Dianne Duvall: Darkness Dawns

“Wait!” she practically shouted.

He looked at her, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

Stomach clenching, she stared up at him with pleading eyes. “There’s a clinic just fifteen miles away from here. I can—”

He started to pull. Lips drawing back from his teeth in a grimace, he emitted a long, bestial growl that made the hair on the back of her neck rise.

Sarah clapped her hands over her mouth to suppress a horrified cry.

When the spike slid free, crimson liquid began to pour from the large puncture wound left behind, dripping into the sink.

Unrolling several sections of paper towel, she folded them and wrapped them tightly around and around his hand.

“That’s fine,” he said hoarsely, holding the makeshift bandage in place with his thumb. “Now the other one.”

Turning the cold water on again, she began to rinse the second spike. The first, still wet with Roland’s blood, lay in the sink, where he had dropped it.

Her hands started to quake. The rest of her followed suit until her whole body trembled so violently Sarah thought she might shatter.

After shutting off the tap, she reeled off several more sections of paper towel and watched him remove the last spike.

The tendons on his neck stood out. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Yet Roland made no sound as the metal came free.

Sarah blinked back tears as she wrapped his hand.

He hadn’t wanted to upset her. She didn’t know how she knew it, but she did. He had seen how removing the first spike had shaken her and hadn’t wanted to make it worse, so he had borne the pain silently.

Agony radiating from seemingly every cell in his body, Roland stared at Sarah’s bent head. He could see her shaking, the rapid movement of her long lashes as she fought back tears.

She had been such a trouper about all of this. Strong. Fearless. Doing anything he asked of her no matter how difficult.

To see her suffering now with that glimmer of moisture on her pale cheeks tore at his fossilized heart.

Staring at her helplessly, he found himself at a loss as to how he might comfort her. He couldn’t remember ever being confronted by a weeping woman. At least not one he knew or gave a damn about. Certainly not one who had helped him at such great risk to herself.

A sniffle escaped her as she finished wrapping his hand.

Unable to bear it, Roland reached out, tore off another paper towel, and, ignoring the sting of it, wiped as much of the blood and dirt from his chest as he could. After tossing the soiled paper towel into the sink, he hesitated briefly, then drew Sarah close, wrapped his arms around her, and awkwardly patted her back.

“Don’t hurt your hands,” she cautioned, her voice warbling slightly as she rested her face against his chest and slid her arms around his waist.

Unbelievable. Even as her tears dampened his skin, she looked out for him.

Him. A total stranger.

“I’m more concerned about you than my hands,” he admitted.

“I’m okay,” she said. “It’s just been a very … nerve-racking morning.”

Roland held her tighter. “And it isn’t even 7 a.m.”

She groaned. “That’s just not right.”

Closing his eyes, he rested his chin atop her hair and let his senses feast upon her. Her scent was a pleasant blend of woman, baby powder, and sunscreen. Her warm body, pressed to his, seemed fragile in comparison to his own bulk and strength.

Though thin, she was by no means built like the emaciated models and actresses other men inexplicably preferred. The breasts brushing his chest and interfering with his ability to moderate his pulse were enticingly full, her waist tiny, her hips nicely rounded, her thighs slender, but not sticklike in the worn sweatpants that hugged them.

Her small, almost childlike hands remained motionless on his back as if she feared moving them might hurt him.

Most likely it would. His back sported as many lacerations and bruises as the rest of him. She simply hadn’t had time to notice them yet, what with the spikes.

Roland was glad she didn’t know. If she did, she wouldn’t be holding him like this, with such tenderness and trust. When was the last time a woman had done so?

Centuries surely. It felt … foreign to him.

Having been betrayed one time too many, Roland had long ago given up on relationships. When the strain of celibacy grew too much, he simply sought out prostitutes or women looking for one-night stands and allowed them to sate his needs.

Those women never held him like this, though. Only two women had embraced him so tenderly. And he didn’t care to think of that right now.

In truth, he found it more and more difficult to think at all. Every inch of his body either ached, stung, throbbed, or burned. His head swam. His vision started to blur. His stomach churned.

Strangely, Sarah’s presence, the comfort of her embrace, helped him distance himself from it all.

Gradually, her tremors subsided, as did her tears.

Sighing, she released him and eased a step away.

As Roland withdrew his large, hastily bandaged hands, he swayed and realized, to his dismay, that she had been anchoring him and helping him remain upright.

Several long strands of her hair clung to the stubble on his jaw. Reaching up, he gently disentangled them.

“I’m sorry,” she said, wiping her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to fall apart on you.”

He shook his head, alarmed when the small movement made the kitchen around him tilt and roll. “I’m the one who should apologize. I’m sorry you were dragged into all of this.”

She nodded, her expression filled with anxiety.

Roland cupped her face in his hands, smoothing his thumbs across her soft, damp cheeks. “I won’t let anyone hurt you, Sarah. I vow it.”

Heart pounding, Sarah held his earnest gaze. His touch, his nearness, began to stir her in a wholly unexpected way. He stood before her, his gorgeous body riddled with severe wounds, and suddenly all she could think about was what it would feel like if he kissed her.

What is wrong with me?

Something dark flared in his eyes. One of his thumbs slid down her cheek to caress the corner of her mouth.

His head dipped. Her breath stopped. Anticipation rose.

Her lips a hair away from tasting his, Sarah heard a rustling sound followed by a soft thump. She glanced down, then swiftly up again as she realized the towel wrapped around his waist had fallen to the floor.

Emitting a sigh, Roland lowered his hands. “It’s going to be one of those days,” he said with a look of such pained chagrin that Sarah had to smile.

As he bent over to retrieve the towel, he listed to one side and would have fallen had he not reached for her. The moment his hand made rough contact with her shoulder, he cried out and yanked it back. His balance faltered.

Gasping, Sarah threw her arms around him and tried to steady him.

He staggered. She staggered with him.

Jeeze, he weighed a ton! Six foot one or two, maybe two hundred pounds of muscle. She would never be able to get him up off the floor if he fainted!

Finding it a lot harder to support him when he reeled away from her, she drew his upper body toward her, took two steps back, and leaned all of her weight into him to prop him up.

Success! They were both still on their feet.

This time, when Roland’s arms closed around her, he carefully avoided touching her with his hands. “Sarah,” he rasped.

“Yes?”

He blinked hard and stared over her shoulder, his gaze unfocused. “If I pass out and you can’t wake me up—”

Oh crap.

“—wait until an hour before sunset, then call Marcus.”

“Shouldn’t we call him now?”

“No, he won’t …” Roland’s dark eyes started to roll back in his head.