Seconds later, the spasms seeming to wrack Dougal’s body stopped and he stilled again, his chest rising and falling slowly. Normally. His lashes fluttered as he blinked a few times, taking in his surroundings.
“Dougal?” She called his name softly, crawling forward to hover over him. Her fingers skimmed his face, coming to rest on the side of his throat where his pulse beat steady and strong. His skin was warmer than before, but not overly so, not burning the way it had when they’d made love.
Swallowing hard, she very carefully lifted the blood-soaked t-shirt she’d used to cover the bullet wound in his chest. The thought of what she might find underneath made her stomach clench, but though the area was red, the hole in his shirt jagged, there was no matching hole in his flesh. She reached out to touch him and was startled to find the spot totally intact.
“Oh, my God,” she murmured.
Pushing up on his elbows, he looked down, then probed the area himself.
“Your eyes…” she told him. They were still a gorgeous, glorious shade of green, but the slits were gone, leaving them as human and normal as any she’d ever seen. “Your scales…”
He raised an arm, studying the back of his hand where the colorful markings used to be fully visible. Then he lifted that hand to his neck and face, feeling for signs of the scaling he’d lived with for the last hundred years.
“They’re gone,” he breathed, awe and disbelief evident in his tone.
All she could do was nod, her eyes turning damp again at the realization that he was alive and well…better than well, if his new appearance was anything to go by.
“So is the bullet wound,” she said, voice shaky. “You’re alive.”
Pushing to his feet, he pulled her up with him. The bloody shirt fell to the ground and he quickly shrugged out of his own ruined garment, tossing it aside. His sculpted chest was smooth now, bare and clear, but no less attractive for its lack of iridescent scales.
“I guess throwing yourself in front of a panicked gunman to save my life counted as enough of a selfless act to lift the curse,” she told him with a watery laugh, crossing her arms beneath her breasts, covered only by her white bra, which was now smeared in places with Dougal’s blood. “We’re going to have some explaining to do when Mr. Abernethy gets back with help, though.”
“Let’s clean up a bit, find something else to wear, and figure out what we’ll tell them. My presence alone will make them wonder.”
He turned toward the darkened doorway that led to the underground room, but stopped when Laura made a small sound of dismay she couldn’t hold back.
“What is it?” he asked, cocking his head to look at her.
“Your back.” She stepped forward to run her fingers over the beautiful rainbow of color there, rising out of the waistband of his pants to the right of his spine and curving upwards toward his shoulder blades. It was a peculiar shape, almost like one of those twisting Chinese dragons itself, but absolutely stunning to behold, and looked almost as though he’d had it tattooed there on purpose.
He twisted his body, trying to catch a glimpse of the new markings, which had apparently been left behind as a reminder of the years he’d spent living under the gypsy woman’s curse. His brows crossed as he scowled, a low growl working its way up his throat.
“I like it,” she said, moving close enough to wrap her arms around his waist and hug him tight. “It reminds me of the dragon I fell in love with. And it will certainly be easier to explain than the rest when I take you home with me.”
His fingers feathered through the hair at her temples, tucking the jet-black strands behind her ears as he tipped her face up to his. “Take me home with you?” he asked, humor lacing his tone. “Like a stray cat?”
She shrugged one shoulder, holding his gaze even as her insides turned liquid with nerves. “Or like a lover. Or a husband.”
His eyes, still the most gorgeous she’d ever seen, flashed with heat and desire. “Husband,” he said, testing the word on his tongue. “I like the sound of that.”
He lowered his head to capture her mouth, his kiss burning through her as hotly as it had while he was still cursed and breathing fire.
“So do I,” she whispered when they came up for air. “So do I.”
BROTHER’S KEEPER
Lilith Saintcrow
CHAPTER 1
A SHRILL SCREAM JERKED HER OUT OF THE DEEP well of sleep.
Selene fumbled for the phone, pushed her hair back, pressed the talk button. “Mrph.” She managed the trick of rolling over and blinking at the alarm clock. Oh, God, what now? “This had better be good.”
“Lena?” A familiar voice wheezed into the other end of the phone. He gasped again. “Lena, it’s me.”
Oh no. Not another panic attack. “Danny?” Selene sat straight up, her heart pounding. “Danny, what’s wrong? Are you okay?” Sweat began to prickle under her arms, the covers turned to strangling fingers before she realized she was awake.
“Cold,” he whispered, breath coming in staccato gasps. “Selene. Help. Help me. The book—the book—”
Another panic attack, it sounds like another one, oh God. They’re getting worse. Selene swung her feet to the cold floor, switching the phone to her right ear, trapping it on her shoulder. “Where are you? Danny? Are you at home?” She grabbed her canvas bag the moment her feet hit the floor, craning her neck to read the Caller ID display. Daniel Thompson, his familiar number. He was at home.
Where else would he be? Danny hadn’t left his apartment for nearly five years. “Keep breathing. Deep breaths, down into your tummy. I’ll be right there.”
“No,” Danny pleaded. His asthmatic wheeze was getting worse. “Cold…Lena. Don’t. Don’t. Danger—” The line went dead.
Selene slammed the phone back into the cradle, her breath hissing in. Her fingers tingled—a sure sign of something awful. What was I dreaming? Something about the sea, again. She raced for the bathroom, grabbing a handful of clothes from the dirty-laundry hamper by the bathroom door. Just keep breathing, Danny. Don’t let the panic get too big for you. I’m on my way. She tripped, nearly fell face-first, banging her forehead on the door. “Shit!”
She yanked her jeans up with one hand and turned on the faucet with the other, splashed her face with cold water. She fastened her thick blond mane with an elastic band and raced for the door, ripping her sweater at the neck as she forced it over her head. She had to hop on one foot to yank her socks on, she jammed her feet into her boots and flung her bag over her head, catching the strap in her hair. Just keep him calm enough to remember not to hurt himself, God. Please.
She slowed down at the end of her block, searching for a cab. One down, nine to go. She sprinted across the street. Rain kissed her cheeks and made the sidewalk slick and slightly gritty under the orange wash of city light. Deep heaving gasps of chill air made her lungs burn. Her forehead smarted, making her eyes water.
She crossed Cliff Street, slowing down, pacing herself. Can’t run myself out on the first blocks or I’ll be useless before I get halfway there. If this is another one of his practical jokes I am just going to kill him.
Three down, seven to go. Selene’s boots pounded into the sidewalk. Rain whispered on the deserted streets and along the length of her messy ponytail, dripped down her neck as she crossed Martin Street and cut across the intersection. There were more streetlamps here, she checked her watch as she ran.
Two-thirty. Santiago City held its breath under the mantle of chill night.
The back of Selene’s neck prickled, uneasiness rippling just under her skin.