In fact, he’d assumed the only person he’d ever open up to was his mahmen when they were reunited in the Fade—after he’d found some way of dying without committing suicide as soon as he killed his father.
That had been his ultimate endgame, that loophole in the whole if-you-kill-yourself-you-can’t-get-into-the-Fade thing.
Then again, maybe all that afterlife stuff was just like his father’s belief that you couldn’t cause the death of your own young and live on. Maybe it was just superstition. In any event, given what he had learned of mortal existence—and this was even before Chalen had gotten his claws into him—skipping his mortal due on earth for an eternity with the only loved one he’d ever had had seemed like a no-brainer.
But now . . . as he looked into this female’s eyes, he could sense himself making a shift on that one.
Ahmare kind of made him want to stick around.
Even though that was crazy talk.
14
THE SOAP AND WATER were a godsend, Ahmare decided. Without them, she would have turned Duran’s face into a Halloween mask.
“Okay, I think we’re done.”
She eased back—and could not look away from what she had revealed. During the shaving, she had been paying so much attention to not cutting him that she’d gotten no impression of his face. Now, with the overgrowth gone, it was as if she were meeting him for the first time.
He had hollows in his cheeks and his jawline was too sharp. Eyes that had been calculating and aggressive now seemed wary.
The lips were even better than she’d imagined.
“That bad, huh,” he muttered as he put the bowl of soapy water and the cloth she’d used aside.
Ahmare wanted to tell him that, on the contrary, he was attractive. Very attractive. Beautiful, in a word. But some things were better left unsaid.
Would that they had remained unthought.
“Will you shave my head, too?” he asked.
“Oh, God . . . not the hair.”
“I don’t have lice, you know.”
At that, he reached across his chest and scratched the outside of his opposite arm. Bug bite, probably. She had them, too, but at least she knew they didn’t have any ticks. After their barrel-ass through the brush, if they’d been human, they would have been covered with those carriers of Lyme disease, but vampire blood beat deet any night of the week when it came to that particular variety of bloodsuckers, a professional courtesy extended in both directions that unfortunately didn’t apply to mosquitoes.
“You hair is . . .” She wiped her mouth for no reason. “Well, it’s . . . too beautiful to cut.”
Shit. Had she just shared with him That Which Should Not Be Spoken?
Yup, going by his shocked expression, she had.
Duran was beautiful all over, though, in the way only a survivor could be. He had been through such cruelty, the road map of salted scars on his skin the kind of thing that told her way too much of what had been done to him. And the fact that he had somehow been strong enough to endure and not come out the other side insane, mean, or a vegetable, made him stronger than anyone she had ever met.
God, those humans in those gyms—hefting weights, worrying about whey protein, and posing in front of a fan base that lived and cheered only inside their own heads—were CGIs of strength compared to this male.
And yet as powerful as Duran’s inner core was—and she wasn’t talking about his abs—here he was sitting in front of her, staring up at her with a shyness that suggested, however nuts it seemed, that he cared what she thought he looked like.
That her opinion mattered.
That he wanted her to like him. Be attracted to him. Be captivated a little, in spite of their crazy circumstances.
“I am,” she whispered.
“You are . . . what?”
“Attracted to you.” She cleared her throat. “That’s what you’re wondering right now, aren’t you.”
His eyes shifted away so fast, he had to catch himself on the edge of the bunk. “How did you know.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Well, don’t pretend I didn’t give you the answer you wanted.” She had no idea where her brass balls came from. Probably because she had nothing to lose. “I’m glad, actually.”
“You don’t seem petty enough to care what your wingman looks like.”
“It’s just good to know I can still feel this way.” As his stare came back to her, she shrugged. “It’s been forever. I thought . . . I guess, I thought sex wasn’t going to be a part of my life anymore. That the raids and losing my parents and my old life had taken that side of me away. It’s nice to know that’s not true—”
“It’s not right.”
She took a step back from him and cleared her throat. “Sorry. Guess I misread things.”
“No, not that.” He shook his head. “It’s just a complication that isn’t going to help you or me.”
“Agreed. But I don’t expect anything from you, you know.”
He shifted himself away from her, planting the soles of his boots on the bare metal floor. And as he stood up, he moved slowly, something she assumed was because of his soreness. But then . . .
There was a hard ridge at the front of his hips. A thick, hard ridge that distended the fly of his combats.
“My apologies,” he said roughly. “I can’t do anything about it other than promise you I’m not going there. I told you I wouldn’t hurt you, and I mean it.”
As if sex with him couldn’t be anything other than painful for her.
As if he were dirty.
Ahmare thought about the time they had here in the bunker, the hours they were going to have to spend trapped together in this stainless steel wayside mission that sheltered them from the sun.
It was mysterious who a person wanted. And only sometimes did it make sense.
“The hair can wait,” he said gruffly. “Let’s just try and get some sleep. Like I told you, you get the bunk, I’ll take the floor. Not that there’s much difference to them.”
15
TWILIGHT IN A MAN-MADE universe.
Duran played God in their stainless steel world, lowering the lights, the glow off all the metal a false gloaming. In the near darkness, he sat on the floor across from the bunk Ahmare was on, his back against the wall, his legs out in front of him. He tried not to listen to her breathing. Dwell on her scent. Hear the rustle as she took off her windbreaker and used it as a pillow.
He should have thought to bring a blanket for her.
As time began to crawl by and the silence thickened to hair shirt proportions, the lack of illumination amplified his senses and his absorption in her. But he wasn’t sure that wouldn’t have happened anyway.
More shuffling, and thanks to his peripheral vision, he could tell she was facing him now. He didn’t trust himself to look right at her. If he did, he might be tempted to get up, walk over, and give her something softer to lie on.
Something naked to lie on.
“How did you get the name Duran?” she asked.
He closed his eyes and savored his name on her lips. It made him feel blessed in some way . . . anointed.
Okay, that was crazy. But the trouble was, in this quiet, dim space, his emotions toward this female were as expansive as his senses, and everything about this time with her was like a horizon, a vast sky under which he could travel, safe from foul weather and sheltered from all harm, back to a home he’d never had.
Back to her, even though she was neither a destination nor anywhere he’d ever been before.
It was all a falsehood, he told himself, created by the chemistry between them. Except . . . sometimes when you felt things deeply enough, the strength of the delusions was such that reality could get rewired, at least temporarily. He knew this because of what he’d seen in the cult. He’d witnessed firsthand what devotion did to people, watched it turn a corrupt mortal into a savior in the eyes of lost souls who were willing to surrender every part of themselves to another.
He had always vowed such a thing would never happen to him.
“It doesn’t matter,” he muttered, answering her question about his name.
“So it came from your father?”
“He insists people call me by it, yes.”
She was frowning, he thought without looking at her. He could sense her thinking things over.
“Can I ask you something?” she said.
“You just did.”
“Who is your father, exactly.”
“It doesn’t matter—”
“He’s the Dhavos, isn’t he.”
Duran stretched his arms overhead and cracked his back. In any other circumstance, he would have avoided the question—by leaving the room, if he had to. No such luck on that one.
“Yes,” he said after a while. “He is. His name is Excalduran.”
As she exhaled, the way her breath left her, long and slow and low, was an I’m-sorry that he appreciated she didn’t put into words.
“So it’s eight in the morning,” she murmured.
Duran frowned. “Really?”
“You know,” she continued, “I’ve been lying to myself. In my head, I’ve been saying that we’ll be here twelve hours. That’s all I’ve been willing to grant the daylight. But with it being summer? Fifteen, I figure. At least.”
“The time will pass quickly.”
It already had. And God, he was glad she’d changed the subject.
She repositioned herself again. “Actually, it’ll pass the same as it always does. The length of minutes doesn’t change, and neither does the number of them required to make up an hour. But man, it feels like forever.”
“This is true.”
He didn’t know what the hell he was saying. The sound of her voice was a caress against his body, and he was thickening again. Hardening again. For someone who had never had to worry about that kind of shit, he had fresh insight into the inconveniences of the male sex.