Through the Static (3 page)

Chapter Three

The instant the door was closed, Aurelia felt the air thickening, the whole atmosphere of the space changing viscerally. Something shifted in her bones, too. While the pain and exhaustion still pressed in on her, the heat of the third's gaze was a new force, one that made her feel vulnerable in a whole new way.

A man hadn't looked at her like this in a long, long time. A member of a Three shouldn't have been able to look at her like this at all.

She cataloged the observation along with all the others at the same time she gave in to it. Lying there, she let him look, her gaze on his face the entire time. Along with desire, there was a clinical quality to his stare as he brought his gaze up her frame and back to hers.

“You're hurt.”

She nodded and winced against the pain that shot through her shoulder.

Jinx extended one hand.
“May I?”

Trying to keep still, she pushed her answer through the link.
“Yes.”

Elsewhere in the house, she heard motion, footfalls and creaks of floorboards and mattresses—reminders they were not alone. But in that moment, there was only him. His approach and the crackle in the air from his proximity. Moving slowly, he sat on the edge of the bed and reached out.

The sharpness of her inhale at the first brush of his fingertips against her skin made her shoulder scream, but she kept her cry contained. His hand was rough and warm on her arm. He watched where he touched, dancing his way gingerly toward her shoulder. Darting his eyes to hers, he shifted to finger the edge of her blouse, rubbing the crimson-stained fabric and peeling it from her skin.

With the slightest motion of her head, she nodded.

He undid the buttons with quick, careful motions. As he pushed it away, he bared the wound and her breast both, and he sucked in a harsh breath, his gaze roaming before focusing on the place where cloth and torn flesh clung. He looked to her, his mouth a grim line and his eyes pained, then stood.

“Keep still.”

He was out of the room before she could ask him what he was doing. The second she was alone, the ache and the cold seeped back into her, and she shivered hard, awakening new pangs. She cast her gaze down her body and shuddered. Her skin was dangerously pale, her clothes soaked with rain and blood.

Her hand twinged with the memory of shattering glass and violence, the image of the man's face as she stabbed up into his abdomen.

How much of this blood was hers?

Her stomach contracted, sudden queasiness making her own gut feel hollow. She'd only been defending herself, and in the adrenaline haze, she hadn't considered what she'd done. Now, though…

Then she looked at her shoulder and had to close her eyes. A few inches over and it would have been a lethal shot, for sure. Of course, they had intended to miss.

Her mind spun, tears and panic rising. She wasn't even sure if she was out of danger yet, and suddenly it was all too much. The fighting and the fear and the stress of her escape. The game of mental chess she'd been playing with the Three and the uncertainty still lingering around her now.

At the sound of the door opening and closing again, she looked up, heart racing, throat ready to scream. Jinx held his hands up.

“It's all right. It's only me.”

She had no idea who he was, and her eyes prickled. But at the same time, the stone of terror in her heart softened, and her breath came easier. He was trying to help her. She had to believe he was.

As her posture relaxed, he crossed the room toward her, setting down a medical kit before sitting on the edge of the mattress again and shrugging off his leather jacket. Dressed in only a black T-shirt, black jeans and boots, he was even more masculine, the muscles in his arms rippling. For all that his attention was focused on her injuries, she felt the same heat pouring off him as she had before. It helped to set her at ease, even as other parts of her tensed.

Working intently, he flipped open the kit and laid out alcohol wipes and scissors, thread and bandages. He was already pulling on a pair of gloves before his eyes returned to hers.

“I used to be a medic.”

Their gaze held for a beat too long. She realized what he was saying—what he was admitting to her. He remembered what he used to be. Hell, he remembered anything at all.

It was…impossible.

He hesitated for a moment, as if waiting for a response, but when she failed to give him one, he began opening packages. Peeling her shirt farther down her arm, he shifted her to lie on her side so he could access both the entrance and the exit of the wound. He popped a syringe and brought it to her skin.

“Anesthetic. And something to help the wounds knit.”

She held her breath and looked away as the needle nicked her.

For the next few minutes, he worked over her in silence. She felt only the coolness of the alcohol and the gentle tug of flesh rejoining as he stitched her up. He was good at this, all right, his sure hands implying training. Practice.

Still directing her gaze at the wall, she cleared her throat unnecessarily, then asked,
“Do you remember much? About before?”

He stiffened, pausing for a fraction of a second before continuing. They both knew he wasn't supposed to remember anything.

“Just flashes.”

“More of them recently?”

His silence was all the answer she needed. He set his needle aside, then reached for the roll of bandages. Her whole side ached as he urged her arm up to wind the fabric around and around. When he was done, he let her shift to lie on her back again.

Swallowing hard, she touched his arm, right above the line of his glove, skin to skin.
“If you want me to help, you're going to have to tell me everything.”

He stared into her eyes, searching, then dropped his gaze to where she was touching him. Lifted her hand from his skin and inspected her palm. She flinched at the pressure on the lacerations from the glass. Without a word, he cleaned those just as carefully as he had her shoulder. After dressing the worst of them, he made an inspection of the rest of her, swabbing at a scrape across her temple and ghosting fingertips over a tender spot on the back of her neck.

While his mouth was a straight line, his expression all detachment, there was fury burning deeply in those eyes. Fury and concern and a gentleness in his touch that made her want to cry all over again.

When he was done, he pulled his hands from her skin, lingering and brushing her knuckles for just a moment before tugging off his gloves and packing up the kit. He stood and walked over to a set of drawers in the corner and pulled out a couple black lumps of fabric. On the mattress beside her again, he let his gaze drift down her form, and the air between them grew hot again.

“You need to get out of this.”

His fingertips brushed the tatters of her shirt.

“I know. I—”
She went to remove her arm from the sleeve, but a jolt of pain made her stop.

His hands were there in the next instant, cradling, holding her shoulder steady as he pushed the fabric from her body. And it was such a contrast. He was all hard lines and edges, intensity rippling through every inch of him, but in that moment, he was soft.

As his hands shook, he seemed to sense the wonder of his own gentleness, too.

Only when she was bare did his gaze move to her chest, his nostrils flaring as he huffed out a rough exhale. His hand hovered, echoing the shape of her softness, and her whole body prickled with the electricity of anticipation. She wanted him to touch her.

And it terrified her.

A quiet whimper escaped her lips, jolting the both of them. His eyes shuttered, his expression returning to something guardedly neutral, and he dropped his arm. He was still breathing hard, but he didn't look at her again as he helped her into a T-shirt three sizes too big. Then he was standing.

“You can manage with the rest.”

It wasn't a question, and he left as suddenly as he had the first time, slamming the door behind him.

As she struggled to shuffle out of her skirt and into what she had to assume were his sleep pants, her head buzzed. Scientifically, emotionally and physically, he was a mystery.

And she was going to get to the bottom of him.

Jinx slammed his way through the kitchen, his blood boiling, his whole body ready to go out of its skin.

God, her
skin
.

He was keyed up, pushed to the very edge of his control. Through the walls, he could feel the energy Curse and Charm were putting out; suppressed as it was, it got into his bones and sinews, making him sweat and
want
. As if
her
energy hadn't been enough. Even over the sharp tang of her blood, she smelled so good, sensual and sweet. Her voice had been a gentle caress inside his mind after all these years of harsh commands, and her body…

He reached down and adjusted himself inside the rough denim of his pants, then swiped the back of his wrist over his brow. He'd never known desire like this, never had something for it to
focus
on like this. When she'd lain there, bare and perfect and waiting for him to take care of her, it had been all he could do to keep it under wraps.

Nothing since he'd awoken to this life had prepared him for this, and the faint glimpses he'd retained from his life before curled and crumbled, burned to ash in the wake of this inferno.

He popped the lid on the waste disposal unit and dumped his gloves. They were covered in her blood, and a whole different kind of fire raged across his synapses. Someone had hurt her.

Maybe someone like him.

He turned and smacked the side of his fist down against the counter. The pain felt good. Bracing.

After a few deep breaths, he straightened and reached into the cabinet to pull down a couple of glasses. He chuckled as always at the farce of a crew like his Three putting up in a place like this. A place with glasses and dishes, all of them breakable. He shouldn't be allowed near anything that wasn't made of leather or denim or steel.

He filled the glasses one at a time, bringing the first to his lips while the other topped off. He drained it in one long pull, refilled it and emptied it again, making lists in his mind all the while. After losing all that blood, she'd need water. Calories, too, probably. An analgesic to help her sleep. He turned off the tap and set the glasses down before grabbing a liquid meal ration and a bottle of pills.

He lingered for another minute there in the quiet space, alone. He could breathe now, but the idea of going back into that room got his pulse going again. The proximity was too much, and all the ways he wanted to touch and protect her were only part of the problem.

Curse and Charm were going to be in his face in the morning, and they had a habit of pulling rank. He had to keep her safe, had to figure out who she was and what she knew. Especially what she knew about him.

A low bubble of something too bright and too soft threatened his chest. Maybe she could fix them.

Or better, maybe she could free him.

He tamped the thought down, sucking in a breath and closing his eyes. It was too dangerous a thing to think, even behind the screen between him and his partners right now. He couldn't afford that kind of hope.

She was reminding him of all kinds of things he couldn't afford.

Gathering up his supplies, he headed back to his quarters, treading quietly instead of stomping his frustration into the floorboards. He still bristled at the faint sounds coming from the room on the other side of the hall, at the stillness from the third, open door where Charm was supposed to sleep. Alone.

Nearly growling with aggravation, he was about to barge right into his room, but he stopped himself, reminding himself there was someone else inside. He gritted his teeth and knocked before turning the handle.

God.
She was
in his clothes
. Her slight frame swam in them, but the sight still staggered him, triggering something hot and possessive, making his body thrum just as hard as it had before.

He closed the door behind him and took a deep breath. The air was thick with the scent of blood and female sweetness, both overwhelming in their own ways. As he approached her, she gazed up at him, appraising. Behind the sharp perception in her eyes, there was a fatigue that made his bones feel weak and tired.

His voice was gruff as he placed the glass and the meal pouch on the floor beside her. “Drink.”

He shook out two pills and held them out, waiting for her to take them, but she hesitated. She looked between the glass and his palm and back again.

Something inside him fell. She was right to be wary; only a fool would take food and medicine from someone like him without seeing it prepared. The mistrust on her face still crushed the unfurling parts of him. He forced the lines of his mouth to soften.

“It's clean.”
He inched his hand closer.
“Just painkillers. I promise.”

She glanced up at his eyes and back to his outstretched hand. Hesitation clear in her expression, she flexed her shoulder and grimaced. Sympathetic pains radiated through his arm. Finally, after sizing him up for another long minute, she plucked one of the pills from his palm and reached for the glass.

“The dosage is two.”

Her mouth twitched, turning down.
“Painkillers affect me strongly.”

His chest relaxed as she placed the single tablet on her tongue and swallowed it with a deep gulp of water. She trusted him enough to eat from his hands.

He set the other pill on the floor and backed away until his spine met the door. With a new weariness tugging at him, he sank down the surface of it, coming to rest with his knees bent before him, his big boots planted firmly on the floor.

It was easier to think with the distance between them, but his hands felt empty in a way they never had before. Restless and impatient for he didn't even know what, he watched her set the glass aside and gingerly tear open the meal package. She sucked at it slowly, lips soft and pale.