The bathroom door opened with a rush of steamy air to reveal Maeve wearing the same sweat pants and jacket she’d worn the night before. Her face was flushed, and she looked overheated, which made him wonder about the jacket, but then . . . she was sharing a bedroom with a monster, wasn’t she? A monster whose true nature she finally understood.
He waited until she’d pulled back the blankets and settled on her bed, until she’d shoved all the pillows behind her back and opened her computer.
“You’re not going to sleep?”
“Yeah. I’m just checking email, news reports, the usual stuff. To make sure there’s nothing we need to know about. Like, if Sotiris’s New York penthouse conveniently exploded and got rid of him for us.”
He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed between them. “He’d likely survive it.”
She stared at him. “What?”
“He has the ability to . . . travel by unusual means when he needs to. It requires an uncommon amount of energy, so most sorcerers use the power sparingly, but I saw him escape that way more than once, when Nicodemus was about to overrun his position in battle. So, if he was aware the residence was about to explode, even a few seconds’ notice, he could simply remove himself from the building.”
She blinked in silence, then asked, “How do we kill someone who can do that?”
“We don’t. If you’re right, and we find Nicodemus in this Florida place we’re going, he will do the killing. He’s always been the only sorcerer who could defeat Sotiris, and even then, their rivalry lasted decades before Sotiris finally resorted to trickery to win.”
“Well, that’s great,” she muttered. “Maybe I should double check my research, then. Make sure we’ll find your Nicodemus where I think we will.” She looked up when he stood. “You going to shower?”
“Yes. I’ll be quiet if you’re asleep when I return.”
“I probably won’t be. But okay.”
MAEVE WORKED ON her computer for what seemed like a long time. By the end, she was yawning so much that she was losing her place as she re-ran every search, and re-checked every finding and assumption in her hunt for Nicodemus Katsaros. She kept listening for the shower to cut off, convinced Dragan had fallen asleep in there, but then she’d hear the rattle of the shower curtain, or the sound of soap dropping into the tub. Maybe he’d pulled a muscle or something, and was letting the hot water pound the stiffness away. Stiffness. Right. She blushed at her own thought, then blushed harder that she’d even made the connection. She growled softly. “I’m just tired,” she muttered. Two days of non-stop driving, topped by vampires first attacking her and then showing up as the local cops. Any sane person would be exhausted.
The shower went silent with a clunk of old pipes, and she gave the closed door a guilty look, as if Dragan could somehow hear her thoughts now that the water wasn’t running. Right, because that’s how physics worked. Making a face at her stupid thoughts, she quickly shut down her laptop and slid it onto the cheap bedside table, then turned off her side of the shared light fixture. Sliding beneath the covers, she put her head on the pillow, which smelled slightly of bleach, and closed her eyes just as the door knob twisted to open.
She kept her eyes tightly shut, not wanting to know if Dragan was naked. Not that it mattered much, since when he wore the sweatpants she’d bought him, they were slung so low on his hips, that he was as good as naked anyway. Well, maybe not exactly as good. But pretty damn close.
She stayed that way, as he moved quietly around about the room. Soft sounds betrayed his movements as he draped his jeans over a chair back, the tiny click of the hoodie string tips when he dropped it on the dresser, the cushiony noise of the bedspread being pushed to the floor, and the scratchy slide of the sheets as he pulled them back and lay down. She expected him to toss and turn restlessly the way he had the previous night, but he must have been tired, too. Because in a very short time, his breathing evened out into sleep.
And then, so did hers.
She woke when someone screamed, a terrified cry for help as if the devil himself was holding the knife. Sitting up in bed, she stared wildly around the dark room, taking in the tightly closed door, the street lights edging the blackout shade on the lone window. Her gaze fell to Dragan’s still form, his breathing smooth and unbroken, while her own chest was tight, her heart pounding.
Had Dragan been the one who screamed? Had she? She stroked her throat, which didn’t feel sore or strained. But Dragan didn’t look like a man who’d had a screaming nightmare, either. Her eyes lifted to the window again. Someone outside? Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she sipped from the bottle of water she’d left there and stared at that pale outline of light behind the shade. She could go over there and check. She wouldn’t even have to look out the window. This was a small motel, only one floor. She could look through the door’s security peephole. But whatever noise there’d been, whoever had made it, seemed to be long gone. Better she wait until morning. Besides, she didn’t want to wake Dragan. As exhausting as the day had been for her, it had to have been much worse for him.
Decided, she twisted the cap onto the water bottle and placed it on the table, but instead of sliding back into her own bed, she grabbed her pillow and blanket, and crept the few feet to Dragan’s bed instead. It was a big queen size, just like hers. He slept completely uncovered, fully dressed and barely moving. Wrapping the blanket around herself, she lay on the very edge of his bed, and then froze, waiting for him to notice. But he didn’t.
She gradually relaxed into sleep, certain he could handle whatever nightmare might crash through window or door.
DRAGAN WAITED until Maeve returned to sleep, before turning his head to gaze down at her lying next to him. She’d had a nightmare, her scream intruding into his own to draw him awake while her terrified cry was still filling the small room. He’d opened his eyes briefly, but his senses—fine-tuned by both magic and experience—would have detected any threat long before she did, and they quickly told him what he already knew—the only intruder had been the one in her dreams. He didn’t fault her for that. Any normal person would have nightmares after being attacked as she’d been, especially given her unfamiliarity with vampires. That he’d taken it in such easy stride only spoke to his own twisted life, and the truth that she’d be safer getting as far as possible from him and his troubles.
And yet, there she was lying in his bed, having sought that comfort in response to her fear. She felt . . . safe with him. His chest filled with an emotion he couldn’t name. But he knew this . . . she had somehow become his to protect. And he’d kill anyone who tried to hurt her.