“I was sent here to die.” A simple truth, perhaps all she needed at the moment. “Indeed, I was very close to true-death; I was calcified, growing sloppy and apathetic.”
“I can’t imaginethat,” his leman muttered.
“Thank you,” he replied, gravely.
Leila stared at him for a moment, the very picture of startlement. Then, amazingly, she began to laugh—warm, merry chuckles, casting slight ripples across hot water.
Suddenly, none of the night’s wounds ached even slightly. Maximus stared at her, mouth slightly open; his leman wrapped her arms about her middle, rocking back and forth, her shining dark hair swaying, every trace of watchfulness or fear fled for an endless, marvelous few moments.
It was enough to make him forget what lay ahead. This outpost was still under watch, the city’s exits—roads and otherwise—still barred by sanguinant who had no loyalty to Esmond. Which could only mean Father was coming, perhaps only to view his new territory, perhaps to do what William had been unable to.
Follow the logic, soldier. There was another possibility, one he must account for.
Maybe, just maybe, Antinous also now knew of her existence, and meant to take what his eldest son had found.
CHAPTER 19
Layla didn’t meanto get the giggles, but histhank youwas delivered so deadpan she just couldn’t help it. Once started, she also couldn’t seem to stop, and was a little afraid she’d hurt herself by the time the laughter bubbled down to stray rivulets.
It was hard to be afraid of a naked vampire in a bathtub. Of course, trying not to look at anything impolite was an exercise in futility; she couldn’t help but stare at bit at his proudly erect cock; did he just wander around all day with a hard-on? That seemed uncomfortable as all hell, according to everything Layla had heard. More to the point, his undercarriage seemed regular human-shaped despite the hazy memory of a different feeling buried in her own body.Barbed,he’d said—or had she just imagined it?
Thank goodness she was sober at the moment, not high on monster blood. The memory of inebriation was equal parts disturbing and strangely attractive. Was she going to be a biter-blood junkie? That was a question for another time, simply because she didn’t want to think about something so terrifying at the moment. She had all she could handle quite literally right in front of her, lounging in a brimming bath.
In any case he seemed utterly unself-conscious of nudity, whether his own or someone else’s. Maybe it was being old, maybe it was being a biter, or maybe he’d just had enough time to get over little things like Puritanism.
HepredatedProtestant prudery, in fact, and the thought provoked another wild cascade of chuckles; when Layla finally managed to get herself back under some kind of control she found Max watching her quizzically, wearing a slightly abashed grin as if he didn’t really get the joke but was happy to be included.
It was a veryhumanexpression. Had he loosened up, or was she actually getting used to a bloodsucking monster? She wiped her cheeks, rubbed at her mouth with the back of one hand. Her knees ached a bit, braced against cold tile.
Good Lord, stop cackling.“You’re actually pretty funny,” she said through a few leftover, hiccupping giggles, and immediately realized it sounded dismissive, or worse. Guys didn’t like being laughed at, especially by a woman.
“Good.” Thankfully his expression didn’t alter, except for the smile widening. He was looking more human by the second. “I… it’s been a very long time, since I found any humor in my existence.”
That’s probably the understatement of the year.Layla sobered, chewing gently at her lower lip.Oh, my God. Am I getting Stockholm syndrome’d?
Because at the moment, he really didn’t seem that bad. And that was deeply chilling.
Any amusement was well and truly doused. Silence filled the bathroom, slopping against the walls, broken only by the small plink as a drop of water fell from the high-arched faucet over the tub.
She had to say something, break that dangerous quiet. “I was afraid you weren’t coming back.”
“I told you I would.” All hint of levity vanished. Vampire Max was back to poker-faced intensity, watching her almost hungrily. “I cannot stay away.”
Oh, hell. “Please don’t leave me locked up again.” It didn’t matter, since she was in absolutely no position to exert any control here. He was abiter, for Chrissake. He’d torn through her entire squad in a matter of heartbeats; only Pete was left, and hopefully her fellow hunter had hightailed it back to his hometown in Montana. “I promised I’d cooperate. And it’s not like I have anywhere else to go.”
The vampire said nothing. Layla studied his face, carefully; an idea had been in the back of her mind ever since he disappeared, tiptoeing in the darkness like a biter itself.
Steve-o had talked about Army training in case a soldier was captured. From where Layla was sitting, pretty much anything was permissible if it would get her out from behind the invisible force-field, and she could figure out everything else—including what to do about possibly someday craving human blood—later.
It took more courage than she thought she possessed to straighten, balancing on her knees, and extend an arm. Her fingertips hovered a half-inch from Max’s shoulder, his deltoid making an almost perfect triangle. Every scrap of him was well-defined muscle and sinew, nothing extraneous; she felt pretty out of shape by comparison.
She took a deep breath, and gently traced the short, brutal scar running down into the hollow between his shoulder and pectoral muscle. Whatever had hit there had cut deep, and she repressed a wince at the thought. The bath had to be hot, but his skin no longer felt feverish despite the steam. Droplets glowed on his coppery tan; the texture was different than human, poreless and matte, incredibly smooth. Dirt, blood, and other guck wiped off with a towel he’d folded and swiped very efficiently, as if he’d done it so often thought wasn’t required.
How many times had he gotten home from a fight covered in God-knew-what, to be that practiced? Just like tying his shoes. Sure, he’d erased other biters, but he alsohadto have snacked on humans. Which should she concentrate on, what half of the equation carried more weight?
The scars weren’t ridged or puckered, just discolored. Had the terrible glaring one trailing across his stomach shrunk a bit, or were her eyes fooling her? She touched the edge of another, a jagged slash across the right side of his chest, and irrationally, now she wondered if Pete’s shot at base really had hit him.
Stay on target, Lay. You’re about to do something really smart or incredibly stupid.
