Sylvia Day - A Touch of Crimson

“If you need anything, I’m here for you.” She offered a commiserating smile, then headed toward the double-door entrance. She’d just lifted her hand to knock when the door opened.

“Ms. Gibson.”

A tall, sinewy redhead filled the doorway. His hair was long, hanging past his shoulders, but there was nothing effeminate about him. He brought to mind a Viking warrior of old, grim faced and resolute.

Lindsay hesitated. “Hi. I just need to grab my stuff; then I’ll get out of your way.”

He stared at her for a moment, assessing her in a way that suggested he found her lacking. Then he gestured her in.

She knew he was an angel. All the Sentinels had the same flame blue eyes, although only Adrian’s ever gave off heat. The Sentinels were works of art, really. It was rather intimidating being surrounded by dozens of perfect, gorgeous beings.

Since the redhead declined to say anything further, Lindsay headed straight for the bedroom she’d used when she’d spent the night. Everything looked the way she had left it-the bed was made and her toiletries were neatly arranged on the bathroom counter. When she’d last walked out of the room, almost two weeks earlier, she had expected to be back that night. The loss of what she might have had if she could’ve joined Adrian’s world tightened her throat and made it hard to swallow.

In hindsight, the plans she’d made to live in this sumptuous space, with its balcony that led to a deck where she could watch angels take flight with the sunrise, and its owner, who was the most magnificent creature on earth, seemed preposterous. But she had held the dream for a moment, and she missed it terribly.

Lindsay looked at the bed as she moved past it, remembering how she’d fantasized about seducing Adrian there. Her imagination in that regard had been especially vivid, yet nowhere near as raw and searing as the real deal had turned out to be.

“I’ve got to get out of here,” she muttered, fighting the fierce desire to stay-forever. Fighting the aching longing to embrace the angel, his life, and the possible friends-like Elijah-who would understand what drove her.

Packing in record time, Lindsay grabbed the handle of her suitcase and wheeled it out of the house. She had to pass a large number of Sentinels who’d crawled out of the woodwork to get a look at her. She now understood why they eyed her the way they did. She was the interloping human who was fucking with their leader’s head. Despite their palpable animosity, she paused on the threshold of the open front door and faced them.

“I’m rooting for you guys,” she said. She wanted to ask them to take care of Adrian for her, but she didn’t have the right to do so. He belonged to them, not her.

The front door shut behind her with a soft click of finality. She didn’t cry; she refused. She would not feel sorry for herself for doing the right thing for Adrian. For the world, actually, which was dependent on him but didn’t know it.

Popping open her trunk, she collapsed the telescoping handle of her suitcase and lifted the carry-on from the ground. The wind kicked up, swirling in a funnel that encompassed only her. She was held motionless in the churning embrace.

Stay, stay, stay, it crooned.

“I’ve caused enough trouble,” she shot back.

Don’t go, Lindsay. Lindsay… Lindsay… The wind ceased abruptly, leaving a vacuum in which her name cracked like a whip.

“Lindsay.”

Her head turned. Adrian stood beside the open rear door of the Maybach, which sat idling at the start of the circular part of the driveway. The wind was all over him like a lover, riffling through his dark hair, which had grown at least a half inch since she’d last seen him. He looked rakish and beautiful in a black long-sleeved henley and dark blue tailored slacks. His face was serenely composed and his posture relaxed, but she sensed the raging turmoil in him. His gaze dropped to the suitcase in her hands and an icy surge of desolation washed over her, making her shiver. She’d never felt such hopeless despair, such heartrending guilt and pain. His and hers.

Tears stung her eyes. She could scarcely catch her breath.

God. Of all the things she had to give up, why did it have to be him? She’d give up food. Chocolate. Water. Air. If it meant she could have him without restriction for any amount of time.

He shattered his stillness by lunging toward her and breaking into a dead run.

The carry-on fell from her slackened grip and hit the gravel drive. “Adrian.”

She’d barely taken a few steps when he snatched her up, tackling the breath from her lungs.

His wings burst free in an eruption of crimson-stained alabaster, and they surged into the air.

Elijah entered the lycan barracks and was met with chilling silence weighted by the expectation of imminent death. The rows of neatly made bunk beds stretched on endlessly, the far side of the room extending away from him even as he traversed its length.

He followed the sound of a beeping heart monitor, but he knew where he was going without that guide. Micah had one of the private rooms at the end, those that were set aside for the mated pairs. The door was open and a handful of lycans, including Esther and Jonas, formed a gauntlet to the threshold.

They watched him with haunted and beseeching eyes. He looked away from their crushing expectations, hating their belief that he was some kind of messiah. Just because he held absolute control over his beast didn’t mean he exerted a similar level of control over other lycans’ fates and circumstances, but that’s what so many hoped for and believed.

Entering the room, he found Micah in bed, stuck with multiple intravenous lines and tended to by Rachel. She stood when Elijah approached and met him partway, looking as pale and thin as her mate.

Swallowing past the tightness in his throat, Elijah asked, “How is he?”

She ran a shaking hand through her dark hair and jerked her chin in a silent gesture for him to step outside. Back in the barracks’ great room, she said, “He’s dying, El. It’s a miracle he’s even alive now.”

He scrubbed at his eyes with his fists, trying to rub out the sting of grief.

“He’s been waiting for you,” she went on. “Honestly, I think that’s all he’s been waiting for.”

Elijah looked at her helplessly.

She swiped tears from her cheeks. “He really loves you.”

Pushing past her in a desperate rush, he reentered the room and took the seat she’d vacated. He scooched it closer to the bed, then reached out and gripped his friend’s cold hand.

Micah’s eyes slitted open. Turning his head, he met Elijah’s gaze. “Hey,” he whispered. “You made it.”

“That’s my line.”

A slow smile briefly transformed the lycan’s features, but was quickly gone. “Had to tell you… Vash-”

“Vash did this to you?”

“She’s looking… for you.”

“Me? Why?”

“A vamp in Shreveport… missing. Your blood was there.”

“I’ve never been to Shreveport.”

A violent shiver racked Micah’s emaciated frame. “Yeah, well… your blood was.”

“Stop talking. Get some rest. We’ll catch up later.”

Micah’s once clear green eyes were cloudy with pain and weariness. “No time. I’m going, Alpha. This is it.”

“No.”

“Watch your back. Blood… It’s yours.”

Elijah looked at Rachel hovering in the doorway. She nodded grimly. His blood. At an abduction scene in a town he’d never visited.

A high-pitched wheeze from the bed drew his attention back to Micah.

“I’ll be all right,” Elijah said gruffly. “Don’t worry about me. Worry about getting better.”