Chapter 18

"I'm Drake. Thomas is the big guy. Miss Mabel is in the front seat. We lost her walker, so we'll need one of you boys to help her get inside. Carefully."

"I'm on it," said Slade, hopping down off the steps. He wasn't very tall, but he had the solid build of a man who'd grown up with hard labor. Considering that this was farm country, that was likely the case.

Carmen felt under the porch railing until she found the hidden key that would let them in.

"Wait," said Thomas. "Let me check it out first."

Carmen tipped her head back until she could see him from under the hat. "I'm telling you the place is safe. I can always sense the Synestryn when they're nearby. And they're not."

"I'm sure you can, little girl. I'm also sure that I'm not letting you lead the way into a dark house without so much as a pocketknife to protect yourself."

She patted her shotgun. "I've got Hazel."

Thomas peered down at her weapon and lifted a dark brow. "They did teach you that most demons out there can't be killed without a sword or magic, right?"

"Sure. I also know that if Hazel knocks them down first, you'll have a lot easier time chopping them to bits."

Thomas grunted. "Just stay behind me and keep Hazel pointed in some direction other than my back."

Carmen accepted the order like a good little soldier and handed Thomas the key.

"Vance," said Drake. "Grab whatever gear is in the back and bring it in so we can inventory it."

"Don't you know what's in your own van?" he asked.

Drake opened the back doors of Logan's van. There were no windows back here and a heavy curtain could be pulled to block out the light from the front windows. The bastard was going to have fun finding shelter before the sun came up.

The thought made Drake smile. "Not my van. Bring in the sheet she's lying on, too. There's blood on it and we need to burn it."

Helen hadn't moved. And she was pale. Drake wanted to kill Logan, but just the thought gave him a violent headache.

"I'll carry her," offered Vance.

Drake should have agreed, but the sound of interest warming Vance's voice changed his mind. He'd take the pain of releasing her again if he had to, but he wasn't letting some human he didn't know touch her.

"Like hell," said Drake.

He lifted her into his arms and the second his skin touched hers, he was flooded with a sense of completion—all the empty spots filled up, easing an ache he didn't even realize he had. He pulled her against his bare chest, closed his eyes, and let his power soak into her, let her sweep away the pressure that had already built itself back up to painful levels. Less than a half hour without touching her and he hurt. How in the world was he ever going to let her go?

He wasn't. That was the simple truth. He was going to claim her. He'd never be able to wait long enough to take her back to the compound and figure out if any of the other Theronai were able to bond with her. He was going to claim her for his own and to hell with the consequences. He wasn't going to put Helen on display and let all the other Theronai touch her. He'd found her and he was keeping her for himself. That part was easy. The hard part was going to be convincing her she wanted to be kept.

"Time to wake up, sleepyhead."

Helen felt Drake's voice in her head as much as she heard it in her ears. It was an odd sensation, a sort of resonating echo that vibrated her brain. She could feel his touch inside her as well as outside, gentle fingertips stroking her face and arms, gentle thoughts stroking her mind.

"Come on. We've got to get you cleaned up. Out of these clothes."

She felt a tug at her waistband and the pop of the button being released. He was taking off her shorts.

That got her synapses firing. She jerked awake, her arms failing out to bat his hands away. She forced her heavy lids open and found herself in a bathroom, sitting in his lap. His hard thighs were warm under her bottom and one thick arm was wrapped around her, just under her breasts, keeping her from sliding onto the floor.

The bathroom was big, old, a little shabby, but clean. A giant claw-foot tub was filled with water and she could hear the faint pop of thousands of bubbles along the water's surface. The air was steamy and smelled like lavender.

Helen stared at the water in longing. She was safe in the water, and as the memories of the night flooded back to her, what she truly wanted was to feel safe. To know Miss Mabel and Lexi were safe. That Drake was safe, not horribly burned and dying.

But if he was dying, then how was he holding her in his lap? Confused, Helen looked up at Drake. He was whole—not a burn or scar in sight. Even his hair had grown back.

Was she dreaming this? Or had the attack been the dream? Her head was still clouded from sleep and she couldn't seem to make sense of what was going on.

"Shhh." He slid a hand over her hair as if to calm her. "Don't try to sort things out yet. You were really out of it, thanks to Logan. Give yourself a chance to wake up first."

"You were burned."

"Yes, but I'm okay now. It wasn't as bad as it looked."

"Liar." It had probably been a hell of a lot worse than it looked. At least for him. Helen had done a fair amount of research on burns, thanks to her vision, and she knew that they were one of the most painful injuries possible.

"We'll talk later. Right now we need to get this blood cleaned off."

Helen looked down at herself and cringed. She was filthy. There were smears of blood on her clothes and skin and what looked like oil. What looked like, but wasn't. It was blood from those monsters.

She had their blood on her. It was too disgusting for words.

Helen felt a wave of nausea roll through her. She tried to fight it. She clenched her teeth and breathed through her nose.

Drake lifted her up into his arms and stood, then let her feet drop to the ground. She could see now that he'd been sitting on the lid of the toilet, which he raised, along with the seat. "You're all right," he told her. "Just breathe."

She was. She was breathing and Drake was breathing with her, and slowly it started to work. She felt Drake's rough thumb sliding along the inside of her arm, sending tendrils of comforting energy rushing through her. Her stomach settled enough that she was confident she wouldn't puke, at least. And she was standing on her own two feet, which was an improvement as well. Drake still held her close and he still had his forearm wrapped around her, but he wasn't holding her up. She was doing that all by herself. Thank God.

Helen needed to get clean. That was the next rational thought that went through her head. She wanted every bit of this . . . stuff—which she was not going to name—off her. "I'm fine now," she told him. "Just give me a few minutes to bathe."

He lifted her arm to show her his long fingers wrapped around her wrist. "Sorry. We're connected again. Don't worry. I'll be a good boy and close my eyes."

"Can't you pull away again? Like you did before?"

"I could, but it would hurt. You don't want me to hurt, do you?"

He was playing her, trying to make her feel guilty. And it was working.

Helen turned around and glared up at him. The sharp angles of his face were highlighted by the harsh light of the bare lightbulb over the sink. His shirt was gone and she could see the tattoo on his chest clearly now. It was a tree that ran all along his left side. The roots snaked down below his belt and the branches reached up until some of them stretched over his shoulder and partly down his left arm. The branches were mostly bare with only a few leaves left and the artwork was so perfectly lifelike that she imagined she could see the leaves sway with every breath he took. Amazing.

Beautiful.