Chapter 6

Chapter Six

He could feel her eyes on him. They were like soft little hands ghosting over his skin, leaving him tense and breathless with every glancing touch. It was a struggle to continue breathing deeply, evenly, as if he were asleep. Her scent coated his tongue and throat. He'd spent half the day trying to categorize it and the other half lightly dozing, afraid that if he slipped into a deep sleep he'd wake up to find her gone.

Cherry.

That was the scent. He'd never had one before, since he was a born vampire and never had the sick urge to put that shit in his mouth, but he'd smelled them. It wasn't the kind that looked radioactive, but the dark, bloody cherries he saw floating in black syrup a time or two. Rich and sweet but complex, almost too ripe.

It made him wild.

But not half as wild as the thought of her watching him from the bed with those big eyes, as she slowly peeled the covers back. She'd have to step over him, since he'd slept on the narrow strip of floor wedged between the bed and the kitchenette, with only a blanket and a stiff pillow for comfort. Not a moment later the softest sound of her bandaged feet touching the floor by his hip was barely discernible over the low hum of the heating unit.

He was so attuned to her, he could feel the air move when she carefully crept over him. All of his focus was on her — too much, perhaps, because it took him an embarrassingly long time to see the bigger picture and realize she was headed for his gun.

She didn't make it more than two steps before he jackknifed up into a sitting position and fisted the back of her shirt.

Carmine gasped and stumbled over his legs. Made clumsy by the thick, rubbery bandages on her feet, she went down easy. Atticus caught her around the waist and settled her across his lap. It all happened in less than a handful of seconds, but he saw it unfold slowly. He could feel and hear every one of his heart beats. He watched her turn her head to fix him with a hunted, guilty look. He was fascinated by the silky expanse of her legs as they tangled, went down, and then stretched over his lap.

And then time caught up to him in the same instant as his temper.

His voice was grittier than normal for multiple reasons when he growled, "What did I say, doll?"

She didn't reply. Carmine sat as still and stiff as a statue in his arms, but her eyes were huge, full of life in that heart-stopping face.

Obviously, she was striking in her ceremonial makeup, but without it… Atticus's fingers twitched with the urge to smooth the pads over her bare cheeks. Her skin wasn't the chalky white he assumed it was. It was a rich golden color that paired perfectly with her raven's wing hair and wide eyes. He guessed her ancestry traced back somewhere to northern Africa or the middle east, but with vampires it was impossible to say for sure.

The vampiric gene pool was a kaleidoscope by necessity. They hailed from all corners of the world and weren't picky about mates, so long as the urges to feed and breed were satisfied. For vampires, it was all about prestige. Power. Being the protector or the protected. It was about the strength and ruthlessness of one's line. How far back could you trace it? How long had you survived a world that was so hostile to their kind?

It was so very easy for a vampire's line to die out. Breeding was incredibly involved and difficult, not to mention the fact that they lived dangerous lives rife with vendettas and violence. If breeding failed, one could turn a vampire and they would be considered an heir, but turning had an abysmal success rate.

All it would take was one bad generation and poof! A whole bloodline could vanish.

Atticus doubted Carmine came from a notable bloodline, though. A family who sold her to a crypt was probably about as well off as his own parents were. Not that he cared. His father was a turned vampire sired by another, anonymous turned vampire, which meant his bloodline was a mess and too new to mean anything anyway. He wouldn't have put stock in that shit even if came from some hoity-toity family, but it was a relief to know he wouldn't be bringing down the wrath of an old, distinguished line on his head by rescuing Carmine.

Not that being from an unknown line would save her from being coveted, obviously. It wouldn't matter if she emerged from the gooey center of a landfill, fully formed and stinking. Carmine was a vampire who could carry vampiric offspring. For some folks, that was more valuable than even the most prestigious family name.

And she tried to run off. Again.

He knew he shouldn't be mad. Carmine didn't know him, had absolutely no reason to trust him, and in her position, he'd do the same. But logic didn't take away the vice of fear that squeezed his heart when he imagined her out there in the desert, wandering barefoot until she hit a road. He didn't even care that she'd been headed for his gun, probably so she could negotiate her way out of the situation or simply to have some protection when she fled.

He cared that she would have been hurt.

"What was the plan?" he demanded, jabbing a finger in the direction of the door. He knew he was using his scary big brother voice, as Adriana liked to say, but he couldn't stop it. "Were you gonna run out into the desert and hitchhike your way to the nearest town? Maybe put that gun to my head and tell me to let you go? Gods, Carmine, do you have any idea what could happen to you out there? What could happen if you misfired a bolt gun?"

His skin crawled. It was like fire ants had replaced the blood in his veins. Carmine in a stranger's car, no money, no phone, no one to help her. Carmine lost in the desert as sunrise approaches. Carmine being chased down by that pack of coyotes, her bare feet shredded by the rough ground. Carmine stumbling across an unexploded bomb left by the war. One wrong step and— gone.

Still, she said nothing. Her expression was rigid, but her eyes were so big, so bright and wary. He couldn't decide if he wanted to crush her to his chest or channel Harlan and give her a scolding so blistering, she'd never fucking forget it.

He nearly gave in to the impulse to do one or the other, but managed to restrain himself at the last second. I'm scaring her. Fuck. I know better than that.

His sister was so, so sensitive growing up. All it took was a single annoyed look and she'd burst into tears, run off, and find some small place to hide until he or Harlan coaxed her out again. He knew better than to let his temper get the better of him.

Forcing himself to swallow the lump of fear in his throat, he let out a slow breath. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have— You scared me and I reacted badly."

Her expression didn't change one iota. It was like she was bracing herself for something. More anger? Atticus skimmed his hand up her spine and was a little startled to feel the bumps — not just of her vertebrae, but her ribs, too. Did they not fucking feed her?

Venom neutral vampires who didn't get the right nutrition could easily get underweight. Bad synth and irregular feeding could snowball and become devastating. Vampires were already at a disadvantage, since their diet was so lean in fat, but venom neutral vampires were even more at risk. They couldn't miss out on anything. And now that he was really paying attention, he thought her body temperature was low, too. That was a bad sign.

Still, she said nothing. She wouldn't stop staring at him. It drove him a little crazy.

"Hey," he muttered, at a loss. Atticus knew he didn't have the right, but she was so stiff, so cold, and his words didn't seem to be doing much, so he cupped the side of her head and gently coaxed her to lean into him.

His lust hadn't gone away. His cock was hard behind his fly, his blood was hot, and her sweet cherry scent made the roots of his fangs ache like a motherfucker, but none of that mattered so he ignored it. He could make out the erratic beat of her heart. The sound made some unknown organ in his chest go so tight, it squeezed the breath out of him.

"I'm sorry. I understand why you feel like you need to run. I get it. I really, really do. But you scared me and that made me upset. I'm not angry at you, okay? You're not in trouble."

It'd been a long damn time since he held a woman this way. He'd forgotten how much he liked it until soft fingers fiddled with a fold of his shirt and warm breath tickled his ear.

Stroking his fingers through her hair, he continued, "I just need you to understand what could have happened. Even if you'd gotten away, even if you'd gotten my gun — big if — there's nothing within a hundred miles of us right now. You probably would have gotten turned around in the desert. You might have hit another road, but any kind of person could have picked you up. It's not safe, doll."

He didn't expect her to speak. He loved the sound of her soft soprano voice, but he'd quickly picked up that she used her eyes to do the real talking. When she was really unsure, she kept that pretty voice locked away.

It felt like a bit of a gift when she said, in a surprisingly frank tone, "It's dark now."

"Yeah, but it won't be forever. Do you think you could walk a hundred miles in one night? And do you even know how to shoot a gun?"

There was a thoughtful pause, then an almost imperceptible sigh. "No."

"Right."

She lapsed into silence, her chin jutting at a stubborn angle. He liked that tiny, almost imperceptible hint of sass. It reminded him that though she might look like a doll, she was the same woman who'd fought like a wild thing in the dirt and didn't hesitate to go for his gun when she had the chance.

Atticus knew he had to move. She needed to drink — a painful pulse in the roof of his mouth reminded him that they both needed to drink — and he needed to figure out what they were going to do. Junger would die, obviously, but his first priority was getting Carmine squared away. She had to be somewhere safe, with people he could trust to look after her.

A deep, dark wave of feeling washed through him, churning his insides until everything felt raw and unfamiliar. Can I trust anyone?

His arm tightened around her middle. The thought of leaving her alone with anyone but him made the tendons of his neck strain against his skin. He hated the idea. If something happened to her when he wasn't around, he'd…

What?

Atticus gave himself a hard internal shake. He had to get a grip. This whole thing had fucked with his head and he wasn't thinking clearly.

I need to call the boss.

He hated to involve Harlan, but his father would know what to do. He'd make the right call. He always did.

The thought made him feel better. Atticus could handle himself, but he didn't have to. Harlan and the rest of the men who'd followed him out of syndicate life would have his back.

And now they'd have Carmine's, too, even if she didn't know it.