“Rayne is not Gemma, Kilter. If you had listened to us when we tried to explain what happened, you would know the truth. But you refused to talk about it and now you don’t deserve it. You’re so filled with anger that you can’t see through to the truth.”
“You should fuckin’ talk,” I retorted.
Waleron’s jaw clenched. “Do not make Rayne the savior for your past or it will destroy what you already have.” He approached and stopped a foot away. “Rayne is a Scar, Kilter.” What the fuck? I hadn’t seen that coming. “And you will bring her to the meeting.” Waleron brushed past me and walked out the front door.
I SIGHED AS THE warmth of a wet, warm cloth slid across my neck then across my collarbone. Every morning it was the same routine and I often pretended to be asleep, knowing he’d stop if he knew I was awake. His strokes were hesitant, always careful to keep as much of my body covered with the sheet as he cleaned the sweat from my body after my night before of ranting and raving during my freak-out episodes.
I heard the splash as he dunked the cloth into the bucket, lifted it, and squeezed out the water. His familiar and comforting scent lingered in the air, cedar and sage with a hint of black pepper. That scent was embedded in me, linked to Damien, linked to how he carefully stroked my body every morning for the last few weeks. The most I managed on my own now was getting up to go to the washroom.
There was no embarrassment that he knew me so intimately. He’d seen me naked before any of this happened.
He pulled the sheet back to my waist then lifted my T-shirt to just below my breasts. He was always careful that he didn’t touch me directly, but his baby finger slipped from the cloth and trailed a path up over abdomen to my ribs and my breath hitched as goose bumps rose. He abruptly pulled away and I heard the cloth drop into the bucket of water and his weight left the bed.
Shit, he knew I was awake.
I opened my eyes, but it was painful now, like peeling apart two thin pieces of paper glued together. I tensed as sharp pain shot through my head when the light blinded me for several seconds. There were no windows in the room, but Damien had the lamp on. It was the third lamp he’d had to replace on the nightstand since he brought me here. Either someone was bringing him supplies or he was running out of lamps in the rest of the cottage.
My eyes lifted to Damien who stood beside the bed, glowering. Yep, he had a good glower and I knew it well. He liked to think he was made of stone, but I knew he wasn’t; I’d experienced his passion, knew how deep it ran.
It was when he began to sit with me during the days that I got a sense of who this man was. Rarely sharing anything of himself, yet speaking in calm soothing words to keep my thirst from rising. His voice was what I clung to as I slipped in and out of consciousness.
And I wasn’t stupid. I was well aware I was dying. It was just a matter of when. I could no longer keep the food down Damien forced me to eat. Water was the only substance left that I could swallow, and soon even that I’d have to give up.
My plan had failed. It had been a risk from the beginning, but becoming pregnant had changed everything. Now, I knew how dangerous it was to become a vampire. The thirst. The inability to know what I was doing. No control. If I turned, the ramifications of it were catastrophic. Damien would be at risk and so would anyone who came near me. I couldn’t take that chance. I wouldn’t.
“You need to eat,” Damien said.
He said that every morning when I woke, and every morning for the past three days I refused. “I can’t.” And every morning when I refused food, he walked out. “Please, don’t leave yet,” I whispered.
If I was going to die, I wanted him close to me, to feel his heartbeat beneath my palm, to hear his tranquil, soothing words. I could die peacefully with him at my side. Him. Damien. The man who sacrificed months of his life for me.
“Damien,” I said, closing my eyes briefly to the light that burned them. I was sensitive to everything now, light, dark, touch, smell—even Damien’s breath that wisped across my skin when he sat with me. “Please.”
“You were awake,” he said.
I shrugged, half-smiling. “I like when you wash me.” His back stiffened and I quickly continued. “I’m in hell, Damien. Every day is hell. I can’t remember the nights, but in the morning everything hurts. When you sit with me or wash me, it’s the only time I’m not in hell. Don’t take all I have left away from me.”
“Fuck, Abbs.”
I bit my lip, waiting for more, but he stood towering over me for a minute before his shoulders sagged and he sat on the bed, pushing up so he could lean against the headboard.
I rolled onto my side, so I felt his hard length against me, then rested my head on his chest. This is how I wanted to die. Here. With his heart beating beneath me. His warmth surrounding me.
He never caressed my hair like I wanted him to do, but sometimes, if I was lucky, he’d rest his arm across my shoulders and I’d feel his thumb casually stroking. My guess, he wasn’t even aware he was doing it. Today was no different. He made no move to touch me, merely let me touch him.
I wondered if he knew I was going to die. How long had we been here now? I had to keep track of the days as we were getting near my birthday and I’d be twenty-five. A dangerous age. Too dangerous to stay alive.
“Promise me something?” I tilted my head, my cheek brushing over his chest as I peered up at him. His eyes weren’t on me, though; they stared straight ahead and he was so tense. I raised my hand, and it trembled from weakness, but I was able to run two fingers over the stubble on his chin. I liked that he didn’t shave every day, the rough texture caressing the pads of my fingers. “Damien, I need you to promise me something.”