Symphony of Light and Winter (12 page)

* * *

In an attempt to keep from going stir-crazy during daylight hours, I counted river barges for fun, but around three each morning things got a little more interesting. I wasn’t sure what kind of game Cyril played, but it had to be some kind of psychological warfare. Cyril entered the room clad in his leather fighting gear. He walked to the window, looked outside for several minutes, ignoring my presence. After taking in the sights, he undressed. As he stood, his impressive physique was a silhouette over the illuminated cityscape. A work of art to be appreciated no matter how pissed off I was.

He lowered his head as he removed his pants. Each time his erect cock sprang free from the lacing at his crotch, he glanced up to see if I watched him. Of course I did.

Nude, he turned toward the window, his profile accentuating all his manly features. After several minutes of contemplation, he walked into the bathroom and took his shower. I didn’t intrude. When finished, he emerged wearing only a towel.

He removed the towel, sat on the edge of the bed, and lay down beside me on his back with his eyes closed. No snoring, but his breathing slowed as though he slept.

The fact he said he didn’t sleep made the ritual suspect. The first two nights I slept on the floor. The night before last, I climbed into bed opposite him. He still had not spoken to me, but in all fairness, I had not spoken to him either. Sleeping on the floor murdered my back, and the bed had plenty of room. I didn’t have to touch him. But the sheets posed a different problem; they smelled like him. Inhaling his scent, with him lying so close, was a dangerous combination.

The next night, things were different. Around midnight the door opened and in stumbled a bleeding Cyril.

“Dear God, what happened?” I said, breaking my silence as I ran to him.

He dragged one leg. Seeing him hunched over and grimacing in pain, I put my arm around his waist. I tried to provide support, but my attempt was futile. So much blood. I guided him into the bathroom to the bench on the far wall of the shower. Once he was seated, I ran to the vanity searching for a washcloth. Before I attended to him, I turned the shower on a low trickle so I could wet the cloth.

Grasping his chin with one hand, I used the washcloth in my other to clean away the blood. Relieved his face lacked wounds, I realized I needed to examine the rest of him. His stare lacked expression and he made no move to stop—or encourage—me. I grabbed the hem of his shirt and he assisted by lifting his arms. Faint lines of blood streaked his chest, and I wiped them away. No wounds visible, thank goodness.

“I need you to lean forward so I can check your back,” I said, my voice gentle.

Still silent, he moved without resistance. It was hard to see him vulnerable, nothing menacing about him now. Once satisfied he was wound-free above the waist, I knelt and began to unlace his boots. My standard Cyril-issued white nightgown streaked with red and wet where my knees rested on the ground. I pulled off his boots and he raised each leg to help. When he raised his left leg, he winced, revealing a deep gash in his pants, oozing blood.

“Cyril, I need to get your pants off.”

Even in his condition he managed to raise an eyebrow.

“You know what I mean. Your leg, I need to get a look at the wound.”

Taking a deep breath, I reached for the lacing on his pants and pulled the string to untie them, like undoing very tightly laced shoes. Beginning at the top of his waistband, I pulled apart the thin pieces of leather. With each subsequent crisscross, I had to insert my index finger under the lace to pull it loose, causing my finger to rub along the ridge of his very large cock. I blushed with each movement. On my second trip down, pulling the ties free, he groaned. I looked up to meet his eyes, almost black with…what? Pain? Lust? Both?

“Cyril, I’m going to need you to use your good leg to raise your hips while I slide down your pants. On the count of three …”

I hooked my fingers in the waistband on either side of his hips and counted, “One…two…three…”

He lifted his hips and I wiggled the pants down his legs. He sucked air through clenched teeth, and hissed. The wound went completely through the side of his leg, visible on the back. It looked like he had been skewered by a sword, a very large sword. The blade had to have grazed his femur.

“Oh Cyril, that looks awful. You need stitches.” I looked up into his eyes.

He mouthed the word
no.
It sounded like he tried to speak, but a rush of pain cut him off.

I clasped his hand and looked into his eyes. “I’ll be right back. If you won’t go to the hospital, I’ll find Overton.”

He grunted something that also sounded like a no, and pointed to a closet to the right, concealed behind a mirrored door.

Damn. I looked at that mirror a dozen times and never noticed the hidden door.

I made my way to it and pushed on the door like I did the old medicine cabinet in my aunt’s apartment, and it popped open. The shelves housed many supplies, even extra deodorant.

Double damn
.
I located some gauze and bandages, grabbed the unopened bottle of peroxide, and made my way to the shower. Cyril sat patiently. Luckily my concern for him overrode my usual lust-filled stupor I was prone to when around him. I placed the first-aid items behind me on the floor, away from the water, and grabbed the handheld showerhead.

“This is going to hurt but I have to clean it off.”

He gave me a look that said
go for it.

Holding the showerhead so water could drip over the wound, I placed a palm on his cheek. He moaned in pain while he clenched his fists at his sides on the bench. My free hand cupped and stroked his cheek, reassuring him it would be done soon. I replaced the nozzle and grabbed the gauze. When I went for the peroxide, he told me no.

I didn’t argue. I coaxed him to shift so I could bandage both the front and the back of the wound. I used Band-Aids in substitution for butterfly sutures in an effort to keep his skin together, then placed heaps of gauze pads on the laceration and wound, then more gauze around his leg to hold the dressing in place. I stood and took the towel from the hook outside the shower, then returned to dry him off. He watched me. My dress was soaked in water and blood. I dried every inch of him with a clinical detachment that impressed me.

“Come on, let’s get you to bed.” I extended my hand.

Carefully, he rose to his good leg and hobbled, using me for support the entire way. With my free hand, I pulled back the covers. I didn’t offer to get something for him to wear since I knew he went to bed each night sans clothing. I urged him to sit. “You’re going to have to lie on your right side.”

He got into position. I walked over to the cart and retrieved another Cyril-approved white nightgown, then strode into the bathroom to change. I turned out the light and returned to the bed. With curtains open, the city appeared more illuminated than usual, most likely a sporting event. I started to pull the covers up around him, but he motioned for me to leave them.

I complied. “Can I get you anything?” I whispered.

“No.” He closed his eyes.

Walking across the room to the opposite side of the bed, I paused, pulled back the covers, and climbed in. I turned to face him, but his back was to me, the injury forcing him into that position. He couldn’t look me in the eye. There was something liberating about having him face away from me.

“Cyril, why aren’t you healing? Don’t you heal faster because of what you are?” I didn’t expect an answer, but perhaps he too found some freedom in our position.

“I lost a lot of blood. It takes much longer when I’m low. That’s how Michael and his men managed to kill me.”

Dear God. The blood was everywhere that night. It made sense. How could Michael do such a thing? Without thinking, I reached out and traced the branching patterns on the skin of his back. He was quiet as I caressed him with a featherlight touch over the tightly woven pattern. His breathing had become erratic from the pain, but it seemed to stabilize somewhat under my touch. It was too much to believe he would find comfort from me. As surly as he usually was, I was surprised he let me help him at all.

Compliant Cyril was more like the one I once knew, the one I stupidly lost my heart and mind to. I knew it wasn’t good to indulge him. I was far too susceptible to being lured into forgiving him his behavior in hopes that he might become who he once was. His skin was warm under my fingers and I moved closer so I could reach him, so reminiscent of our time when I was a foolish girl. Without conscious decision, I started to hum; it was almost a whisper when I started to sing.

I repeated the song a few times and stopped. He said nothing for several minutes.

He cleared his throat and just above a whisper said, “You’ve a lovely voice. And the song is beautiful; it seems familiar somehow but I can’t seem to place it.”

“I used to sing it to you.” I traced one final marking on his back and for a moment rested my hand on his hip. He took my hand in his and pulled me flush against his back. His soft touch almost tickled as he ran his fingers over each line and contour of my hand, wrist, and forearm. The fingers touching me felt smooth, not rough as expected. The electricity that abated while I helped him was back in full force. He brought my hand to his face and held the palm against his cheek. It was bristly with end-of-day stubble. He pulled my hand away from his face, and brushed his nose softly back and forth across my wrist, the grip on my arm firm. My thigh rested against his leg and I felt something wet.

“Cyril, you’re still bleeding. What can I do? I know somehow you can come back from the dead, but I also know you can die. If you keep bleeding like this, you’re going to die. One dead guy in bed with me in this lifetime is enough. Please, Cyril, how can I help you?”

I had a suspicion about what he needed by the way he held my arm and the way he was savoring the scent of my wrist. “Don’t worry yourself,” he said with a strained voice.

He wasn’t going to make it easy.

“Cyril, Overton told me about how you bite people so you remain strong. He very much protested when I said you were a vampire. His explanation was something about blood from women at bars giving you strength. Is that what you need? Is that why you keep smelling my wrist?”

He dropped my hand.

“Stanton talks too much. You needn’t worry, I won’t bite you.” He stiffened and pulled away as his mood darkened.

I needed to bring him back from that distant place. “What if I don’t mind? I mean if it would make you better, right? And wouldn’t hurt too much? I want to help you.”

“Linden, stop! Please, the temptation is far too great and I need no further encouragement. I’ll heal; it will just take longer than usual.”

“How long?”

“Several days.”

“If you took blood from me now?”

He sighed.

“Cyril?” I prompted.

Reluctantly he said, “An hour perhaps.”

“Then do it.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not right. I won’t use you.”

I paused. “What exactly am I to you then?”

His groan said a thousand unspoken words. “I’m not going to answer that.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Not if I don’t want it to.”

“Then do it.”

“Linden—”

“I said do it. Do it now!”

He didn’t move. More blood slid down my leg. It was time to play dirty.

“Oh, I get it. I rank somewhere below a cheap bar tramp, is that it? Not good enough for you? Would rather suffer for days than sully yourself with me?”

Before I could blink, he lifted my wrist to his mouth and fangs pierced the soft skin of my pulse point. He was right; it didn’t hurt…much. The initial pinch caused me to gasp, but abated quickly and gave way to something more pleasant. I felt the warmth of his lips and a tugging sensation at the point of insertion. He had a low rumble in his chest and his body subtly rocked against mine. My arm stretched to its limit across his body. His fingers locked around my forearm, holding me in place. A sensation started in my toes and it was as if the suction at my wrist was pulling something through my body. It felt like liquid hot euphoria.

His groans turned into growls, and the whole experience caused me to moan, the pleasure from the bite seeping through me. Knowing I was giving him what he needed brought me to a precipice. Just before I was about to fall, his mouth pulled free of my arm and he made a fierce guttural sound before droplets of warm thick liquid hit my skin. His moan, the tremor of his muscles, and the wetness pulled me back from the edge. I couldn’t quite make sense of what happened. Heat ran through me, relaxing and at the same time, arousing.

After a few moments, my head started to clear and comprehension hit me. He came. His hold on me gentle now as he lapped at the wound, bathing my wrist with a velvet-smooth tongue. His breathing still labored. When he finished, he pulled my arm to his chest and wrapped his arms around mine. The action was unexpected, as if he wasn’t planning on ever letting me go.

I waited to see what he would say or do, but he held me for the longest time. I was the first to speak. “Cyril, let me go get a cloth. I also need to change your bandage.”

He said nothing but unwound his arms from mine. Before giving my arm total freedom, he placed a soft kiss to my wrist. I ran my hand up and down the outside of his arm a few times and patted him gently to let him know I was leaving the bed. From the bathroom vanity I retrieved another washcloth, wet it in the sink, picked up the gauze, and returned to his side. Kneeling beside the bed, I faced him.

Trying to decide if I should clean him or not, I glanced at my wrist, astonished. Nothing. No marks. I looked up as he stared back at me.

At that moment, I made my decision. I reached for one of his hands and brought it toward me. I inspected it for any trace of liquid, and when satisfied I hadn’t missed any, I placed the hand on his hip out of the way. I did the same with the other and ran the cloth over his skin to remove the thick drops of seed that clung to the hairs on his arm. When finished, I allowed his arm to hang over the side of the bed. He remained motionless, allowing me to take the lead with his gaze firmly fixed on my face. Looking away from his eyes for only a moment, I spied the glistening trail that ran from chest to groin. I began to mop up the remnants of his pleasure, no longer watching what I was doing, but rather staring back at him with the same intensity, careful not to miss a drop. Running the cloth over his chest until no stickiness remained; I was left with one final part to clean. Our eyes locked in a most intimate intensity.