Shit, he’d have to take a cab. Swaying a little on his feet, he lurched up the alley toward the main street, passing several bikes parked outside a workshop. A human leaned against one, yakking on his cell. A half-smoked hand-rolled dangled between his lips, the pungent stench adding to the reeking place. One-handed, he pulled off his jacket and tossed it behind him across the pillion.
Blaéz glanced at his blood-drenched shirt and gaping wound. As he passed the biker, he swiped the jacket and pulled on the battered thing with its multiple zippers, grimacing at the sweat stink. But it covered the scorched tee and bloody mess of his chest. At the busy main street, he flagged down a cab.
The driver barely blinked as Blaéz collapsed inside the vehicle and rattled off the address. Leaning back in his seat, he grabbed the hem at the side of his shirt that wasn’t soaked and attempted to clean his face, then gave up and shut his eyes…
“Yo, man?” A loud voice dispersed the black cloud that hadn’t quite managed to pull him under. “We’re here. That’s twenty-one fifty.”
Groggy, Blaéz flung open the cab door, felt in his pockets, and handed the driver several dollars. He pitched up the stairs, braced his hands on either side of the doorjamb, and tried to keep himself upright. He let go of the frame long enough to rap on the wood.
A few seconds passed, and then he picked up sounds of light footsteps running down the stairs. The door opened. Her scent flooded him.
There she was.
His light. His sun.
“Blaéz?” A frown creased her brow. She shoved her unruly hair from her sleep-flushed face, blinking those gorgeous eyes. “What are you doing here? You…you said goodbye.”
“Clearly, I don’t know the meaning of the word.” His legs buckled. Shit. He leaned against the doorjamb. A slant of light from the living room socked him full on the face and had him squinting. Even the soft beam hurt.
A shocked gasp. “Oh Lord, you’re hurt!” She grabbed him around his waist.
A simple touch, and like a cork popping, unbelievable pain ripped through him. He gritted his teeth in protest. Stumbled. Her arm tightened around him. Yes, he’d take all this shit just to have her holding him. He tried not to lean too much of his weight on her as she maneuvered him to the living room. Exhaling roughly, he dropped down onto the couch.
She rushed off to the kitchen. He wanted to protest, didn’t want her to leave him.
Agony roiled from his chest, filling his mind. He shut his eyes. Perspiration rolled down his back. He’d had no intention of coming here, yet somehow, hers was the address he’d given the cab driver. In this state, with that wound, he wouldn’t be able to protect her if any of the demon pricks had followed him.
He pushed to his feet. Wavered like a drunk. “Have ta go—”
“Yeah? Where?” She reappeared in front of him like some avenging angel in her pink candy-striped pajama pants and a blue tank, a damp kitchen towel in hand.
She smelled so good. Clean. Pure. He wanted to inhale her so she’d wipe away the darkness crawling inside of him.
“From what I see, you’d need a crane to haul you up and about.”
Her dry tone hit him square in the chest. Amusement, irritation, and above all, absolute awe overwhelmed him. She alone gave him this.
“Why do you do this to me, huh?” She glared at him. A lock of hair fell over her face. “First Daniel, now you. You want me to suffer a heart attack?”
With a shaky hand, he tucked the escaped strand behind her ear. The fact that she’d lumped him in with her family, with people she loved, cracked through the ice encasing his chest. He reeled at the emotions flowing through him. By Christ, he no longer cared about the consequences.
He was done walking away from her.
Chapter 8
Blaéz swayed.Darci flung the towel aside and grabbed his arm before he toppled to the wooden floor. For the past two days, she’d tried to accept that she wouldn’t see him again, and now here he was, back in her home, bruised and battered once more. Blood continued to seep from the cut on his brow. His face was messed up pretty badly, like someone had used it as a punching bag.
What the hell kind of special ops job was this?
“I don’t like your work, Blaéz. You should seriously consider a new career.”
Rough laughter left him. Dry, dark, sexy. She looked up, but he said nothing.
Darci shifted her hold and slipped her arm around his waist when her hand slid over a sticky wetness on his shirt. A sharp coppery smell crowded her nose. She pulled her hand back and stared at the blood coating her fingers then grabbed the lapels of his jacket.
“No.” He shook his head, trying to stop her. Scowling, she pushed his hands away and parted his jacket. He sighed.
“Jesus!” The blood drained from her face. A fist-size burn had melted the fabric of his tee. The skin beneath his bloody shirt was scorched black. “What did you do—use yourself as a shield?”
