Chapter 19
Clare stared, horrified, into her boss’s beaten-up face.
He blinked up at her, and… smiled.
“If it isn’t Doyle, come to save my ass.” He winced as blood trickled into his mouth, reaching up to wipe it away. “I think I may be bleeding a touch.” He grimaced at the fingers he held up.
“You’re pretty messed up. You need to come inside, and let me tend to your wounds.”
“You need to go inside, Clare.” He sat up with a groan. “That thing might come back.”
“Something had you in its grip, but I didn’t see what it was, it was shadowy.”
“Yep,” he grunted. “But it sure felt fucking real.”
She helped him up, and he staggered, putting out a bloodied hand in protest. “I’m okay, I’m okay.”
“You don’t look it.”
He stood swaying in front of her, blood all over his face, in his beard. Already his left eye was half closed and swelling. “Go inside. Lock the door. I’ll get my sorry ass out of here.”
Clare set her jaw. “You will do no such thing. You are coming inside. I’m going to clean you up.”
He made to step away, stumbled again, and this time she reached out and steadied him.
“Don’t argue with me,” she all but snapped. And as if her taking charge was exactly what he needed, he muttered thickly, “Okay.”
Hallelujah!
She led him, relishing how he leaned into her touch, but when she tried to help him up the stairs, he growled “I can walk.”
“Fine,” she muttered, following him and grimacing at the bloody handprint he left on the paintwork.
Stupid, stubborn vampire.
When they made it into her little kitchen, she ordered him to sit and hurried to get a bowl of warm water. She added antiseptic lotion, then crouched down next to him. “Head up,” she demanded.
He leveled his face to hers and she saw not only the deep scratches, but also the raw emotion in his eyes. She tried to ignore the violent rap of her heart against her ribs at his closeness.
“So, what happened?”
“Some thug attacked me.”
“Ok-aay. Right.” She narrowed her eyes. “What were you doing outside my apartment at this time of night?”
“Walking home.”
“So it was totally coincidental that you got beaten up right outside.”
“I did not get beaten up, I gave as good as I got,” he growled, and she had to hide a smile. Gods, how he hated being vulnerable.
“Ouch.” He recoiled as she dabbed a bit hard.
“Sorry.” She gentled her touch. “You’re going to look a mess tomorrow. What will you tell Saul?”
“That I went to a bar, drank too much whiskey and got into a brawl.”
“Did you?”
“Drink too much whiskey? Yes.”
“Why?”
“To stop myself thinking.”
“What about?”
He let out a frustrated growl. “Fuck it Clare, stop digging. You’re hurting me enough with that fucking cloth as it is.”
There was silence. After a moment, he said gruffly, “I was worried about your safety.”
There was a sheepish cast to his features, like a little kid caught doing something they shouldn’t. “Truth is, my concerns, got the better of me.” He sighed.
“Concerns?”
“About you, woman,” he snapped, then his shoulders slumped. “I would never forgive myself if you got harmed. So I came to check on you.”
Maybe the alcohol and the injuries were loosening his tongue, making him more emotional, but gods she loved this Oliver, so growly and imperfect and honest.
She made soothing little sounds as she moved around him, gently dabbing at the cut above his eye. Rinsing, repeating. “Thank you for being concerned about me, sir,” she said softly.
“Oliver,” he muttered.
“Oliver.”
The silence hung heavy between them, their physical closeness, the mingling of their breath suddenly too intense.
She changed tack. “Something big and heavy was indenting your spine, but I couldn’t see it properly.”
He hesitated. “It was a feral of some sort, with foul breath. Not that mine is much better.”
“I don’t mind the smell of whiskey,” she said, leaning into him as she worked.
“There, done. Nothing looks like it needs stitches.”
“That’s something, I suppose.”
She took a tube of antiseptic and smoothed it on with soft fingers. She felt sure he was almost holding his breath.
And oh gods, she loved touching him, her fingers stroking the planes and hollows of his face, so handsome despite the fact one eye was a purple slit already.
She cleaned the cloth, put it back in the water.
Goddess, she was kneeling between his thighs, her body almost pressed against his groin. Wearing her freaking nightdress, a flimsy one at that. She felt her nipples harden. It would be impossible for him to miss if he looked down.
Fuck it, let him look. Let him see what was going on. The pulse between her legs throbbed with need.
She glanced into his face, and even in his broken state, the tightness in his jaw told her he was not oblivious to the chemistry between them.
Abruptly he said, “Thanks for cleaning me up. I’ll be on my way.” With that, he jumped to standing and then had to steady himself with a hand on the chair.
“No Oliver, you’re not going anywhere,” she countered firmly. “You will stay in my bed—and I will sleep on the sofa.”
“Thank you for the offer, but I must decline.” He took a wobbly step, then slumped back down onto the chair with a huff. “Urgh. I feel like shit.”
“Now do you agree with me? Let’s try again. But this time, take my arm. I’ll help you to the bedroom.”
He didn’t resist. When they got to her room, he sat on her bed with a heavy sigh.
“Get those clothes off, take a warm shower across the hall and I’ll bring you a towel,” she said briskly.
“I’ll likely bleed all over it.”
“Immaterial.” She moved over to the door, turning briefly to see him already undoing the buttons of his bloodied shirt. Her belly kindly contracted with lust.
And then he smiled at her, that rakish twist of his mouth. “Thank you, Clare,” he said softly, and all she could do was mumble something about towels as she pivoted and left the room.
When she got back, he was already in the bathroom across the hall.
Thank the gods, because seeing his half naked body earlier had unraveled her.
She left the towel on the bed, then went back to the kitchen and brewed an herbal tea.
Five minutes later she knocked on the door.
When he told her “Come in,” she entered and found him with the towel wrapped around his waist, his silver hair damp and tousled.
“Here drink this, it’s anti-inflammatory.” She kept her eyes averted from his chest.
He grunted as he took it from her, sipped and pulled a face. “What is this? It’s bitter as fuck.”
She smirked. “Better for you than whiskey.”
He smirked back. “Probably true.”
And once again, she dared to cast her gaze down.
She took in his pecs, the almost translucent pallor of his skin, every part of him razor-sharp muscle.
As he turned and put the cup on the bedside table she caught a glimpse of his shoulder blades.
There were welts, almost like scars but not quite, as if the skin had a natural rupture point there.
And she suddenly realized, of course—that was where his wings would sprout from.
It made her eager to know more of his anatomy. When he had last used those wings. What they looked like unfurled. How would he look in full vampiric form?
What if he made love to her like that?
Stop. Stop. Stop.
“I’ll leave you to get some rest,” she said and ran out of the room.