In the Dark (13 page)

“No.” He shook his head. “Just wondering why fate threw you at me. That night was the first I'd set foot in Paris in over a year.”

“This may sound funny, but I'm here on my honeymoon,” she said simply.

A dark scowl settled on his face. “I see. You don't seem very brokenhearted about losing your mate.”

“My what?” Oh, no. He thought she'd been married. Recently. She quickly shook her head and clarified, “I'm not here with a man, husband or otherwise.”

“Explain,” he said, gaze fixed on her.

“I packed my bags and took a solo vacation. Every girl dreams of her wedding day, even the ones who claim they don't. Paris always fits the fairytale, whether it's the wedding, honeymoon, or ten year anniversary. It's a girl thing. I just needed to get here.” Admitting to her failed hopes and dreams was embarrassing. Head tipped downward to hide her face from him, she leaned against the railing beside him. “This is difficult for me, you know.”

“What is, being here?” Hip on the railing, he faced her.

“Not really, but yes.”

“Explain that, if you can,” he challenged.

“This is a beautiful home, comfortable and warm. I can have anything and everything I ever wanted. I'm living with a handsome man who provides these things for me.” She tried to sound practical, remain composed as if she recited a list, but as he stood taller at her side, she had to smile.

“You find me handsome?”

“I'd like to find you naked,” she said with a sigh, gazing at his bare torso dreamily. “Oh!”

Hands covering her mouth, she shot a look at him. Soren grinned from ear to ear, dashing all hopes that he'd missed hearing the
N
word.

Her cheeks warmed, and she dropped her gaze to the pond. “Well, that's not my point.”

“Too bad,” he said, and when she glanced at him, the spark of desire flared between them instantly.

She had to get this off her chest, and the way he bit his bottom lip between his teeth derailed her thought process. She tapped his arm with the back of her hand. “Stop it, Soren. My point is that none of it's mine. It's like I'm playing at being married, but this isn't my home. You don't belong to me.” She paused, wistful. “I can't recall having anything that was completely mine, something I could take care of, be proud to call my own.”

“You didn't have a home?”

Her brows pressed together for a moment before she answered him. “I had a home, but my dad bought it for me. My mom picked out the furniture, then paid gardeners to update the lawn. Dad retaliated with buying me a car.”

“Retaliated,” he repeated. “How does one retaliate with a car?”

“That's how they prefer to fight with each other. I think it's a habit left over from their divorce. They lured me with gifts in the custody battle, but neither actually wanted me. Both liked to win, whether it was the house, the boat, or the kid. One day I came home and found a key and an address in an envelope on Dad's kitchen table. Dad had bought me a house. He picked it out, and he owns it.” She speared her fingers through her hair, angry with them all over again. “Damn it, I just want something of my own.”

“You want to go pick out a cat?”

Faith laughed. He'd broken her streak of gloom. “No. Thank you, but no. I don't qualify to care for something living. I had a goldfish once, and that didn't turn out well.”

“All right, no animals. I guess that rules me out.”

“Soren, I don't think of you as an animal. I never have.” She'd heard the pain in his voice, though he pretended it didn't matter. “I like it here, I really do, but I feel like an outsider in your life and your world. I don't know where I belong. What if I don't belong here?”

Soren pushed himself away from the railing. “Would you marry me?”

The whole sentence floated, wonderful, magical, something so enticing... But, “I still won't fit into your world. Marrying me won't fix anything.”

“There's nothing to fix. I only want you,” he said.

“I...I don't know,” she stammered. She'd had every intention of giving their relationship a real chance, but marriage?

“Give us a chance.” With his fingers he brushed through her hair, tucked stray pieces behind her ear. “It's all yours, Faith, with or without marriage. I'm yours. Whenever you're ready.”

Chapter 12

She'd expected Soren to ignore what had happened between them. Instead, she'd caught him watching her throughout last night with carnal heat in his eyes. She'd been just as bad. Every time he spoke, her gaze had drifted to his lips.

Odd tension had always popped between them, and now she easily recognized it as desire. Mutual desire. The night had already started off with a few lingering glances that had left her lost in a daydream, her cup of Earl Grey forgotten, cooling in her hands.

The bathroom door swung open and she turned her head to the subject of her fantasies. He sat on the edge of the bed, a shoe on one foot and the other in his hand. She slowly entered the bedroom and paused, pressed her shoulder against the doorway. Why would Soren be dressed completely in white? “You're not dressed for class. Where are you going?”

“I'm teaching.”

“In that?” She pointed at him from head to toe.

“The first day of practice for a new Guardian is ceremonial. Titus and Dyre will also be wearing white. We fight for first blood,” he said as he stood.

“What?” She straightened, horrified and hoping she'd heard him wrong.

Soren took one look at her expression and laughed. “The intention is not to hack off limbs, Faith, only to draw blood. Rarely is anyone seriously injured.”

“Sounds like fun,” she said with a fake grin.

“You're welcome to stop in and watch,” he offered.

“I wasn't any help last time you brought me with you. Because of me, multiple boys got lectured, and you knocked one on his ass. I think I'll stay here,” Faith said with a short nod.

He put his hand over his heart. “That really hurts, you know. I thought you liked watching me practice.”

“I did,” she said quietly. She bit her lip to keep from smiling like a ninny.

“So, the truth comes out.” He met her in the doorway, filling the small space. “You ready to marry me yet?”

She cleared her throat. “You can't expect me to marry you based on attraction.”

“No, but attraction is half the battle, and it appears I've already won that,” Soren said with a wink, then dashed out the door.

After the door latched shut, she wandered into the bedroom and pulled out her jeans and brand new button up black shirt. She skimmed her fingers over the collar. She'd bought it with Soren in mind. In fact, he often occupied her thoughts.

The door flew open and she gasped. Soren strode in, and she was relieved to see him. Until he advanced on her. Each step he took kicked her heartbeat up a notch, and in an instant he'd pinned her to the dresser, deliciously crowding her.

He leaned closer and she shut her eyes and parted her lips, ready to accept him. His lips didn't make contact. Instead, he brushed his cheek against hers, his lips moving against her ear. “I forgot my guns.”

“Liar.” The accusation had come out as more of an airy whisper.

He backed away, the smooth slide of metal against wood verifying his story. Smiling, he holstered the weapons and walked out.

Damn it, but the man was a tease. He hadn't kissed her on purpose. Hands planted on the dresser, she steadied herself. He'd given her one phenomenal kiss, offered marriage, and now he was holding out on her?

If he planned on tormenting her, then she'd have no remorse over doing the same to him. She might as well go watch him practice.

One cold shower and a half an hour later, she hit the training room, and was instantly puzzled by the silence. No one shouted. No swords clanked together. Titus and Dyre sat alongside the wall, speaking to each other in hushed voices.

“Where's Soren?” she asked and both men jumped to their feet.

Titus coughed, then sent Dyre a nervous glance. How odd. Titus seemed the more boisterous of the two, but he kept quiet, his eyes avoiding her.

Dyre answered. “He's been injured.”

“Where is he?”

“The medical room is three doors down on the right,” Dyre said.

Faith was in motion before she'd comprehended her destination. Gripping the doorframe, she whipped her body around the corner and ran. Navarre and Julian lingered in the hallway. She didn't wait to reach them before she called out. “Is Soren in there? Dyre said he was injured.”

“Yes, he was,” Navarre confirmed.

“Is he all right? Does he need...blood?”

Julian stepped closer, leaning forward. “Actually, he does. I was just going to call her.”

“Her? Who?” she asked, clenching her fists at her sides.

“Excuse me. Julian?” Navarre interrupted, but Julian waved dismissively at his lord.

“A woman Soren used to see. She'll allow him to feed from her,” Julian said, and pressed buttons on his phone.

“You put that phone away. He doesn't need her.” Pushing up her sleeves, she barreled past the two men.

* * * *

The chilly metal table had finally soaked up some of his body heat. Soren sat on the edge, making an effort to remain still. If he turned his head, or reached for anything, pain darted throughout his back. His multiple wounds hurt, and blood still poured from them, but he smiled like a proud father.

Titus had beaten him. Okay, technically Titus had sent him crashing backward into the glass display cabinet, but blood was blood. The way Titus had risen to the challenge of First Blood had taken him by surprise.

Now he sat here, bleeding and cringing, smiling. All right, maybe just a half smile, but he couldn't help it. Titus was one of the finest Guardians he'd trained.

The hallway door opened, and shut quickly. Julian's satisfied laugh floated in from somewhere outside the room. Word must have traveled fast. Soren carefully turned his head to his visitor.

Wide eyed, Faith stared, a hand clamped over her mouth. Damn it, she'd seen the blood. He had no mirror to verify his condition, but he guessed that he'd lost plenty.

“Faith, I'm fine,” he said gently, attempting to relieve the panic in her eyes.

Without an ounce of hesitation, she planted her hips between his legs. She gathered her dark hair in one hand, gave it a quick twist, and held it away from her neck.

“What are you doing?” he asked, leaning away slightly.

“Bite me.”

Soren struggled to comprehend her short, urgent response. “What?”

“You heard what I said. Bite me. Go on, get it over with,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut, teetering forward.

Would she truly allow him to drink from her? “Faith, you don't have to do this.”

“Oh, shut up and do it. You need blood, and I won't let that other woman touch you. I don't want you to die,” she pleaded.

“Faith, I'm not... What woman?”

“Damn you, Soren. Bite me.” She took hold of his neck and brought him down to her.

The glass in his wounds sliced new paths through his flesh, making him groan. His palms caught the edge of the table, halting any further movement. He tried breathing through the pain, but it didn't help a damn thing. His expanding ribcage tugged at the freshly torn wounds. Gritting his teeth, he dropped his head to her shoulder. She curled her fingers through the hair at his nape, and the simple strokes were comforting. He seriously owed whoever had sent her in here fearing for his life. She'd offered herself, persistently, and he wouldn't turn her down.

He shifted slightly, brushed her delicate throat with his lips, nuzzled her there, stalling long enough for her to escape him should she change her mind. She only gripped his neck tighter.

Swiftly and with skilled precision, he broke through her skin. She went rigid in his arms. Her breaths came in short bursts. Unlike when he'd fed from her in the alleyway in Paris, here she would remain conscious and fully aware of him.

Shivering, she dropped her hair and clung to him. She'd crossed the threshold, gone from the shock of the bite to the blissful pleasure of feeding. He took only enough to build her passions, to demonstrate that his bite wouldn't harm her.

Prying one hand off the table, he wrapped his arm around her, cradled her. Stinging pain skittered across his upper back, and a muffled grunt escaped him.

He slid his fangs free, and a muscle in his upper lip twitched. His instincts rebelled against sealing the bite. If he left the bite open to heal on its own, she would be marked as his, but he couldn't make that choice for her.

He pushed past the urge to mark her and ran his tongue over the bite. With a gasp, she pulled back and searched his face, her rosy cheeks and passion-glazed eyes a lovely sight.

“How are you?” he asked as he ducked into her line of sight.

“I'm...I...that was...” Her words gave out, and her knees. She gripped his thigh and caught herself.

He grinned. “I bet it was.”

A door slammed behind them, and she jumped. Soren turned slightly to see the intruder. It was Elin. She'd come from the adjoining room with a flat tray under her arm and a fistful of medical tools, and she glared at him as if he'd just become her number one enemy.

“If you don't mind.” Elin pointedly ignored him, directing her words at Faith with a fake smile plastered on her face. “I need to fix Soren.”

“He's fine now. You won't be feeding him,” Faith snapped.

Elin recoiled, but only for a second. “Excuse me? What kind of place do you think we run here?”

“Elin, it's okay,” he said, carefully shifting so he could see her.

Elin glanced at his back, then narrowed her eyes on him. “You know I'm not a surgeon. Two minutes, Soren. You couldn't have waited two minutes? Now I'll have to slice you open and find the pieces. Next time, keep your lust contained until after I've pulled the glass from your back.”

She was all brimstone and fire, but his only concern was for Faith and the betrayal in her eyes.

“Glass?” she asked Elin, and stepped out of his arms so quickly she stumbled. “You mean he wasn't dying?”

“Death by broken glass? Are you kidding me?” Elin let out a strange half snort, half laugh as the tray hit the table with the clatter of metal on metal. “Only if we're talking about slicing his head off.”

“I didn't need to...to...”

“I tried to stop you,” Soren said, though he hadn't. Not really.

Faith stared past him, unfocused, already blocking him out. She turned to Elin, a comrade of sorts now that they were on the same page. Mad at him. “Don't give him anything for the pain when you take out that glass.”

A conspiratorial smile crossed Elin's face, and she wiggled the small scalpel between her fingers. “Hadn't planned on it.”

“Good.” Faith spun on her heel and rushed out the door.

“Faith, wait,” he called, but she refused to turn around, and she didn't stop.

He gripped the edge of the table, intent on following her, but at the first sure touch of the scalpel, froze. And howled, twisting and glaring at his tormentor.

“Hold still,” she snapped, not intimidated by his bellowing. She carried on, leaving a stinging trail of short, lightning quick incisions from left to right.

“What do you expect, woman? You're carving me up. You couldn't wait until I was ready?”

“You didn't wait for me. Serves you right,” she said as she added more glass to the growing, sticky pile. “I'll have to slice you open at least half a dozen more times to get all this out. You're bleeding, again. And you have one seriously angry female waiting at home. I hope that was worth it, Soren.”

“She's worth it,” he amended.

“Good. Then hang on, because we're having another go at this.” Elin sliced through his skin once more, quick and sharp. Soren groaned through the next handful of cuts. He caught his breath only to have his stomach turn as the sticky glass was plunked onto the metal tray.

The door popped open, and he straightened. Had she come back? No. Navarre entered, followed by Julian, who caught sight of his back and didn't bother hiding a grimace.

“Soren, you look...” Navarre's words dropped off as he encountered the bloody mess.

“Well,” Julian supplied with a false smile. “You look well.”

“He's sitting in a puddle of blood, boys.” Elin's mousy voice softened her berating words. “Get over it.”

“I don't want to hear one word,” Soren mumbled through clenched teeth. “I told you Titus was impressive.”

“I won't say anything,” Julian said, lifting both hands in the air.

Neither spoke as they waited patiently for Elin to finish pulling the last pieces from his back. She wiped the blood off the table, washed the open wounds, and double-checked the largest gash.

The silence continued until she let out an overdramatic sigh. “It's one thing after another today. Don't bother saying it. I know better than to stick around when you two walk into a room.” She smacked Soren on the shoulder and ignored his grunt. “You're on your own, big guy.”

She dumped the blood-coated glass in the garbage, the instruments and tray into the sink, then disappeared out the door. The stillness continued.

Preparing to get the ball rolling, he stretched the kink in his neck. “I take it you're not here to check on me.”

“Gustav's here,” Navarre said, going straight to the point.

“What?” Not good. Balinese might hold the reputation for being a peaceful city, but even so, no one would accept Gustav's type. “Has anyone seen him?”

“Only Steffen. He claims he has a message for me. The council meets in ten minutes,” Navarre said. “Do you know what this is about?”

He shook his head. “Gustav hates people. I don't know why he would be here. We haven't spoken since I left Paris.”

“He might be better behaved with you beside him,” Navarre said.

“Let me change, and I'll be right there.” Soren slid off the table, reaching for his duffel bag as Navarre left the room with Julian on his heels.

A short while later, freshly patched and wearing his spare clothes, Soren walked into an uneasy council room. Every member watched Gustav like a hawk.