Dianne Duvall - Darkness Dawns

“Almost four hours.”

It wasn’t until then that he realized the blood and dirt that had coated him had been washed away. He now sported numerous neat white bandages and was covered with a sheet.

“Did you do all this?”

“Yes.”

He tested the bandage wrapped around his left hand. “Nice field dressing. Are you a doctor?”

She offered him a wry smile. “Not the medical kind. I have a doctoral degree in music theory and teach over at UNC Chapel Hill.”

Beautiful and smart. A marvelous combination. “Well, you did an excellent job. Thank you.”

Her kindness continued to astound him. Even a Second wouldn’t have cleaned him up and made him more comfortable. He would have just bitched and moaned over his sleep being disrupted and given him blood.

Roland’s imagination temporarily soared with images of her touching his bare body while he had slept.

If only he could have remained conscious.

Sarah worried her lower lip and clasped her hands in front of her, suddenly appearing uncertain.

He frowned. “What is it?”

“I’ve been trying to figure out a tactful way to ask you something….”

Oh shit. Had his fangs descended while he was unconscious? A hasty feel with his tongue reassured him that they were receded, as they should be. But if she had seen his fangs earlier, it would explain why she seemed so uneasy.

“Forget tact,” he told her, wondering how he would respond if she asked him if he were a vampire. “Just ask.”

Nodding, she drew in a deep breath, then blurted out, “Are you HIV positive?”

His eyebrows flew up. Not what he had been expecting. “No.”

“Are you sure? Because a lot of people who have it don’t know they have it.”

“I’m 100 percent sure. No HIV. No hepatitis. Nothing. I’m clean.”

The tension left her as she gave him a relieved smile. “Thank goodness.”

Considering how much contact she had had with his blood, he could understand her concern, especially if she had any open wounds of her own.

Again he frowned. “Were you injured, Sarah?”

Wrinkling her nose, she held up her hands to show him scratched and abraded palms. It also allowed him to see her scraped elbow. “I forgot all about it until after I finished cleaning you up. And when I saw it … I admit I got a little worried.”

Roland slowly sat up, clenching his teeth when the movement made it feel as if he were being stabbed anew in the stomach.

“What are you doing?” she asked as he swiveled and lowered his feet to the floor, ensuring the sheet continued to cover him to the waist.

Once the pain had subsided enough for him to unlock his jaw, he motioned to the empty space beside him. “Sit with me for a moment.” It was more a question than an order.

A sweet shyness entered her features as she obligingly sat next to him.

Roland took her hands in his and turned them palms up so he could study the angry red marks. “What happened?”

“Something knocked me down in the meadow before I found you,” she answered. “It was so big and moved so fast I thought it was a bear, but …” She tilted her head to one side, drawing his gaze to hers. “Was it you? And the others?”

It must have been. He didn’t recall seeing her or bumping into her. But, when fighting three vampires (he had already dispatched four at that point) and traveling at preternatural speeds, the details of one’s surroundings could sometimes blur.

“I don’t know. I was focused on my opponents and saw little else.”

Spying what was left of her first aid supplies on the coffee table, he released her hands, picked up a half-empty bottle of witch hazel, and snagged a clean cloth.

“Did I miss a wound?” she asked, her eyes roving his exposed skin.

Roland gave his chest and arms a cursory inspection. “Not as far as I can tell.” Thanks to her ministrations, he would heal more swiftly when he fed.

The lid came free easily. Dampening the cloth, he returned the witch hazel to the coffee table.

“Then what are you …?”

Her words faltered as he reclaimed one of her dainty hands and gently cleansed her palm.

“Oh. Oh, no. No, no, Roland, you don’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I do,” he responded, quiet but determined.

This woman had knocked out two men bent on torturing him to death, unstaked him, helped him up, dragged him a hundred yards uphill, welcomed him into her home, given him shelter for the day, and cleaned and bandaged his wounds.

He wanted to do this for her.

Sarah’s heart turned over as she watched him painstakingly tend her abrasions. Her hand looked so small cradled in his.

She really had forgotten about the scratches until she had washed his blood off her hands. The water had stung and, when she had seen the raw, red marks, they had immediately begun to throb and burn.

Dropping the cloth to his lap, Roland located the tube of antibiotic ointment and struggled to remove the cap. A muscle leapt along his jaw.

It must be killing him to move his fingers like that. She thought it fairly miraculous that he could move them at all. A hole that size must have broken bones and damaged nerves and tendons, too.

She reached for the tube with her free hand. “Let me …”

He sent her a warning glare.

Sarah swiftly withdrew. “Okay.”

At last succeeding, he squeezed a generous dollop of clear goo onto his index finger and applied it to her palm with a featherlight touch that made her pulse race.

As if he heard her heartbeat pick up, he raised his dark brown eyes, meeting hers.

She wanted to look away but couldn’t.

What was it about this man that affected her so?

His fingers resumed their slow strokes. “Am I hurting you?” he asked, his voice as smooth as melted chocolate and just as appealing.

Unable to find her own, Sarah shook her head.

The ache in her palm receded beneath his touch, replaced by a warm tingling.

Roland gently covered the scratches with a nonstick pad and wrapped some of the remaining gauze around her hand, just as she had done for him.

Her other hand received the same careful treatment. When he was finished, Roland held both of her hands in his.

“We match,” she teased.

His dark eyes lightened with amusement as he drew her attention to the fact that the whole of one of her hands barely filled his palm. “Not quite.”

She smiled.

“Sarah, there is something I must ask you.”

Sobering at his earnest expression, she leaned forward. “What?”

He shifted infinitesimally closer, his eyes boring into hers. “Is that pizza I smell? Because I am famished.”

The corners of his lips twitched.

Sarah laughed. “Yes, it’s pizza.” She glanced at the clock on the DVD player. “And it should be about ready.”

Roland smiled up at her as she rose, his raven hair falling forward across his bruised forehead and lending him a boyish charm.

“I was hoping you would wake up,” she said as she headed for the kitchen, “and tried to think of something you could eat that wouldn’t require hurting your hands with the use of utensils. I figured you would balk at my spoon feeding you.”

“You were right. I would. Pizza is perfect. Thank you.”

Grabbing a pot holder, she hoped he wouldn’t change his mind when he saw it. Heat blasted her as she opened the oven door, removed the pizza, and set it on the stovetop. For some reason, most of her fellow Americans seemed to think any food that didn’t contain chemicals that had been banned in every other industrialized nation or that didn’t increase their risk of cancer, Alzheimer’s, and other debilitating illnesses must taste like crap and turned their noses up without even trying it.