Dark Fire (5 page)

He could hear the anguish in her voice, the degradation and shame she felt. He realized she had not even looked up at him.

"This was not your fault," he said. "You know that, Tempest. This man tried to rape you because he is depraved, not because you did anything to incite him."

"I was hitchhiking," she confessed in a low voice. "I never should have gotten into his truck."

"Tempest, if he had not found you, he would have found another girl, perhaps one without anyone to look after her. Now let me see your face. Do you think you could take it out of my shirt long enough for me to assess what damage he has done to you?" Darius made an effort to lighten his tone to help put her at ease.

She could not believe how gentle he was. She could feel his enormous strength, his tremendous power, yet even his voice was tender. It brought fresh tears to her eyes. She had run away from him thinking him a monster, yet it was he who had saved her from a real monster. "I just can't face anyone yet." Tempest's voice was muffled against him, but he could hear her determination. She was getting ready to make her next bid for freedom.

Darius turned then, with her cradled in his arms, and began striding back toward the road. The rain beat down on them relentlessly, but he didn't seem to notice. He took her a distance away so that she wouldn't have to see the horror of what he had done to her attacker.

"I need to sit down," she finally objected, "on solid ground." Suddenly she realized her shirt was in tatters and her bare skin exposed. She gasped out loud, attracting his instant attention, his black gaze moving broodingly over her.

Then he laughed softly to calm her anxiety. "I have a sister, honey. I have seen the female body before." But he was already lowering her feet to the ground and shrugging out of his jacket. Very gently he enveloped her in it, taking the opportunity to look at her more closely. Already dark bruises were marring the perfection of her fair skin, and a faint trickle of blood seeped from the corner of her mouth. Darius had to look away from that temptation. He caught a glimpse of more bruises on the creamy swell of her breast, along her narrow rib cage, and on her smooth stomach.

Rage swept through him, turbulent and unfamiliar. He wanted to kill the man over and over, to feel his neck snap beneath his hands. He wanted to rend and tear like the leopards he had spent so much time studying, so much time learning from. He fought down the killing rage until it simmered and seethed just below the surface but where she could not possibly see it.

His natural instinct was to heal her, using the curative agent in his saliva, but he refrained, not wanting to alarm her further. There would be time enough when he got her home and could put her to sleep.

Tempest was aware that Darius could see her, even in the dark. Curiously, she was no longer afraid of him. She stared at the toes of her dirty running shoes, uncertain what to do. She was sick and dizzy, she hurt everywhere, and she wanted to curl up in a ball and cry. She had no money, nowhere to go.

Darius reached out, ignored the way she flinched from his hand, and wrapped his long fingers possessively around the nape of her neck. "I am going to take you home. You can soak in the tub, I will fix you something to eat, and no one will see you but me. Since I have already seen you, it is all right." His tone seemed to request agreement, but she heard command in his voice. "We have to call the police," she said softly. "I can't let him get away with this."

"He will not commit such an atrocity again, Tempest," he murmured softly. He could hear the engine of a car speeding toward them, and he identified it as their own. "Has my sister introduced you to any of the other band members yet?" he inquired, deliberately distracting her so that she wouldn't ask any questions.

Tempest sat down right where she was, on the side of the road in the pouring rain. Furious at himself for acceding to her demand to stand when he knew she was too weak, Darius ignored her protest and swung her back into his arms as if she were a child. For once, she didn't protest, didn't say anything. She turned her face into the warmth of his chest, burrowed close to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart, and lay passively in the safety of his arms, shivering from shock and the cold rain.

Barack had made the drive in record time. He liked the speed of modern cars and took every opportunity to hone his racing skills. He stopped exactly in front of Darius, his face, through the windshield, a mask of darkness. The youngest of the men, he had retained remnants of the easygoing boy they had all been so fond of until Syndil was attacked and they began to trust no one, not even themselves.

Darius pulled open the car door and slid in, never relinquishing his hold on Tempest. Her eyes were closed, and she didn't look up, didn't acknowledge the vehicle. It worried him.
She is in shock, Barack. Thank you far getting here so quickly. I knew I could count on you. Get us home with
the
same speed.
Darius spoke to his friend on their mental pathway rather than aloud.

Shall I wait for Dayan?
Barack inquired, using the same mental path that was familiar to all five of his people.

Darius shook his head. Dayan would make better time flying, even in the storm. As would he, if he were willing to frighten Tempest to death by whisking her through the air. He was not. Indeed, he knew that his unfamiliar emotions were feeding the intensity of the storm he had created.

Tempest didn't speak on the long drive back to the campsite, but Darius was aware that she was awake. Not once did she doze off. Still, her hold on her self-control was tenuous at best, so he stayed quiet to avoid saying or doing the wrong thing, anything that might make her want to run away again. He couldn't let her go. The attack had only proved to him how much she needed him, too, and the last thing he wanted to do was create a situation where she feared him or challenged his authority.

Julian Savage was lounging lazily against the motor home as they drove up. He straightened with his casual strength, a ripple of muscles that revealed his power, as Darius slid from the seat of the car, the small, red-haired woman held unbelievably protectively in his arms.

"I know something of the healing arts," Julian offered softly, although he strongly suspected that Darius would refuse his help. The man's hold on the woman was fiercely possessive; Darius would never turn her over to another man.

Darius flicked Julian a smoldering black glance. "No thank you," he answered tersely. "I will see to her needs. Please ask Desari to bring Tempest's knapsack to the bus."

Julian was careful not to allow a glint of humor to show in his eyes. Darius had a soft spot after all. And she had red hair. Who would have guessed? He couldn't wait to tell his lifemate. With a slight salute, Julian sauntered away.

Darius jerked open the door to the motor home, entered it, and gently placed Tempest on the couch. She rolled into a ball, facing away from him. He touched her hair, his hand lingering, trying to convey comfort. Then he turned the tape player on low, so Desari's haunting recorded voice could fill the silence with healing, shimmering beauty. Next he filled the tub with hot, scented water and lit special candles, their aromas also designed to promote healing.

Darius didn't turn on the overhead lights. He could see perfectly without them, and Tempest wouldn't want them. "Come on, baby, into the bath," he said, lifting her tenderly but quickly, giving her no chance to protest. "The herbs in the water will sting at first, but you will feel better afterward." He seated her on the edge of the huge tub. "Do you need help with your clothes?" He kept his voice strictly neutral.

Rusti shook her head quickly, then regretted it when her head pounded and her eye throbbed. "I can take care of myself."

"I do not think we will get into that right now. You are not up to a sparring match." The slight teasing note in his voice surprised him even more than it did her. "Get into the tub, honey. I will be back with your clothes and a robe. You can eat when you get out." He bent to light two more aromatic candles and let their flames flicker and dance on the water and walls.

Rusti undressed slowly, reluctantly. It hurt to move. She was numb inside, too worn out and shell-shocked even to worry about what Darius was or what he wanted from her. She knew he believed he had successfully erased her memory of what he had done to her the night before. Even now, with the horror of
this
night surrounding her, she still felt the burning heat of his mouth on her neck. She slipped into the steamy tub, gasping as the water lapped at her sore body.

Why did strange things always happen to her? She was careful, wasn't she? She slid beneath the water, the stinging from her eye and mouth taking her breath away. When she came up, she lay against the sloped side of the tub and closed her eyes, resting. Her mind stayed mercifully blank. She couldn't think about Harry or what she might have done to bring on his vicious attack. He had wanted to hurt her, and he had.

"Tempest, you are falling asleep." Darius didn't mention that she was moaning softly in distress.

She sat up quickly, arms covering her breasts, water sloshing out of the tub. One eye, a vivid green, stared up at him in alarm, the other swollen and purple. She had quite an interesting array of colors sweeping across her face and body, proof of her vulnerability, yet she still managed to look defiant. "Get out," she demanded.

Darius smiled, a flash of white teeth. It reminded her of a predator's silent challenge. He held up both hands, palms out. "I am only trying to help you not to drown. Dinner is ready. Here is a robe."

"Whose is it?" she asked, suspicious.

"Mine." It was the truth and yet not the truth. He had created it easily, instantly, from natural fibers, a trick learned over the centuries. "I will close my eyes if it makes you happy. Come out of there." He held up a huge towel for her.

"You aren't closing your eyes," she accused him as she stepped into it. He was staring at a particularly nasty bruise on her rib cage. It embarrassed her that he could see the damage her attacker had inflicted; she didn't stop to think why it didn't embarrass her that he was seeing her naked.

Obediently he closed his eyes, but the vision of her- small, forlorn, hurt, and so alone-stayed with him. He felt her slender form enclosed in the towel beneath his hands before he allowed himself to look at her. She appeared more childlike than ever. And for the moment Darius treated her that way, drying her shivering body impersonally, pretending not to notice her soft, satiny skin, her curves, her tiny rib cage and narrow waist. He toweled the red-gold strands of hair, dark now with moisture.

"I can't stop shaking," Tempest said, her voice a mere thread of sound.

"Shock," he said gruffly. He wanted to hold her in his arms, take away what had happened to her. "You are in shock. It will pass." He quickly wrapped her in the warmth of the robe because he couldn't stand seeing her skin so bruised and swollen. He hated the way her eyes avoided his, as if she had something wrong and was ashamed.

"Put your arms around my neck, Tempest," he ordered softly, his voice a blend of huskiness and hypnotic power.

Rusti reluctantly complied, and he lifted her up, forcing her to look into his black, burning eyes. She almost groaned. She could get lost in his eyes. No one should have those eyes.

"I want you to hear me this time, Tempest. This was not your fault. You did nothing wrong. If you need to place blame on someone other than the man who attacked you, place it where it belongs: squarely on my shoulders. You would never have left if I had not frightened you."

She made a sound of protest, of fear. She told herself it was because the candles suddenly went out, leaving the bathroom in darkness, but she knew it was more than that.

He held her gaze, not allowing her to slip from his mesmerizing possession. "You know it is true. I am used to telling everyone what to do. And I am very attracted to you." He winced inwardly at the understatement of that particular comment. "I should have been more gentle with you."

Darius carried her into the dining area and placed her in a chair at the table. A bowl of steaming soup was waiting for her. "Eat it, honey. I slaved over this for you."

Tempest found herself attempting a smile. It stung her mouth, then she felt it inside her, spreading warmth. No one, as far back as she could remember, had ever treated her with so much caring. No one had ever made her a bowl of soup.

"Thanks for coming after me," she said, stirring the broth, trying, without seeming to, to see what was in it.

He sat opposite her, took the spoon from her with a little sigh, dipped it into the soup, and blew on it. "You eat this stuff, not play with it," he reprimanded, and he held the spoon to her mouth.

Reluctantly she complied. Astonishingly enough, it was good. Who would have suspected a vampire could cook? "It's vegetable soup," she stated, pleased. "And it's very good."

"I do have my talents," he muttered, remembering all the various broths he had concocted for the baby girls, trying to keep them alive. Since Carpathians did not eat meat, he had worked with roots, berries, and leaves, trying everything on himself first, poisoning himself more than once.

"Talk to me," Tempest pleaded. "I don't want to start shaking again, and I can feel it coming on."

Darius held another spoonful of soup to her mouth. "Has Desari told you much about us?"

She shook her head, concentrating on the warmth the soup provided.

"We travel a great deal, giving concerts, you know. Dayan and Desari are our singers. That is Desari's voice you are listening to on the tape. She is very good, is she not?" There was pride in his voice.

Tempest liked his way of speaking, an Old World, old-fashioned manner she found oddly sexy. "She has a beautiful voice."

"Desari is my younger sister. Recently she found her-" He broke off, then tempted her with another spoonful of soup before continuing. "She found a man she loves very much. His name is Julian Savage. I do not know him very well, and we sometimes have trouble
getting
along
.
I suspect we are rather alike, and that is the problem."