Now he was rebraiding her hair. She kept her face turned away toward the opposite wall while he did that, her breasts rising and falling rapidly, like a winded horse. “You shouldn't worry about the towel,” she said. Her voice had become a hoarse rasp from all the screaming. “Kind of pointless, right? More work for you.”
Gideon tugged on the finished braid lightly and picked up his washcloth again. “You're no work at all.”
“Oh yeah.” A snuffled sob, perhaps the raw attempt at a grim laugh. “Piece of cake.”
“You got it, sweetheart. With frosting and sprinkles. If I didn't have this easy duty, I'd probably be out .. .”
“Hunting vampires.” She finished, turning her face toward him. Her eyes were shards of blue-green glass. “You have one here, don't you?”
“That's different,” he said. Tenderly, he wiped her face. He was concerned by how her eyes never stopped that restless shifting now, her limbs in a constant sickly tremor. Sometimes, even in the middle of a calmer moment like this, she'd say something strange and menacing, and then resume as if she didn't realize she'd said anything. Like vampire Tourette's, with a lisp. “I don't mind wrapping a towel around you. It makes you feel better.”
“That's pretty relative, all in all.”
“Yeah.” He gave a serious half chuckle. She pulled off a smile, though it was so weighed down by weariness, he wanted to brush his lips over the corners of her mouth to give them additional strength.
“Anyway, without the towel, I might get lustful ideas. You've been firing some pretty creative ones at me.”
“I don't think ‘fuck you' screamed at the top of my lungs is a come-on.”
“Well, guys are pretty literal. Particularly about that subject.”
“You're not.” She locked gazes with him. “You'd never touch me unless I wanted you to. That's the kind of man you are. You don't take choices away from women. You give them.” He firmed his jaw. “When a murderous bastard gives you a hand in the trenches, it could be because he likes having the company. Doesn't mean he fits in a civilized, gentle world.” Her haggard face flickered with spirit. “Maybe I felt sorry for you and wanted to make you feel useful.”
“Now, see, that, I believe.” Still, he put his hand over hers, which was balled into a tight fist over the harsh steel of the manacle. “The first part is the worst. After forty-eight hours, it will become far more manageable.”
If Daegan made it back with the blood, and if it was a normal transition, which, of course, it wasn't.
Holy God, he hoped it would get better, though. He had an unwise desire to let her fingers lace with his, but he resisted and went back to running the cool cloth along her throat. If he tangled with her fingers, she might break his with a stray remnant of violence, tempted back to life by his proximity. She stared at his hand as he slid the damp washcloth down, patted the heated skin just above her terry-cloth-covered breasts.
“My aunt painted our trailer purple, when I was young,” she said.
He grunted. “Royal purple, or a girly kind of a lavender?”
“Rock-star purple. She wanted to make me happy about something, do something to make me feel good for a few minutes. You, doing this, reminds me of that. Sad and incredibly generous at once. It hurts my chest and makes me want to cry, even as I want to thank you for trying to make the awful better with a little purple paint.”
Damn it.His hand stilled on her. Even as her words touched him, he sensed another one coming. And she was too damn intuitive herself. Her face tightened in sudden, desperate denial.
“Gideon, I can't take anymore.”
“You can.” Setting aside the cloth, he swiftly reinforced the braid with another elastic hair band. He'd found them in a china teacup on top of her vanity, next to the silver-backed hairbrush he was using now.
Ironic, considering he usually did his hair with a broken comb. Or his fingers. “You will, because you know you're too damn proud to do anything else. There's no other choice.” His voice was harsher than he intended, because he knew as well as she did that therewas another choice. If she asked for it, if she begged him to kill her, it was going to tear him in half.
Shadows gripped her features, making him wonder if he'd taken her to that dark place with him. God knew, they were working so hard at this together, it was starting to feel as though they could reach each other's minds.
“There's always a choice. I almost wish there wasn't, because that's what makes this so hard, right? I made a choice I'll regret my entire life, going into that alley.” Then the brittle pain in her gaze died away as she attempted one more smile, an unexpected, heart-wrenching expression. “The cats were hungry, though.”
“You're a piece of work, sweetheart,” he said with quiet fervor, daring a quick squeeze of her hand.
“You hang in there. I know you can do this.”
Her blue-green eyes pierced him to his scarred soul. “I won't ask you to take my life, Gideon. That's the one sure promise I can give you.”
He nodded, his throat thick. “Hang on, then. Here it comes.” Once again, she slammed her head against the wall like a heavy-metal music groupie, lost in the harsh demand of pounding drums and chaotic dueling guitars. He'd tried to brace a pillow behind her earlier.
She'd caught it with her teeth and ripped a huge hole in the foam stuffing before it tumbled to the floor amid the debris. Every time she surfaced, she seemed shocked to see the aftermath on her body, on the floor, as if she'd been deep in some mind-hell. He didn't know if that was a mercy, or twice the torment.
He'd taken the pillow from Daegan's room, of course. When she was in the midst of an attack, he didn't dare leave her, and when she was lucid, that just-below-the-surface terror of being chained up kept him almost as close. As a result, he hadn't had time to register anything about Daegan's room except it was sparse. A masculine-looking assortment of dark furniture, suitable for a guy over six feet, and a closet, the door cracked but the interior dark. A few books and personal items were scattered on the dresser, but nothing significant.
More vomiting, more bloody emissions from her pores. Nerve-splitting screams, raging shrieks.
Agonized cries.
Often, the towel was so soaked with her fluids that the tuck loosened and it dropped to the ground with a wet splat during her struggles. After he cleaned her, he balled each one up, put it in the hamper he'd dragged to the cell from her bathroom. If she'd still lived, his mother would have fainted in shock, because she always claimed he didn't know what a hamper was for. But having his mom look at his dirty laundry wasn't the same as forcing an exhausted, chained woman to look at her blood- and vomit-soaked linens.
Now he slid another towel around her, working his way along the wood and stone behind her body so he could tuck the ends together over her trembling breasts.
It was probably the most dangerous thing he did, because his body was closest to her at this point, his throat briefly within range of her fangs. But he'd learned that the direct aftermath, when the attack had drained her completely, her eyes at their most brilliant natural color, was when the risk was most acceptable. Truth, there was a side benefit to it he needed as much as she seemed to. The physical contact. She laid her temple on his shoulder, her head turned away from his neck, but the fragile line of her skull pressed against it, the heavy weight of her braid sliding against his chest.
“You think about what's going to be on the other side of this,” he murmured, risking it even further by sliding his arms around her, over the towel, letting her feel the pressure of his embrace. “You'll never age.
You'll be able to pound a hundred guys like me into sand. You'll always be beautiful, just like you are now.”
“You'll hate what I am. Be repelled by it.”
“I'll never be anything but completely overwhelmed by you.” Sliding back reluctantly, he saw she was staring into space.
“That wasn't a direct answer.” She straightened, resting her head against the cross. He teased her cheek, made her lashes flicker toward him.
“Why would you care what a loser like me thinks, anyway? I've got two shirts to my name . . . Well, thanks to you, one. No social skills, no prospects.”
“Not true. You have considerable social skills. Theanti- kind.”
“See, she still has a sense of humor.” He couldn't smile, though. Despite his sponging, blood, vomit and sweat filled his nostrils. She smelled like something dying, and they both knew it.
“I was completely serious.” But she closed her eyes. “I want you near, but I need to move, Gideon.”
“I can stay close outside, like before.” He pressed a hand to her bound arm but left the cell, cognizant of how she opened her eyes, instinctively tracking his movements with her heightening senses. After he closed the cell door, he adjusted the control so it paid her out enough chain that she could move to the sofa. But on the first step she staggered, falling to her knees, because her legs couldn't hold her weight right after her seizure.
“No.” She barked it sharply, anticipating him. “Damn it, we've been through this. Daegan said no.” Instead, Gideon entered the cell, knelt at her side. Though she tensed, he slid an arm around her waist and helped her back to her feet, guiding her to the couch. “Daegan's not the boss of me.”
“So ifI'd told you no, you would have listened.”
There was a disturbing flicker of truth to it, but he merely shrugged. “Of course. With you, I'm as obedient as a puppy.”
“If you've had a puppy, you know there's nothing obedient about them.” He feathered a stray lock of her hair with his fingers in answer.
“Gideon . . .”
“I'm going.” He didn't want her to be afraid of herself, so he withdrew. Though it ached like an open wound to do it.