Lover Revealed (13 page)

"Marissa?" His voice was shot to shit and he cleared his throat. "Marissa, wake up."

Her lashes flicked open and she snapped upright. Her eyes, those pale blue, sea-glass-colored eyes, shot to his. "You're going to fall!"

Just as his body swayed backward and he toppled off his heels, she leaped to her feet and caught him. In spite of her willowy body, she took all of his weight easily, reminding him that she was no human woman and was likely stronger than he was.

As she helped him back onto the bed and pulled the sheets over him, the fact that he was weak as a child and she was treating him like one out of necessity bit into his pride.

"Why are you here?" he asked, his tone as sharp as his embarrassment.

When her eyes didn't meet his, he knew she also was uncomfortable with their situation. "Vishous told me you were hurt."

Ah, so V had guilted her into this Florence Nightingale routine. That bastard knew Butch was a simpering idiot for her and that the sound of her voice would do exactly what it did and bring him around. But it was a helluva position for her to be in, a reluctant rope to the proverbial lifeboat.

Butch grunted as he rearranged himself. And also from the knock his pride was taking.

"How do you feel?" she said.

"Better." Comparatively. Then again, he could have been dragged under a bus and still been miles ahead of what the
lesser
had done to him. "So you don't have to stay."

Her hand drifted off the sheet and she took a slow breath, her breasts rising under the expensive bodice of her gown. As she wrapped her arms around herself, her body became an elegant s-curve.

He looked away, ashamed because part of him wanted to take advantage of her pity and keep her with him. "Marissa, you can go now, you know."

"Actually, I can't."

He frowned and glanced back at her. "Why not."

She paled, but then lifted her chin. "You're under—"

There was a hiss and an alien walked into the room, the figure dressed in a yellow suit and a breathing mask. The face behind the molded plastic was female, but the features indistinct.

Butch looked back at Marissa with horror. "Why the
fuck
aren't you wearing one of those getups?" He had no idea what kind of infection he had, but if it was bad enough that the medical staff was pulling a Silkwood, he had to imagine he was deadly.

Marissa cringed, making him feel like a total thug. "I… I'm just not."

"Sire?" the nurse interrupted gently. "I'd like to take a blood sample if you don't mind?"

He kicked out a forearm while still glaring at Marissa. "You were supposed to be wearing one of those when you came in, weren't you?
Weren't you
?"

"Yes."

"Goddamn it," he snapped. "Why didn't you—"

As the nurse nailed him a good one in the crook of his elbow, Butch's strength ran out of him like she'd popped the balloon of his energy with that needle of hers.

Dizziness slammed into him and his head fell back against the pillow. But he was still pissed off. "You should have one of those on."

Marissa didn't respond, just paced around.

In the silence, he glanced over at the little vial that was plugged into his vein. As the nurse swapped it for an empty one, he couldn't help noticing that his blood seemed darker than usual. Much darker.

"Good God… what the hell's coming out of me?"

"It's better than it was. Much so." The nurse smiled through the mask.

"Then what color was it before," he muttered, thinking the shit looked like brown sludge.

When the nurse was done, she shoved a thermometer under his tongue and checked the machines behind the bed. "I'll bring you some food."

"Has she eaten," he mumbled.

"Keep your mouth closed." There was a beeping noise and the nurse took the plastic-covered stick from his lips. "Much better. Now, is there anything you'd like?"

He thought of Marissa risking her life because of guilt. "Yeah, I want her to get out of here."

Marissa heard the words and stopped walking around. Easing back against the wall, she glanced down at herself and was surprised to find that her gown still fit her the same. She felt half her usual size. Small. Insubstantial.

As the nurse left, Butch's hazel eyes burned. "How long do you have to stay?"

"Until Havers tells me I can go."

"Are you sick?"

She shook her head.

"What are they treating me for?"

"Your injuries from the car accident. Which were extensive."

"Car accident?" He looked confused, then nodded at the IV as if he wanted to change the subject. "What's in there?"

She linked her arms over her chest and recited the antibiotics, the nutrients, the pain meds, and the anticoagulants he was on. "And Vishous comes in to help as well."

She thought of the Brother and his disarming diamond eyes and the tattoos at his temple… and his obvious dislike of her. He was the only one who came into the room without protective clothing on and he dropped by twice a day, at the beginning and the end of night.

"V's been here to visit?"

"He lays his hand above your belly. It eases you." The first time that warrior had stripped the sheets from Butch's body and pulled up the hospital johnny, she'd been speechless both at the intimate sight and the Brother's authority. But then she'd grown mute for another reason. Butch's belly wound had been frightening—and then Vishous had scared her, too. He'd taken off the glove she'd always seen him wear, revealing a glowing hand that was tattooed front to back.

She'd been terrified about what would happen next, but Vishous just hovered that palm of his about three inches over Butch's belly. Even in the coma, Butch had sighed raggedly in relief.

Afterward, Vishous had rearranged the hospital johnny and the bedsheets and turned to her. He'd told her to close her eyes, and though she was scared of him, she did. Almost immediately a profound peace had come over her, as if she were bathed in white, calming light. He did that to her each time before he left, and she knew he was protecting her. Although she couldn't think of why, given that he clearly despised her.

She refocused on Butch and thought about his wounds. "You weren't in a car accident, were you?"

He closed his eyes. "I'm very tired."

As he shut her out, she sat on the bare floor and clasped her arms around her knees. Havers had wanted to bring things in like a cot or a comfortable chair, but she'd been concerned that if Butch's vitals crashed again, the medical staff wouldn't be able to get the necessary equipment to the bedside fast enough. Her brother hadn't disagreed.

After God only knew how many days of this, her back was stiff and her eyelids were like sandpaper, but she hadn't felt tired when she'd been fighting to keep Butch alive. Hell, she hadn't even noticed the passage of time, had always been surprised when food was brought in or the nurses or Havers came. Or Vishous arrived.

So far, she wasn't sick. Well, she had felt ill before Vishous stopped by for the first time. But ever since he'd started doing whatever he did with that hand of his, she'd been fine.

Marissa glanced up to the hospital bed. She was still curious why Vishous had called her to this room. Surely that warrior's hand was doing more good than she was.

As the machines beeped softly and the air blower came on up in the ceiling, her eyes drifted down the length of Butch's still body. A flush hit her face as she thought of what was underneath the covers.

She knew what every inch of him looked like now.

His skin was smooth over all his muscle and he was tattooed on the small of his back with black ink—a series of lines grouped in fours with each bundle carrying a slash that ran at an angle. Twenty-five of them, if she added correctly, some having faded, as if made years ago. She wondered what they commemorated.

As for the front of him, the dusting of dark hair across his pectorals had been a surprise, as she hadn't known humans weren't bare-skinned as her kind were. He didn't have a lot of hair on his chest, though, and it narrowed quickly, becoming a thin line under his belly button.

And then… She was ashamed of herself, but she'd looked at his male sex. The hair at the juncture of his legs was dark and very dense, and from the midst, he had a thick stalk of flesh almost as wide as her wrist. What was below was a heavy, potent sack.

He was the first male she'd ever seen naked and the nudes from Art History just weren't the same as the real thing. He was beautifully made. Fascinating.

She let her head fall back and stared at the ceiling. How unattractive was it that she'd invaded his privacy? And how unattractive that her body stirred just remembering?

God, how much longer now before she could get out of here?

She absently fingered the fine fabric of her gown and tilted her head so she could look at the fall of pale blue chiffon. The lovely creation by Narciso Rodriguez should have been utterly comfortable, but her corset, which she wore always as was proper, was really starting to bug the hell out of her. The thing was, though, she wanted to look nice for Butch, even though he wouldn't care and not because he was ill. He just wasn't attracted to her anymore. Didn't want her around, either.

Still, she would continue to dress well when fresh clothes were brought in.

Pity that what she wore here had to go into the incinerator. What a shame to burn all those dresses.

Chapter Nine

That pale-haired fucker was back
, Van Dean thought as he glanced through thick chicken-wire fencing.

Third week in a row the guy'd come to Caldwell's fight underground. Against the cheering crowd around the fight cage he stood out like a neon sign, although Van wasn't clear exactly why.

As a knee made contact with his side, he refocused on what he was doing. Drawing back his bare fist, he snapped his arm out and connected with his opponent's face. Blood exploded from the guy's nose, a starburst of red that landed on the mat right before the man's body did.

Van planted his feet and stared down at his opponent, drops of his sweat landing on the guy's abs. There was no referee to stop Van from throwing more head punches. No rules to keep him from kicking this side of beef in the kidneys until the bastard needed dialysis for the rest of his life. And if there was even one twitch from that human throw rug, Van was going to let loose.

Bringing death with his bare hands was what the special part of him wanted to do, what the special part of him craved to do. Van had always been different, not just from his opponents but from everyone else he'd ever met: the seat of his soul was that of not merely a fighter but a warrior of the Roman kind. He wished he lived back in the times when you eviscerated your opponent when he fell before you… then you found his home and raped his wife and slaughtered his children. And after you looted his shit, you burned whatever was left down to the ground.

But he lived in the here and now. And there was another complication of late. The body holding in this special part was starting to age on him. His shoulder was killing him and so were his knees, though he made sure no one knew it, in or out of the fight cage.