The Darkest Night lotu-2 Page 7

  His gaze swept back to her, down her body in a possessive appraisal and up again. He scowled. "Did they leave you here all night?" Countenance darker by the second, he scanned the rest of the cell. "Tell me they gave you blankets and water and only removed them this morning."

  Shaking still, she smoothed a hand over her face and through her hair, wincing at the tangles she encountered. Dirt probably caked her from head to toe. Like that matters. "Who are you? What are you?"

  For a long while, he didn't speak. Just studied her as though she were a bug under a microscope. She knew that look well. It was a favorite of everyone at the Institute. "You know who I am."

  "But you can't be him," she insisted, not wanting to accept the other alternative. He was not like the others, the demons who had slain him. "My Maddox is dead."

  "Your Maddox?" Something fiery flickered in his eyes. "Yours?"

  She lifted her chin, refusing to answer.

  Lips inching into what might have been a smile, he held out one arm and beckoned her over. "Come. We will clean you up, warm you and feed you. Then I will…explain."

  That hesitation made it clear he wouldn't be explaining anything. He had something else in mind and his tone suggested that something would be intense. She remained in place, scared to the core. "Let me see your stomach," she said, stalling for time.

  His fingers gave a swift jerk. "Come."

  A part of her wanted to go to him, to follow wherever he would lead. Because he did look like Maddox, and whatever else Maddox was, he'd still been the best thing to ever happen to her. But once again she held her ground. "No."

  "Come."

  She shook her head. "I'm staying here until you show me your stomach."

  "I won't hurt you, Ashlyn." The words not yet echoed from the walls—unsaid, but there all the same. Even more unnerving, the sound of her name on his tongue was decadent, as if he couldn't help but savor it. And desire another taste. "Ashlyn," he repeated.

  Another shiver raked her and she frowned. He shouldn't desire her, and she damn sure shouldn't desire him. "You can't be my Maddox. You just can't."

  That intense, fiery something flashed over his face again. "That's twice now you've claimed me as yours."

  "I-I'm sorry." She didn't know what else to say. Maddox had saved her from the voices, for a little while at least. She had watched him die. They were connected. He was hers.

  "Don't be sorry." He sounded almost tender just then. "I am Maddox," he insisted. "Now come."

  "No."

  Tired of her refusal, the man closed the rest of the distance between them. He smelled of wanton heat and primitive rituals performed in the moonlight. "I'll carry you over my shoulder if I must, just as I did last night. If I'm forced to do it, however, I cannot guarantee you'll make it out of this cell with your clothes on. Understand?"

  Oddly, his words were heady when they should have been frightening. Comforting when they should have been intimidating. Only Maddox knew the way she'd been carted. He'd switched her to his arms before entering the chateau and yelling at his murderers.

  "Please," she found herself saying. "Just show me your stomach." The more she demanded to see it, the more she wanted to. Would she find stitched wounds? Smooth skin?

  Would there be any indication that this man had been stabbed over and over again?

  At first he gave no reaction to her request. Then, finally, he sighed. "It appears I am the one who will not make it out of here with my clothes on." He reached for the hem of his black tee and slowly… slowly… raised it.

  Despite her insistence, Ashlyn couldn't yet work up the courage to tear her attention from his intense violet gaze. She told herself it was because his eyes were so beautiful, so mesmerizing that she was lost in them, drowning. But she knew that was only half the truth. If he was stitched, was scabbed… if this was Maddox…

  "You wanted to look. So look," the man commanded, both impatient and resigned.

  Do it. Look. Inch by inch, her gaze lowered. She saw a corded neck and a wildly ticking pulse. A collarbone mostly covered by black cloth. She saw one of his thick hands fisting that cloth right above his heart. His nipples were tiny, brown and hard. His skin was that otherworldly bronze she'd admired in the forest, and he was stacked with rope after rope of muscle.

  And then she saw them. Six scabbed-over wounds. Not stitched, but red and angry. Painful.

  She sucked in a shocked breath. Almost in a trance, she reached out. Her fingertip brushed the scab that slashed through his navel. The healing sore was rough and warm and abraded her palm. Electric tingles rushed up her arm.

  "Maddox," she gasped out.

  "Finally," he muttered, backing away as if she were a bomb, detonation imminent. He dropped the shirt, blocking the injuries from her view. "Are you satisfied now? I'm here, and I'm very real."

  He—no, not "he." Maddox. Not his twin, not a dream. Not a trick. He'd been stabbed; the evidence was there, those six hellish wounds. He'd had no heartbeat, no breath. And now he stood before her.

  "How?" she asked, needing to hear him say it. "You're not an angel. Does that mean you're a demon? That's what some people have said about you and your friends."

  "The more you speak, the more you hang yourself. Will you follow me now?"

  Would she? Should she? After that "hang yourself" remark…"Maddox, I—" What?

  "I showed you my stomach. In return, you said you would come with me."

  Did she really have any other choice? "Fine. I'll follow you."

  "Do not try to run. You will not like what happens." Motions fluid, he wheeled around and marched out of the cell.

  Ashlyn paused only a moment before limping after him, doing her best to stay close on his heels. Her hands itched to touch him again, to feel the life pulsing beneath his skin. "You never answered my question," she said. The farther they walked from the cell, the more the cold air gave way to warmth. "If you are a demon, I can take it. Really. I won't be grossed out or anything." She hoped. "I just have to know so I can prepare myself."

  No response.

  Those flaxen rays of sunlight streamed through stained-glass windows, casting rainbow flecks on the stone walls. Fatigue and lack of nourishment must have weakened her, because she fell a few steps behind. "Maddox," she said, a low entreaty.

  "No conversation," he replied, his gait never slowing as they climbed a flight of stairs. "Perhaps later."

  Later. Not what she'd hoped for, but better than never. "I'll hold you to that." She stumbled and winced, sharp pains shooting through her ankle.

  Maddox stopped abruptly. Before she realized what he'd done, she'd slammed into his back with a pained cry. Immediately that tingling warmth returned, sparking, catching fire and spreading.

  As she struggled to find her balance, he hissed a breath through his teeth and spun around, pinning her with a vicious stare. His eyes were black, the violet gone as if it had never been. "Are you hurt?"

  A tremor swam through her. Yes. "No."

  "Do not lie to me."

  "I twisted my ankle last night," she admitted quietly.

  His features softened as his gaze slowly perused her, lingering on her breasts, her thighs. Goose bumps broke out over her skin. It was as though he were stripping away her clothing piece by piece, leaving her in nothing but flushed skin. And she liked it. Her heart fluttered wildly in her chest; moisture pooled between her legs.

  Suddenly she didn't care about answers, the pain in her ankle or the lethargy in her muscles. Her nipples hardened and strained. Her stomach clenched and unclenched with need. Her skin felt too hot and tight for her bones. She wanted his arms around her, comforting her, holding her close.

  A moment later, she realized she was reaching out.

  "No touching." He jumped onto the step behind him, widening the distance between them. All hint of softness left him. "Not yet."

  Her arms fell to her sides as disappointment crashed through her. No answers, no touching, she silently mocked, fighting o
ff the decadent rush of pleasure that came with finally being close to the man who'd consumed her thoughts all night. His warmth, the silence… a combination lethal to her common sense.

  One stroke, that's all she'd needed—all she'd wanted, surely—but he was determined to deny her. "What about breathing?" she asked dryly. "Can I do that?"

  His lips twitched, smoothing the edges of his fierceness. "If you do it quietly."

  Her eyelids narrowed to tiny slits. "Well, aren't you a sweetie. Thanks a lot."

  That twitch became a full-fledged smile, the blinding force of it knocking the air from her lungs. He was beautiful. Absolutely mesmerizing. Ashlyn found herself caught in his snare yet again—how did he do that to her?—and again reached up without thought. Craving that spark of contact, yes, yes. Needing… needing…

  He gave a sharp shake of his head, humor suddenly gone. She stilled, annoyed with him, herself.

  "There is something I need to do before the touching can commence," he said, the words so husky and low she felt them as deeply as a caress.

  "What is it?" she asked, biting her bottom lip as violet began to reclaim his eyes, trickling from his pupils to overshadow the black. Amazing.

  "Doesn't matter." Frowning, he reached out as if he meant to stroke her cheek. He caught himself and dropped his arm to his side, a mirror of her own actions a few moments before. "What does matter is that you never answered me. Were you in that cell all night?"

  His heady, masculine scent wafted to her nose, summoning her closer. She tried to resist, truly she did, but found herself leaning toward him despite his warning. "Yes."

  Again, fury darkened his face. "Were you fed?"

  "No."

  "Given blankets?"

  "No." Why did he care?

  "Did anyone hurt you?"

  "No."

  "Did anyone…touch you?" A muscle ticked in his jaw, once, twice.

  Her face scrunched in confusion. "Yes. Of course."

  "Who?" he demanded. His face began that freaky change, gnarled skeleton flashing and churning under his skin as if he wore a see-through mask. Even his eyes changed again. Black covered violet, then red covered black, glowing ominously.

  Another of those hard lumps formed in her throat and she struggled to catch her breath. Not even in the forest, not even while chained to a bed, a sword slicing through his organs, had he exuded such ferocity.

  Why are you still standing here? Run!

  His expression twisted, as though he knew what she planned to do. "Don't," he said, confirming her fear. "You will only incite me further. This will pass in a moment. Now tell me who touched you."

  "All of them," she forced out, remaining in place. "I think. But they had to," she hurried to assure him. She couldn't believe she was defending his murderers, but it seemed the fastest way to calm him down. "It was the only way to get me inside the cell."

  He relaxed, but only slightly. The skeletal image receded and the red glow faded from his eyes. "They didn't touch you sexually?"

  She shook her head, relaxing a bit herself. He'd been angry with the men, then, not with her for resisting.

  "I will allow them to live. Barely." Forgetting his own rule, he cupped his palms over her temples and forced her attention on his face.

  She experienced those electric tingles again as his warm breath fanned her nose. He was so big he dwarfed her, his shoulders so wide they engulfed her.

  "Ashlyn," he said gently.

  The swift change in him, from beast to concerned gentleman, was dizzying.

  "I didn't want to discuss this yet, but I find I must hear your response now." Heavy pause as he stared at her. "I killed those four men last night. The ones following you."

  "Following me?" Had someone from the Institute seen her and come after her? Had they—the rest of his words finally registered. She gasped as a high-voltage shock-wave slid down her spine. "You killed them?"

  "Yes."

  "What did they look like?" she choked out. If Dr. McIntosh had been slain because of her… She pressed her lips together to cut off a pained moan.

  Maddox described the men—tall, strong warriors—and she slowly relaxed. Most of the employees she'd met at the Institute were older, like McIntosh. Many were pale, with thinning hair and glasses, eyes weakened from constantly staring at computer screens. Relief speared her, which in turn made her feel guilty. People had died last night. It shouldn't matter whether she knew them or not.

  "Why would you do something like that?"

  "They were armed and eager for battle. I had a choice—kill them or let them kill me."

  He said it without a single hint of remorse, as though it were a simple point of fact. What a bloody, violent place this fortress had turned out to be. Maddox, too. Her savior spoke like a veteran soldier…or a cold and callous killer like his roommates. He didn't, and wouldn't, hesitate to slay.

  So why did she still want his arms around her?

  Whatever emotion Maddox saw on her face seemed to answer his unspoken question. His brow puckered and his mouth thinned. In displeasure? But why? Before she could study him further, he turned away and climbed two more steps, saying, "Forget I mentioned it."

  "Wait." She leapt forward, winced at the renewed pain in her ankle and grabbed hold of his bicep. A puny move, really, but he stopped.

  He stiffened, then slowly turned his head and growled down at her fingers.

  She jerked away from him. Not because of his reaction but because she'd felt more of those strange tingles. She'd have liked to believe it was static cling. Something, anything, besides more of that oh, so wrong desire.

  "Sorry," she muttered. No touching, she reminded herself. It was better for both of them that way. She couldn't seem to control her body's reaction when they were close. Actual, prolonged contact might reduce her to a drooling puddle. "Maddox?"

  In profile his expression appeared blank, completely devoid of emotion. "Yes?"

  "Don't be mad, but it is technically later so I'm going to bring us back to Topic One. What are you?" Before he could jump back into motion as if she hadn't spoken, she added, "I answered your questions. Please answer mine."

  He didn't. But he did face her again.

  Nervous, she ran her tongue over her lips. His gaze followed the movement and his nostrils flared. She didn't mean to, but she started babbling. "Look, there are all kinds of unusual creatures in the world. No one knows that better than me. Did I mention I know firsthand that demons exist? I just want to know what I'm dealing with here." Shut up. Stop talking.

  If only he would respond. She'd never had to fill a silence before. Never thought silence could be uncomfortable.

  He eased down a step, the action measured and precise as it closed the small distance between them; she eased down a step in response, widening it again.

  "No more questions. I want you bathed, fed and resting within the hour. You're covered in dirt, wavering on your feet because of hunger and there are dark circles under your eyes. Afterward, we can… talk."

  Again that hesitation. It disconcerted her, and she gulped. "If I asked you to take me back to the city, what would you say?"

  "Unequivocally no."

  I thought so. Her shoulders slumped. No matter how much she might want this man—or maybe because of how much she wanted this man—she had to start acting like a rational human being and escape.

  What if she was next in line for a stabbing? She wouldn't rise from the dead, that much Ashlyn knew.

  Yesterday she would've sold her soul to come here. Who are you kidding? You did sell your soul. She might not have learned to control the voices unless Maddox was with her, but she simply couldn't stay. There were too many uncertainties and too much violence.

  But to escape, she'd have to endure the mountain, the cold, the fog and the voices. You can do it. You have to do it.

  Maddox arched a brow. "Do I need to lock you up again, Ashlyn?" he asked, as if reading her thoughts.

  The threat scared and i
nfuriated her, but she shook her head. No reason to upset him and risk getting herself killed or thrown back in that icy, damp prison, freedom unattainable. Outside of it, at least, she stood a chance. Small though it was.

  Silence isn't as sweet as you hoped, is it?

  "Do you want to leave because there is someone you need to speak with?" he asked. He failed to disguise his growing anger with that polite inquiry—she saw the flickers of it just beneath the surface of his skin. "Is someone anxious to know where you are?"

  "My boss," she said honestly. Maybe, if she found a phone, she could call him. He could then call the police—no. She nixed that thought immediately, reminding herself they might be entranced by the "angels ."

  But if she could call McIntosh, the Institute could devise a way to rescue her. She could return to her old life and pretend the last two days had never happened—even though the thought of abandoning Maddox created an inexplicable ache in her chest. Stupid girl!

  "Who exactly is your boss?"

  As if she would tell him and put an innocent man in danger. Instead, she gathered her courage and said, "Let me go, Maddox. Please."

  Another pause, heavier than before. He stepped closer, placing them nose to nose as he had in the forest. His eyes were bright violet now. "Last night I told you to return to the city. You refused. You even followed me. You cried out for me. Remember?"

  The reminder stung. "A moment of insanity," she whispered, looking down at her hands. Her fingers were intertwined, the knuckles white.

  "Well, that moment of insanity sealed your fate, woman. You're staying here."

  Maddox escorted the reluctant Ashlyn to his bedroom. He'd already cleaned the floor and thrown out the soiled mattress, replacing it with a new one from the array in the room next door. In anticipation of her seduction, he'd prepared a bath for her, made up a platter of meats and cheeses, opened a bottle of wine and turned down the clean, sun-kissed sheets.

  He'd never put so much effort into a coupling, had only heard Paris talk about how quickly women melted when men pampered them like this.