Ariane groaned softly. Well, she’d enjoyed the posh accommodations while they’d lasted.
She kept as high as she could on the way, frustrated by how bright the city lights kept things. Before they had gotten far, she realized that Damien had come around and was clinging to her so tightly that she doubted he could still feel his fingers.
“How are you feeling?” she asked. Her arms were wrapped around his chest, high up beneath his arms, and he faced away from her, legs dangling down and making him more unwieldy than he might have been. Not that she expected anything involving Damien to be easy.
His voice was as tight as his knuckles. “Don’t. Drop. Me.”
It was stupid to be relieved that he was alert, but Ariane couldn’t help it. Nor could she help enjoying his soft groan when she dipped and rose on the warm currents of night air.
She smiled to herself. Payback, as Elena was fond of saying, was a bitch.
It was a short trip, but arrival posed a problem. It was late, but it was also a Friday. At midnight, people still milled about the common area, sipping wine at outdoor tables and sitting at the edge of the waterfall sculpture. Ariane’s only choice was up, so she landed lightly on her small, wrought-iron patio. There was just enough room for a woven wicker chair, a pepper plant, a tomato plant… and two vampires. One of whom didn’t seem interested in standing on his own.
“Wings,” Damien muttered in a thin voice. “Bloody wings!” He was slightly hoarse but didn’t sound much worse for wear. His entire body felt rigid enough to simply shatter into pieces as Ariane folded her wings against her back to have them vanish again.
She had no idea what his problem was.
“Let… let me go, damn it, I—” He shoved away from her, turned, and then proceeded to fall forward. Ariane caught him and dragged him back up.
“Your color is terrible,” she said. “You’ve lost too much blood, Damien. Stop struggling. I’ll get you inside.”
He glared at her out of eyes that seemed fever bright compared to his complexion, which was still just shy of death itself. His wounds had stopped bleeding, but they also weren’t healing nearly quickly enough for Ariane’s liking. The Grigori, whoever he was, had managed to nearly bleed Damien dry. That alone wouldn’t have killed him, but it would have turned him into a ravenous monster that wouldn’t even be able to converse intelligently right now. It was small comfort. Still, seeing his wretched condition was a far cry from reading about such things.
“Bugger off,” he growled, his face just a breath away from hers.
She glared up at him, her brows drawing slowly together. “No. I don’t care what you are or what you do, Damien Tremaine, but you’re in no position to be ordering me around. You need my help.”
“I don’t need anyone.”
She ignored his comment and kept pressing. “You’re going to stop acting like a spoiled child, shut up, and do what you’re told for once.”
She could feel the slow, steady beat of his heart against her chest, the chill of his blood-deprived body in her arms. Damien stared into her eyes, trying to intimidate her. But as their gazes stayed locked, neither one interested in backing down, she saw the wild look in his fade, the pupils going from feline slits back to something more human, and for the briefest instant, Ariane could see how afraid he actually was before the emotion was covered by his usual indifferent sarcasm.
“Very well, Mother. Are you going to feed me a bottle when we get inside?” His eyes dropped to her chest. “Or maybe—”
“Oh, shut up,” Ariane snapped. Damien appeared to have two default settings: jerk and letch. She was in no mood for either.
Ariane quickly considered her limited choices and decided there was only one real option. She’d pay her friend back somehow. A quick kick to the handle of the French door broke a hole right through it, and the door swung inward. She helped Damien stagger in, taking most of his weight on herself, and was grateful that vampires were gifted with far more strength than the average human—he was a lot more solid than he looked.
She paused, looked at the narrow, stylish couch, then turned Damien in the direction of her bedroom. He managed a faint chuckle but offered no commentary, which she would have felt better about had it not been a testament to just how weak he was.
Ariane didn’t bother to hit the light switch, her eyes perfectly adjusted to the dim light coming in from the windows. She steered him toward the queen bed piled with pillows, yet another bit of the apartment that bore the stamp of Elena’s surprisingly frothy decorating taste.
“It looks like the entire baroque period threw up in here,” Damien muttered.
“On the bed,” Ariane replied. “And… we need to get you out of these clothes. They’re ruined. I don’t want them to ruin anything else in here. These things aren’t mine.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” he said.
They made it to the side of the bed, and Ariane eased him away from her enough to try and allow him to fumble with his shirt, which was covered in a mixture of dried and still-tacky blood. A quick look told her his pants were probably decent enough to leave on; because of the angle at which he’d been hung and propped, they’d escaped all but a few spatters. The jury was out on the shoes. Likely dry, probably messed up anyway, she decided. And he’d be more comfortable without them.
Damien frowned down at his shirt and attempted to undo the buttons. Ariane watched and didn’t interfere, knowing he’d probably just push her away if she tried to help. He was intently focused, working with fingers that didn’t seem to want to cooperate. Finally, he got the top one unfastened, but it took enough out of him that he swayed on his feet when he looked up at her.
He looked so defeated, and so utterly exhausted, that Ariane had a sudden urge to gather him to her and wrap her arms around him. The need to comfort him, to be close to him, surprised her, especially in how strong the feeling was. She kept her hands to herself, though. Somehow, she didn’t think Damien was accustomed to simple acts of affection.
“Don’t,” he said quietly, letting his hand fall back to his side. “You’re as transparent as glass, Ariane. Don’t even think about pitying me. I’m awful, and I’m comfortable with that. This is just an occupational hazard. I’ll recover, and then continue to be awful. That’s the way it goes.”
“You’re not… that awful,” Ariane protested. Then she sighed. “Would you please let me help you do this? You need to lie down.”
“Far be it from me to protest if you want to undress me,” he said, trying for a lecherous grin, then grimacing. “I can’t feel my damned fingers. And I’m… getting very hungry, Ariane. You may want to hurry. Believe it or not, I don’t want to hurt you.”
She could see the light in his eyes intensifying and noted the reddish cast they were beginning to take on. His body was trying to heal, but it needed fuel. And when it came down to it, she knew the hunger would take over and he would drain every drop from her without a thought as to what he was doing. She gave a curt nod.
“Okay.” She quickly unbuttoned the shirt, her fingers working nimbly down the front of him before she pushed back the stiff fabric over his shoulders. The first sight of the sculpted contours of Damien’s chest and stomach had her swallowing hard, fighting off a wave of hunger of her own. His body was perfect, with a physique well honed by and for his chosen occupation. His mark, the Celtic trio of snarling cats, stood out against his pale skin high on his collarbone. Beneath and just to the right was the small but unmistakable crescent moon of the House of Shadows. When her fingers accidentally brushed his bare skin, smooth and tight, he shivered.
“Kitten, my inhibitions are low enough as it is. Careful, please.”
“I’m trying,” she replied with a frown. It was unfair that the gods had created a vampire who was at once so impossible and so incredibly appealing. She slid behind him to pull the shirt off and sucked in a breath as she pulled the fabric away. Damien had worked very hard thus far to be unsurprising, but this…
She knew that some vampires liked to enhance their manifested dynasty marks with ink tattoos. In the case of the House of Shadows, they inked the small crescent moon as an identifier. But she hadn’t expected Damien, so buttoned up and aristocratic in his impropriety, to have added anything to what he already had. And yet covering his muscular back was a celebration of his status as a Cait Sith, a beautiful copy of the three cats, snarling and stretching in a tribal circle. It told her that he didn’t just accept his status as an outcast, but also he reveled in it.
What kind of man did that? Not one she could trust. But then, trust had nothing to do with what she was feeling right now.
“It isn’t nice to stare,” he chided her gently.
“I… it’s… I was admiring your tattoo. It’s beautiful,” she stammered.
“My little secret. I’m sure even you have a few. Secrets, that is. I’ll be happy to examine you for extra tattoos later.”
Her mouth went dry. The mere thought of his eyes on her bare skin was wickedly appealing. And there was no way she was letting him know that.
“That’s… not necessary. Here, get settled. I’ll be right back,” she said, helping him get onto the bed and situate himself against the pillows, pulling off his shoes and socks and arranging them neatly on the floor beside the bed. Ariane then rushed into the kitchen, pulling open the refrigerator door to get Elena’s supply of “emergency pick-me-ups.” There were two bags labeled O-positive in the door, yet another benefit of working for someone who had ties to the vampire black market, Ariane supposed. A couple of minutes later, she had two of the largest mugs she could find full of one bag’s contents. Taking care not to spill, she carried them quickly back into the bedroom, where Damien regarded her with eyes that were even redder than they had been.
She stopped short, just out of reach, seeing that he was no longer quite himself.