Flesh And Blood: House of Comarre: Book Two (House of Comarre 2) (26 page)

She nodded. ‘It would be. And I will abide by whatever you decide.’ She raised her hand, splaying her fingers. ‘I would gladly give you my other pinkie if you deemed it necessary.’

He stared in disbelief. This was not the Katsumi he knew. Or had ever known. She seemed truly broken. ‘You cannot expect me to believe this change of heart simply because you speak the words.’

She dropped her hand and shook her head. ‘No, I cannot. But
I will show you. You’ll see. I am different. I … I had too much time in that storage room to consider my life and what kind of person I was. What I saw horrified me. There was no wheat to sift from the chaff. Nothing of value. I do not wish to die and leave such a legacy behind. It’s not too late for me to change. Please, believe me.’

‘I will, once you’ve shown me. So change. Become this new creature. When I believe you are sincere in both heart and actions, I will offer you navitas.’ He paused. Her countenance brightened. ‘You may find you no longer need it.’

She moved from her seat to kneel before him, taking his hand and kissing his fingers before pressing it to her cheek. ‘Thank you, Dominic. You’ll see. You’ll see just how different I can be.’

He tried to pull his hand away, but she clung to him. ‘Until that time, consider yourself under house arrest. You will not leave Seven without my permission, and when you do, you will be accompanied by someone I assign to you. Your life is no longer your own until I decide how best to deal with your transgressions.’

‘Whatever you say, my lord. Thank you.’ Still cupping his other hand to her cheek, she slid her free hand up his leg. ‘Perhaps there is something I could do to earn your forgiveness now?’

He pointed toward his private bathroom. ‘Clean yourself up and we shall see. You may not thank me when I am through with you.’

Chrysabelle’s body ached. No, her bones ached. Her body throbbed. Especially across her stomach. She remembered fighting the Nothos and passing out, then time warped into memories both lucid and blurred. She knew Creek had stitched her
wounds – holy mother, that pain had been unlike any she’d felt since her last visit to the signumist – but she didn’t remember how she’d gotten to his home. Or into his bed.

A few other images flitted in and out of her consciousness. One was crystal clear. The broad expanse of Creek’s naked back. Then the awfulness of realizing the words upon his skin had been
branded
there. If she closed her eyes, she could still read them.

Omnes honorate. Fraternitatem diligite. Deum timete. Regem honorificate.
Honor all men. Love the brotherhood. Fear God. Honor the king.

It was the code of the Kubai Mata. Just having those sacred words upon his body made his blood poison to the creatures he’d been trained to slay.

Those words also meant there was no denying Creek was who he said he was. She exhaled her last ounce of hope that perhaps he’d just been a misguided soul with a desire to bring a fairy tale to life. More than ever, she believed he must be responsible for the deaths of those fringe Doc had stumbled upon. She would ask Creek point-blank. As a KM, chances were good he wouldn’t lie to her.

Hot and sweaty, she flipped the sheet off and groaned softly. For the second time in the last few weeks, she’d woken up in a strange man’s bed wearing nothing but her intimates. A swath of gauze covered the right side of her stomach. Dried blood stained the corresponding side of her underwear, but thankfully, Creek had left them on, because she had no doubt he was the one who’d undressed her.

Pushing to her elbows caused a rush of fire to ignite the skin beneath the gauze. She collapsed back to the mattress with a gasp. Okay, she hadn’t expected it to hurt quite that much.

‘It’s the poison.’

She jumped, lighting a new round of searing heat across her belly. Creek stood at the top of the stairs. She whipped the sheet back over herself. ‘That’s why it hurts so badly, isn’t it? And why I’m burning up? Fever from the Nothos poison.’

He nodded and brought a plate of food and a glass of water to the bedside table. He set them down, then pressed his calloused palm to her forehead. ‘Most of it’s gone now. Fever was a lot worse this morning. Few more hours and the pain should be manageable.’

‘It’s manageable now.’ She needed to get home. To her own bed.

‘Want to get up and walk around, then?’

She ground her teeth together.

‘That’s what I thought.’ His hand reached for the plate again. ‘You need to eat. Keep your strength up.’

‘It’s a little hard to eat lying down.’

He held a fork loaded with scrambled eggs. ‘All you have to do is chew.’

Her stomach growled. Reluctantly, she opened her mouth. Being fed by someone seemed a very intimate act. At least he could look a little less pleased with himself.

But his enjoyment in the act didn’t stop her from cleaning the plate. Or devouring the second course of wheat toast with peanut butter and honey, which she managed to eat by herself without too much honey ending up on her or the bed. Sated, she allowed him to help her sip some water, then felt sleep invade her muscles with its sweet, dreamy pull.

And dream she did. Of a Mohawked warrior and a vampire challenger. Of hellhounds and claws like fiery scythes. Of bodies turned to ash and a mother she’d never see again.

She woke in a panic, but it faded quickly as her surroundings registered. The gold light of afternoon sun gilded the building’s interior where it leaked through the dirty skylights. The faint smell of smoke lingered in the air.

‘Creek?’ Perhaps he’d left. She eased up onto her elbows, the pain bearable now, just as he’d said it would be.

He soundlessly appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Much better.’ And hungry again. But enough was enough. ‘I need to go home.’

‘You need more rest.’

‘Thank you, Doctor.’ Nice way to talk to the man who’d saved her life. ‘Look, I know I need more rest. I just prefer to do it in my own home.’ After a long, hot shower and one of Velimai’s steaks. Maybe two.

He nodded. Was that disappointment on his face? No, just a shadow. He should be pleased to get rid of her. Kubai Mata weren’t meant to be nursemaids. ‘I’ve got a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants you can borrow. Riding back on the motorcycle isn’t going to be fun for you.’

‘I’ll call for my driver.’

‘I don’t have a phone.’

‘Motorcycle it is, then.’ Even though the thought of being tucked against him that way unnerved her. She would have to wrap her arms around him, press herself against that branded back of his. Did he think she’d forgotten? How could she? A thing like that didn’t slip from your mind. It stayed there, layering itself over the image’s owner every time you looked at them so that they and the image became inseparable. Her glimpse of Creek was as branded into her memory as the words on his back.

He pulled some clothes off a shelf and set them on the bed. ‘Take your time. I’ll be downstairs when you’re ready.’

I’ll never be ready,
she wanted to tell him. Instead, she dressed sitting on the edge of the bed, moving slowly as she pulled on the clothes he’d given her. His room was sparse. A side table, a set of shelves made from cinder blocks and boards, a few nails in the wall to hang things on. At the far end, a back alley window led to a fire escape. Surely the KM could do better than this? Or was it a cover?

Her supreme lack of energy brought that line of thinking to a quick close.
Home.
That was the only thing to be concerned with. Her shoes were nowhere to be found, so she padded barefoot down the stairs, holding on to the gritty railing with as much strength as she could muster. At the halfway point, she stopped, light-headed and breathless. While she rested, she surveyed the remainder of Creek’s home.

A massive chain and winch hung from the ceiling, and old metal presses and piles of scrap had been pushed against the walls, but in the center of the dingy, concrete-floored room sat a two-wheeled monster. Nothing about the motorcycle seemed remotely safe. In fact, with the matte-black finish and the chromed metal parts, it looked evil. Like something a Nothos might ride. Or Mal.

Mal.
She dropped her head and groaned softly. She had no idea what had happened to him after they’d parted ways.
Please, holy mother, let him be safe.

‘You okay? Need some help?’ Creek came into view, wiping his hands on a towel.

‘No. I’m fine.’

He gave her a suspicious look and stayed where he was, watching her.

She started down the stairs, gripping the railing. She made it to the landing, wincing only at every other step.

He threw the towel over his shoulder. ‘If that’s fine, I’d like to see what still-in-pain looks like. You should really stay in bed and rest.’

‘I will. In my own bed.’ Because being in his made her uncomfortable. Just like being in Mal’s bed had.

‘Suit yourself.’ He turned and walked into the makeshift kitchen. ‘Coffee?’

Pulling her gaze from his back was almost impossible. ‘No, thank you. I just need to get home.’ Finally, she looked away and, feeling worn out from her trip downstairs, sat on the landing to wait for him to be ready. She rested her head on her knees, unable to recall the last time she’d felt so exhausted.

‘Chrysabelle?’

She woke with a start, earning a punch of pain through her gut. ‘What?’

Creek sat beside her on the landing. ‘You fell asleep.’

‘I was resting my eyes.’

He bit the inside of his cheek too late to hide his grin. ‘Look, I know you don’t like me, don’t want to stay here with me any longer than you have to—’

‘No, no, I like you just fine.’ She did, actually. Except for the part where he might be a fringe serial killer. Which she still needed to ask him about. ‘I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. I’m very thankful for what you did for me. Saving my life and stitching me up and all that.’ It
was
nice to be around another human.

His dark, winged brows lifted fractionally. ‘But?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’ She knew exactly what he meant. She wasn’t comfortable with him because being around him felt like trying to stick the opposite ends of two magnets
together. Too much push–pull. Too much dangerous attraction. One move in the wrong direction and the magnets stuck together like they were meant to be that way.

He leaned in, his blue eyes reflecting flashes of her signum. ‘Don’t you?’

It was wrong for a man to be that beautiful. ‘Don’t you think we should … ’ She pointed lamely at the motorcycle.

‘Uh-huh.’ He kept staring. Like he could see her lies. ‘You don’t feel at all uneasy around me?’

‘Don’t be silly. You’re human, I’m human – what’s to be uneasy about?’

Looking away, he picked up her hand as though he hadn’t heard a word she’d said. ‘You don’t have to feel that way, you know.’ His thumb stroked the curling gold vine that trailed from her wrist bone to her first knuckle. The dizziness returned with a vengeance. ‘I would never hurt you. It’s part of my directive to protect you.’

‘Good to know.’ The words came out much softer than she’d intended, but part of her was surprised she could speak at all. Her heart thudded. At least Creek couldn’t hear it. She told herself to pull her hand out of his. Nothing happened.

‘Don’t be afraid of me. I would never hurt you.’ He glanced at her, his face earnest.

She shook her head. Or nodded. She had no idea. There was a wildness about him that frightened her as much as Mal’s steely control. He let go of her hand. She looked down for a moment and when she raised her head, he was there. His mouth on hers. Warm and soft and—

Before she could respond to his kiss, he pulled away, stood up, and walked toward the motorcycle. ‘You’re right. Time for you to go home.’

C
hrysabelle was home. Mal could hear the rhythm of her pulse beneath the swooshing palms and the chorus of nocturnal insects. It was faster than her resting heart rate. Maybe she was training. That was a good sign. If she was training, she was okay. Still, he hesitated to knock. She’d be mad he’d climbed the privacy wall and circumvented her security. Or maybe she’d be mad he’d demanded she run from the Nothos. Or maybe she’d still be steamed about him fighting in the Pits or drinking her blood or a whole host of other things he could think of. She was good at being mad at him.
Drain her, then.