Lover Unbound (Page 14)
As Butch stretched out on Vishous's bed, V was ashamed to admit it, but he'd spent a lot of days wondering what this would be like. Feel like. Smell like. Now that it was reality, he was glad he had to concentrate on healing Butch. Otherwise he had a feeling it would be too intense and he'd have to pull away.
As his chest brushed against Butch's, he tried to tell himself he didn't need this. He tried to pretend that he didn't need this feel of someone beside him, that he wasn't eased as he lay head-to-toe with another person, that he didn't care about the warmth and the weight against his body.
That the healing of the cop didn't heal him.
But that was, of course, all bullshit. As V wrapped his arms around Butch and opened himself up to take in the Omega's evil, he needed it all. With the visit from his mother and the shooting, he craved the closeness of another, needed to feel arms that returned his embrace. He to have the beat of a heart against his own.
He spent so much time keeping his hand away from others, keeping himself apart from others. To let down his guard with the one person he truly trusted made his eyes sting.
Good thing he never cried or his cheeks would be wet as stones in a river.
As Butch shuddered in relief, Vishous felt the trembling in the male's shoulders and hips. Knowing it was illicit, but unable to stop himself, V took his tattooed hand and buried it deep in Butch's thick hair. While the cop let out another groan and moved closer, V shifted his eyes over to his surgeon.
She was over by the chair, watching them, her eyes wide, her mouth open slightly.
The only reason V didn't feel awkward as hell was because he knew that when she left she would have no memories of this private moment. Otherwise he couldn't have handled it. Shit like this didn't happen often in his life¡ªmostly because he didn't let it. And he was damned if he'd have some stranger remembering his private biz.
Except... she didn't really feel like a stranger.
His surgeon's hand went to her throat, and as she sank down into the seat of the chair. As time stretched out languidly, uncurling like a lazy dog on a hazy summer night, her eyes never left his, and he didn't look away either.
That word came back to him: Mine.
Except which one was he thinking of? Butch or her?
Her, he realized. It was the female across the room who was bringing that word out of him.
Butch shifted, his legs brushing against V's through the blankets. With a stab of guilt, V recalled the times he'd imagined himself with Butch, imagined the two of them lying as they were now, imagined them... well, healing wasn't the half of it. Strange, though. Now that it was happening, V wasn't thinking anything sexual toward Butch. No... the sexual drive and the bonding word were directed toward the silent human woman across the room, the one who was clearly shocked.
Maybe she couldn't handle two men being together? Not that he and Butch were ever going to be.
For some ridiculous fucking reason, V said to her, "He is my best friend."
She seemed surprised that he'd offered any explanation. Which made two of them.
Jane couldn't take her eyes off the bed. The patient and Red Sox were glowing together, a soft light emanating from their bodies, and something was happening between them, some kind of exchange. Jesus, that sweet smell was fading, wasn't it.
And best friends? She looked at the patient's hand buried in Red Sox's hair and the way those heavy arms held the man close. Sure they were buddies, but how much further than that did it go?
After God only knew how long, Red Sox let out a long sigh and lifted his head. With their faces separated by a mere matter of inches, Jane braced herself. She had no problem with men being together, but for some insane reason she didn't want to see her patient kiss his friend. Or anybody else.
"Are you okay?" Red Sox asked.
The patient's voice was low and soft. "Yeah. Tired."
"I'll bet." Red Sox got up off the bed in a lithe move. Holy hell, he looked as if he'd spent a month at a spa. His color was back to normal, and his eyes were unclouded and alert. And that air of malevolence was gone.
The patient repositioned himself on his back. Then rolled to his side with a wince. Then tried his back again. His legs scissored under the covers the whole time, as if he were trying to outrun whatever feeling was in his body.
"You in pain?" Red Sox asked. When there was no response, the guy looked over his shoulder at her. "Can you help him, Doc?"
She wanted to say no. She wanted to throw out a couple of curse words and demand to be released again. And she wanted kick this member of the Red Sox Nation in the balls for making her patient sicker by whatever just happened.
The Hippocratic oath got her up and moving to the duffels. "Depends on what you brought me."
She dug around and found a Walgreens-load of just about every pain med available. And all of it was straight out of Big Pharma packages, so they clearly had sources on the inside of a hospital: The drugs were sealed up in such a way that they hadn't passed very far through the black market. Hell, these guys probably were the black market.
To make sure she hadn't missed any options, she looked in the second bag... and found her favorite pair of yoga sweats... and the rest of the things she'd packed to go down to Manhattan for the Columbia interview.
They'd been to her home. These bastards had been in her home.
"We had to take your car back," Red Sox explained. "And figured you'd appreciate some fresh clothes. These were ready to go."
They'd driven her Audi, walked through her rooms, been through her shit.
Jane stood up and kicked the duffel across the room. As her clothes spilled out onto the floor, she shoved her hand into her pocket and gripped the razor, ready to go for Red Sox's throat.
The patient's voice was strong. "Apologize."
"Not you. Him."
Red Sox's voice was contrite as he spoke up fast. "I'm sorry we went through your house. Just trying to make this easier on you."
"Easier? No offense, but fuck off with your apology. You know, people are going to miss me. The police will be looking for me."
"We took care of all that, even the appointment in Manhattan. We found the train tickets and the interview itinerary. They no longer expect you."
Rage made her lose her voice for a moment. "How dare you."
"They were quite content to reschedule when they heard you were sick." As if this was supposed to make it right.
Jane opened her mouth, ready to have at him, when it dawned on her that she was wholly at their mercy. So antagonizing her captors was probably not a smart move.
With a curse, she looked at the patient. "When are you going to let me go?"
"As soon as I'm on my feet."
She studied his face, from the goatee to the diamond eyes to the tats at his temple. On instinct she said, "Give me your word. Swear on the life I gave back to you. You will let me go unharmed."
He didn't hesitate. Not even to take a breath. "On my honor and the blood in my veins, you'll be free as soon as I'm well."
Berating herself and them, she took her hand from her pocket, bent down, and grabbed a vial of Demerol out of the bigger duffel. "There aren't any syringes."
"I've got some." Red Sox came over and held a sterile pack out. When she tried to take it from him, he kept a grip on the thing. "I know you'll use this wisely."
"Wisely?" She snapped the syringe out of his hand. "No, I'm going to poke him in the eye with it. Because that's what they trained me to do in medical school."
Bending down again, she fished around in the duffel and found a pair of latex gloves, an alcohol towelette packet, and some gauze and packing to change the chest dressing.
Although she'd given the patient prophylactic antibiotics through his IV before surgery, so his risk of infection was low, she asked, "Can you get antibiotics as well?"
"Anything you need."
Yeah, they were definitely hooked up with a hospital. "I might want some Ciprofloxacin or maybe some Amoxicillin. Depends on what's going on under that surgical packing."
She put the needle and the vial and the other supplies on the bedside table, snapped on the gloves, and tore open the foiled square.
"Hold up for a second, Doc," Red Sox said.
"Excuse me?"
Red Sox's eyes fixed on her like a pair of gun sights. "With all due respect, I need to stress that if you harm him intentionally, I will kill you with my bare hands. In spite of the fact that you're a woman."
As a shot of terror stiffened her spine, a growling sound filled the bedroom, the kind a mastiff made before it attacked.
They both looked down at the patient in shock.
His upper lip was peeled back and those sharp front teeth were twice the size they'd been before. "No one touches her. I don't care what she does or to whom."
Red Sox frowned as if his buddy had lost his marbles. "You know our agreement, roommate. I keep you safe until you can do it yourself. You don't like it? Get your ass healed up and then you can worry about her."
"No one."
There was a moment of silence; then Red Sox looked back and forth between Jane and the patient like he was recalibrating a law of physics¡ªand having trouble with the math.
Jane jumped in, feeling the need to calm them down to a rolling boil. "Okay, okay. Let's cut the macho-shithead posturing, shall we?" The two of them looked at her in surprise and seemed even more astounded as she elbowed Red Sox out of the way. "If you're going to be here, unplug the aggression. You're not helping him." She glared at the patient. "And you¡ªyou just relax."
After a moment of dead-fish silence, Red Sox cleared his throat, and the patient pulled on his glove and shut his eyes.
"Thank you," she muttered. "Now, you boys mind if I do my job so I can get out of here?"
She gave the patient a shot of Demerol, and within moments his tight eyebrows eased up like someone had loosened the screws on them. As the tension left his body, she stripped off the bandage on his chest and lifted the gauze and packing off.
"Dear... God," she breathed.
Red Sox looked over her shoulder. "What's wrong? It's healed up perfect."
She gently prodded the row of metal staples and the pink seam beneath them. "I could remove these now."
"You need help?"
"This just isn't right."
The patient's eyes opened, and it was obvious he knew exactly what she was thinking: Vampire.
Without looking at Red Sox, she said, "Will you get me the surgical scissors and the grips in that duffel? Oh, and bring me the topical antibiotic spray."
As she heard rustling from across the room, she whispered, "What are you?"
"Alive," the patient replied. "Thanks to you."
"Here you go."
Jane jumped like a puppet. Red Sox was holding out two stainless-steel implements, but for the life of her she couldn't remember why she'd asked for them.
"The staples," she murmured.
"What?" Red Sox asked.
"I'm taking out the staples." She took the scissors and the grips and hit the patient's chest with a mist of antibiotic.
In spite of the fact that her brain was doing the twist in her skull, she managed to cut and remove each of the twenty or so metal clips, dropping them in the wastepaper basket next to the bed. When she was finished she swabbed up the tears of blood that welled at each entrance and exit hole, then hit his chest with some more antibacterial spray.
As she met his brilliant eyes, she knew for sure he was not human. She had seen the insides of too many bodies and witnessed the struggle to heal too many times to think otherwise. What she wasn't sure of was where that left her. Or the rest of the human race.
How was this possible? That there was another species with so many human characteristics? Then again, that was probably how they stayed hidden.
Jane covered the center of his chest with a light layer of gauze, which she then taped in place. As she finished up the patient grimaced, and his hand, the one with the glove, went to his stomach.
"You all right?" Jane asked as his face drained of color.
"Queasy." A line of sweat broke out over his upper lip.
She looked at Red Sox. "I think you're going to want to take off."
"Why?"
"He's about to be sick."
"I'm fine," the patient muttered, closing his eyes.
Jane headed for the duffels for a bedpan and talked at Red Sox. "Go on, now. Let me see to him. We aren't going to need an audience for this."
Goddamn Demerol. It worked great on pain, but sometimes the side effects were a real problem for patients.
Red Sox hesitated until the patient groaned and started to swallow compulsively. "Umm, okay. Listen, before I go, can I get you something fresh to eat? Anything in particular you want?"
"You're kidding me, right? Like I'm supposed to forget the abduction and the mortal threat and give you a drive thru order?"
"No reason not to eat while you're here." He picked up the tray.
God, that voice of his... that rough, hoarse voice with the Boston accent. "I know you. I definitely know you from somewhere. Take the hat off. I want to see your face."
The guy went across the room with the wilted food. "I'll bring you something else to eat."
As the door shut and locked she had a childish urge to run at the thing and pound on it.
But the patient moaned and she looked at him. "You going to stop fighting the urge to throw up now?"
"Fuck... me..." Curling over on his side, the patient began retching.
No bedpan was needed, because he didn't have anything in his stomach, so Jane hauled herself into the bathroom, brought back a towel, and put it to his mouth. While he gagged miserably, he held on to the center of his chest as if he didn't want to pop his wound open.
"It's okay," she said as she put her hand on his smooth back. "You're healed up enough. You're not going to tear that scar open."
God, he was suffering, his face strained and red, sweat all over him, body heaving. "It's okay, just let it roll through you. The less you fight it, the easier it will be. Yeah... there you go... breathe between them. Okay, now..."
She stroked his spine and held the towel and couldn't help but keep murmuring to him. When it was over, the patient lay still, breathing through his mouth, his hand with the glove clenched around a tangle of sheets.
"That was so not fun," he rasped.
"We'll find you another painkiller," she murmured, brushing his hair from his eyes. "No more Dem for you. Listen, I want to check your wounds, okay?"
He nodded and eased onto his back, the expanse of his chest seeming as big as the damn bed. She was careful with the adhesive tape, gentle as she lifted the gauze. Good lord... The skin that had been perforated by the staples just fifteen minutes ago was completely healed. All that remained was a small pink line down his sternum.
"What are you?" she blurted.
Her patient rolled back toward her. "Tired."
Without even thinking about it she started stroking him again, the sound of her hand smoothing up and down his skin making a hushed noise. It wasn't long before she noticed that his shoulders were all hard muscle... and that what she was touching was warm and very male.
She took back her palm.
"Please." He caught her wrist with his unmarked hand¡ªeven though his eyes were closed. "Touch me or... shit, hold on to me, I'm... all adrift. Like I'm going to float away. I can't feel anything. Not the bed... not my body."
She looked down at where he held on to her, then measured his biceps and the breadth of his chest. She had the passing thought that he could snap her arm in two, but she knew he wouldn't. He'd been ready to rip the throat out of one of his nearest and dearest a half hour ago to protect her¡ª
Stop it.
Do not feel safe with him. The Stockholm syndrome is not your friend.
"Please," he said on a shaky breath, shame constricting his voice.
God, she'd never understood how kidnapping victims developed relationships with their captors. It went against all logic as well as the laws of self-preservation: Your enemy cannot be your friend.
But denying him warmth was unthinkable. "I'll need my hand back."
"You have two. Use the other." With that he curled himself around the palm he held on to, the sheets getting pulled farther down his torso.
"Let me switch sides then," she muttered as she slid her hand out of his grip, replaced it, then laid her newly freed palm on his shoulder.
His skin was the golden brown of a summer tan and smooth... boy, it was smooth and supple. Following the curve of his spine she went up to his nape, and before she knew it she was stroking his glossy hair. Short in the back, long around his face¡ªshe wondered whether he wore it that way to hide the tattoos on his temple. Except they had to be for show¡ªwhy else would he put them somewhere so noticeable?
He made a noise in the back of his throat, a purr that rolled through his chest and upper back; then he moved away, the shift tugging her arm. Clearly he wanted her stretched out next to him, but as she resisted, he eased off.
Staring at her arm in the tight clutch of his biceps, she thought about the last time she'd been entwined with a man. Long while. And it hadn't been that good, frankly.
Manello's dark eyes came to mind...
"Don't think of him."
Jane jerked. "How did you know who was on my mind?"
The patient released his hold on her and slowly shifted around so he faced away from her. "Sorry. Not my biz."
"How did you know?"
"I'm going to try to sleep now, okay?"
"Okay."
Jane got up and went back to her chair, thinking of his six-chambered heart. His untypeable blood. Those fangs of his in that blonde's wrist. Glancing over to the window, she wondered if what covered the glass panes was not just for security but also to keep out daylight.
Where did it all leave her? Locked in a room with a... vampire?
The rational side of her rejected the thought out of hand, but at her core she was logic driven. With a shake of the head, she recalled her favorite quote from Sherlock Holmes, paraphrasing it: If you eliminate all possible explanations, then the impossible is the answer. Logic and biology didn't lie, did they? It was one of the reasons why she'd chosen to become a physician in the first place.
She looked down at her patient, getting lost in the implications. The mind reeled at the evolutionary possibilities, but she also considered more practical matters. She thought about the drugs in that duffel bag and the fact that her patient had been out in a dangerous part of town when he'd been shot. And hello, they'd kidnapped her.
How could she possibly trust him or his word?
Jane put her hand in her pocket and felt for the razor. The answer to that one was easy. She couldn't.