
He looked at the coiled length of leather as if he had no idea it was in his hand. “Oh. This. It’s my preferred method for restraining females.” He tossed the whip aside, the action making him grimace. “As you are unexpectedly cooperating …” He let the thought trail off. “I want to know why I’m not healing.”
How many females had he restrained over the years?
Another don’t go there filled her head. She studied him anew, her gaze dropping to his seeping wound, and the guilt she’d experienced earlier roared back to life, draining the fear, defeating her before the battle could even begin. He wore a new shirt—the tag still hung from the neck—but on his left side, the material was soaked with blood. He was as injured as when she’d left him.
After a second more of consideration, she knew that wasn’t true. He’d worsened.
Her own side twitched in sympathy. “Do you normally heal fast?”
“Yes. The bleeding should have stopped hours ago. Was your blade tipped with poison?”
“No!” She wasn’t a total bitch.
Another growl erupted from him. “What did you do to me, then?”
“Me? Nothing!” Guilt … escalating … If she had to choose between feeling guilty and having her hand chopped off, she’d remove the hand, no question. “Don’t you remember? You walked into my knife.” Though she’d hoped otherwise, the denial didn’t ease the guilt.
“I. Was. Sitting.”
“Semantics.”
He stared at her, unflinching. “I’d argue your use of the term, but at the moment I’m a little too busy bleeding to death. Fix me!”
“God, you’re irritable. But fine. I’ll fix you.” Maybe then the guilt would truly fade. “Quick question. By fix you”—she air-quoted fix—“do you mean sew you up like I would a human?”
“Is there any other way?” he snapped.
Irr-it-able. “You’d trust me with a needle?”
“No. But I’ll have my teeth ready to rip into you if you try to stab me with it.”
“Comforting. With that kind of threat hanging over my head, I’ll probably be shaking too badly to do you any good.” She was shaking, yes, but fear still wasn’t the reason. The shock of his presence, the guilt of her actions, of course, were both still a cause, but so was an increase in desire. He was a warrior to his soul.
Violet eyes sizzled. “Fix. Me. And if you cause any more damage, human, note that I’ll hurt you in kind.”
“So noted.” With another sigh, she padded into the bathroom and grabbed her first aid kit. By the time she returned, McKell had removed his shirt. The bloody material rested on her coffee table.
Frowning at him, she kicked the offending shirt to the floor. “If the table is stained, you’re buying me a new one.”
He merely raised his chin and motioned for her to get started.
She closed the rest of the distance and knelt between his open legs—and tried not to peek at his man business, covered so demurely by his pants. If she did, she’d be tempted to study every ridge and discover if she affected him the same way he affected her.
She needed a distraction.
“So. Have you fed today?” she asked, resting the kit on his thigh.
“Many times.” There was anger in his tone. Anger she didn’t understand.
“So I’m not in danger of blood loss myself?” Alcohol, cloth.
“I didn’t say that.”
Needle, thread. Her lips curled as she fought to hide her amusement. She considered the wound. Raw, angry skin. Torn, jagged muscle, like puzzle pieces in need of connecting. Ouch. She cleaned him as gently as she could before withdrawing a half-filled syringe.
“No medication,” he snapped, gripping her wrist and holding her hand in place.
She looked up, and her gaze connected with his, crackling. “But this will numb you.”
“Or kill me.”
And the problem? “Either way, you won’t feel the stitches.”
“No medication,” he insisted.
She shrugged. “Your pain, your choice.”
He released her, and she jumped back into her work. She expected him to scream with the first pierce of the needle, but no. Not her McKell. He gritted his teeth and silently endured.
“How did you get those scars on your hands?” He’d probably meant to ease back into conversation, but his pain gave him a dangerous vibe.
“Fights, mostly.”
“With who?” If he’d sounded dangerous before, he was positively lethal now.
“Lots of people. In school, I kind of had a temper. I would attack at the slightest provocation. Even when I knew I was going to get my ass kicked.”
He chuckled, surprising her. “In school. You kind of had a temper. And now you’re, what? Calm?”
“Definitely. Calling me an angel wouldn’t even be a stretch.” She finished the last stitch—he’d needed thirty-nine—and said, “All done,” then gently bandaged him.
“I don’t think so.” Now there was a pout in his voice. “You owe me blood.”
Ava could feel his gaze on her neck, burning where her pulse hammered wildly. She … liked it. Liked the thought of him leaning down, biting, sucking … tasting.
“I thought you’d already eaten.” Good. Rather than reveal just how ravenous she suddenly was for what he offered, there’d been an air of impassivity to her.
“What does that have to do with anything? You’re to be my dessert.” A put-down, from his point of view, obviously, since his tone was sneering.
Maybe she could have allowed it, even then. But was he attracted to her? Or did he just like the smell of her blood? Either could explain why he’d picked her over Noelle, despite the fact that Noelle had wanted him. “Had” being the key word. After he’d called dibs on Ava, Noelle had washed her hands of him, no matter what the girl claimed.
Ava wanted his attraction to equal—or be greater than—hers. Nothing else would satisfy her. If she was going to allow him to have her, that is. Which she wasn’t. “The fact that I stabbed you wasn’t a deal breaker?” she asked, hoping to anger him, distract him.
He growled again.
“What? Too soon to joke about it?” She leaned back on her haunches. She should have stood, walked away, but couldn’t find the will to do so.
He didn’t move, either. “Why did you stab me? I still don’t understand what I did to enrage you. And you were enraged. The emotion poured off you.”
How to explain? “Do you have a brother or a sister?”
“No.”
“A best friend you love but who irritates the hell out of you?”