Another cry of pain derailed her speech when Blade stepped inside, and the warmth against her frozen skin felt like thousands of fire ants dancing all over her.
The tension in Blade’s body seemed to ramp up several notches, but his steps didn't falter as he carried her toward a couch. At the edges of her blurry vision, tears streamed down her cheeks in a steady flood. She noted he’d put a towel down on the couch to make it an easier clean up after he killed her?
“Make it quick, please,” she whimpered as he set her down on the towel, and a fresh wave of pain rolled over her.
“I’ll have them back in place in a moment,” he assured her.
“No, I meant killing me, the towel, to clean up after, quick, please,” she rambled, not sure if she was making sense in her effort to get the words out.
A large hand grabbed her face. The pressure was enough to clear her vision a little, and she found Blade’s face mere inches from her own. “Towel is there because you're dirty, I told you I’m not killing you.”
Had he?
Implied it maybe, but not outright stated it.
Was that a good thing or a bad thing? Did it mean he was keeping her alive to torture her indefinitely or that he believed her despite there being zero evidence?
“Not made to survive torture,” she whispered. She wasn't strong or tough, wasn't a warrior, she was a brain and nothing more, and she hadn't trained her brain to handle those levels of pain.
“I think you're made to survive a whole lot more than you give yourself credit for, darlin’.”
For once, the way Blade said the word darling didn't sound like an insult. It sounded almost affectionate, even as she knew that couldn’t be true. Even if he believed she hadn't been a willing participant in creating the drug as it had been developed, she was still an enemy. Still the one responsible for everything he’d been through.
This close, he was very handsome.
Had nice eyes … so dark.
Nice lips … might be nice to kiss them.
Totally inappropriate thoughts … but she couldn’t seem to help them. Must be delirious from the pain.
A hand ghosted over her cheek. “Keep talking, Whitney, this is going to be the worst part.”
Keep talking.
Okay.
She could do that.
Following orders was kind of her thing.
“When you close your eyes, press your hands to them, and you see that flare of light, that’s called phosphenes.”
Hands braced just above one of her shoulders, and just below, and her entire body tensed, bracing for the pain.
“Will go a whole lot easier if you relax,” Blade told her, but that was impossible. No way she could relax.
“The day after tomorrow is called overmorrow. And when you put an exclamation mark together with a question mark, it’s called a?—”
Whitney never finished that sentence, because Blade popped her shoulder back into place, and the shaft of indescribable pain that stabbed through her was the final strike her brain needed before it checked out.
Chapter
Seven
January 11th
6:16 P.M.
