When Wicked Craves (17 page)

She looked up, searching his eyes for something she didn’t find, then stood up. His glance skimmed over her, and she turned her head away, not wanting to be the subject of scrutiny. Suddenly just wanting to be left alone.

“Your clothes,” he said.

She pulled at her shirt, realizing that one of the rips
revealed the swell of her breast. She tugged the cotton closed, then bent over to grab her backpack. She didn’t mean to, but she glanced at him, and saw then what she’d fantasized about only moments earlier. A flash of desire. A hint of heat.

Her cheeks warmed, and she swallowed. “I should change.”

“You should.”

“And sleep. My head’s all muddled.”

“Understandable.”

“Right.” She hugged the pack close to her, covering most of the rips and tears. “I’ll just do that.”

When she came back—now in a long-sleeved T-shirt, gloves, and fresh jeans—he wasn’t in his seat. Probably up front talking to the pilot, but she couldn’t ignore the niggle of disappointment. She was so exhausted, though, that she didn’t think about it. Just closed her eyes and let herself drift.

She heard him come back, and she waited for him to take the seat opposite her. He didn’t, though, and she had to force herself to keep her eyes closed when she heard him sit down across the aisle. She was being absurd. Foolish. And it had to be because she was tired. So tired.

So exhausted from running, from hiding. But she had to keep going.

The monster was chasing her, chasing her, and she couldn’t get away.

Soon it would touch her. Would change her.

Soon it would kill. Destroy. Tear.

Blood. Limbs. Walls dripping with blood.

Screams echoing through the air.

And the stench of fresh death, so sweet, so sweet, so unbearably sweet—

“Petra!”

She stirred, the dream pulling her back in, not wanting to let go.

“Petra, dammit!” This time the voice was accompanied by a hard jolt to her chair, and she jerked forward, thrust out of sleep, and found herself looking in Nicholas’s concerned face. And she found herself holding Nicholas’s hands.

Not completely. Not really. The blanket and her gloves were seeing to that. “Petra?” He was right there, his eyes meeting hers. “Are you okay?” His hand squeezed tight.

She wanted to scream that she wasn’t. That this nightmare had been different. Like she’d been in Serge’s head. Like she’d been seeing what he craved.

She wanted to pull him close and let him comfort her, but she couldn’t. She had to stay alone, and he just didn’t seem to get that. Him, with all his science and studies, just didn’t get that if she wasn’t careful, people ended up dead. Or worse.

“Petra, dammit, talk to me. Is it Serge? Do you feel him again?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. It was … brutal. Blood. Images of killing. Nothing specific. Just horrible.” She looked up and met his eyes. “But maybe it was just a regular, old-fashioned nightmare. I have them all the time.” All her life. Almost every night. And every night there was no one to hold her or comfort her.

She’d be a fool to think she could start finding comfort now. She wasn’t a fool, though, and no matter how
much she might want his soft words, she knew better than to open that door any wider than the crack they’d already managed.

She took a breath, then pushed the words out, speech coming harder than it ever had before. “Please. I just want to be alone.”

She probably wouldn’t have noticed the way he flinched if she hadn’t been watching him so closely. But he did, and he pulled his hand off hers, the blanket remaining warm from his touch. “Of course,” he said, then stood up. “No problem.”

He didn’t look at her as he walked across the aisle and took his seat again.

She shifted, moving automatically to stand and follow, then stopped herself. She’d meant to push him away, and it had worked.

Slowly, deliberately, she tugged the blanket up around her shoulders and turned to look out the window and into the night. It was better this way. She didn’t need anyone else. Didn’t need his hollow comfort. She’d always taken care of herself. Even with Kiril at her side, that was the way it had always been. There was no other way it could be. There were no hands to hold, no hugs to steal, no shoulders to cry on.

In the end, she had no one to rely on but herself.

With precise, calculated movements, Nick moved away from Petra’s chair. He stopped by the bar on his way back to his seat, helping himself to two small bottles of
scotch and a glass. He didn’t bother with the ice. He sat, unscrewed the first, then poured.

He downed it easily, frustrated when the burn in his throat did nothing to soothe the wounds her coldness had inflicted.

He shouldn’t care. Goddamn it all, he shouldn’t care at all.

He closed his eyes and gripped the edge of the table, as if the physical act could force control into his limbs. He didn’t need to like the girl. Didn’t need to talk with her or do a damn thing with her.

All he needed to do was use her, save Serge, and then be on his fucking way.

He poured the second bottle, then shook his head as a deep loneliness overcame him.

Shit.

He wasn’t even thinking his own goddamn thoughts.

All this anger and loneliness … well, he had to own up to some of it, but most of it was her. And because he’d given her his blood, the pain in her heart now coursed through his veins.

Loneliness, anger, fear.

And not fear of Nick, or of Serge, or even of being on the run.

No, what Petra feared was exposure. She wanted the world to see a woman who needed no one other than herself, and anyone who got even a peek at the truth deserved a slap across the face.

He sighed, his irritation fading slowly, as her emotions bubbled inside him. Not just exposure, he realized. No, she’d pushed him away for another reason, too.
Desire.

He closed his eyes, letting the warmth of that emotion flow over him, knowing she would be mortified if she realized he could feel her desire, and yet also realizing that had he simply opened his eyes he could have seen it as plain as day, no blood connection necessary. The flush on her cheeks. Her arousal in the mist. Emotions that were new and overwhelming, heady and exciting.

New.

He turned the word over in his mind, realizing the ramifications. She was untouched. Despite the blue moons that must have filled the sky in her adult years, she had not yet been with a man. He was certain of it, and that certainty both intrigued and saddened him. Twenty-six years she’d walked this earth, her body wanting, and yet remaining untouched.

How many years had it been since he’d lain with such a woman? Too many to count, and he imagined what it would be like to pull her close and stroke skin that had never been stroked. Kiss flesh that had never been kissed.

He wanted to take away the pain of that loneliness, and the depth of that want troubled him. He didn’t usually empathize with his clients quite so much, but he had to admit that her situation was unique. Not to mention they were stuck together for the duration.

And, of course, he hadn’t gotten laid in a very long time.

So was it any wonder he was thinking about touching that smooth skin he’d only glimpsed, so provocative beneath the rips in her shirt?

No, no wonder at all.

But there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

He lifted the glass, but the liquid was gone; he’d drunk it without even realizing. Fuck. He stood, and though he didn’t intend to turn around, he found himself glancing backward at Petra. She was snuggled deep into her blanket, breathing softly.

The nightmares, at least, had abated.

He took a step toward the front of the plane. Damn, but he needed another drink.

At the service area, he paused. Through the closed door, he could hear Pyre talking into the radio. He didn’t know the weren, but right then company sounded better than a drink.

He turned the knob and pushed the door open, then stepped in, facing the pilot’s back.

“We’ll be over the Atlantic in less than ten. A few hundred miles should dump us straight in the middle of nowhere.”

He frowned, now on alert—but it was too damn late.

In the split second it took for him to realize something was wrong, Pyre had pulled a gun and nailed him with a bullet.

And not just any bullet, Nick realized, as he staggered backward, strength flowing out of him like water.

Hematite.

Petra burst awake as the plane banked sharply to the left as a gunshot rang out in the small cabin.

She dove sideways into the aisle, and when she looked up, she saw Pyre holding a gun in one hand and a parachute in the other, pushing himself unsteadily from where he’d apparently fallen against the wall.

Behind him, Nicholas stumbled, his face contorted in anger, his fangs bared and chest bloody. But he managed to catch the guy around the legs and jerk him down hard.

The parachute was knocked out of his hands with a thump, and the gun went skittering, but Pyre didn’t slow down at all. He kicked back, catching Nicholas in the face, then scrabbled forward, rising from the floor even as he grabbed the chute again and moved with exceptional speed—not toward her, but toward the emergency exit door only a few feet from Nicholas.

Holy shit.
He’d tried to kill her. He’d done a number on Nicholas. And now he was going to leap to freedom and leave her and Nicholas in an out-of-control plane.

Fuck that.

She stumbled to her knees, trying to get to her feet as the plane pitched wildly.

She wasn’t fast enough. In one quick movement, Pyre
yanked the handle. The door popped off, flying away as it was caught by the wind—the resulting vacuum sucking Nicholas out into the black night as well.

She heard a scream, and realized it came from her.

Terrified, she grabbed on to the metal legs of the table, the pitch-black sky looming like a void of terror.

Except she couldn’t hold on. The werewolf slammed his shoes against her fingers, and before she knew what was happening, she was drawn through the air toward the dark maw that opened onto nothing but the air at thirty thousand dizzying feet.

“Noooo!”
Her scream ripped from her throat, and she reached out, grappling for the werewolf, catching him with her gloved hand.

He jerked, trying to free himself, but she held on.

She wasn’t going down alone.

They’d made her a victim, but she wasn’t. Not really.

No, she was a weapon, and she would damn well—
damn well
—defend herself.

And with a final burst of strength, she tightened her grip and forced herself closer, her lips aiming for his cheek.

That was all it took.

One brush of flesh against flesh, and the curse shot through him, making his body tremble and the parachute fall from his hands. And the raw energy of the werewolf’s change was so powerful that it knocked her free—and sent her tumbling out into the night, and into the arms of death.

Even as he was sucked from the plane, Nick was grappling at the wound in his chest, his slick fingers trying desperately to obtain purchase on the hematite slug now jammed between two ribs, lodged so firmly that he couldn’t get a sufficient grip to pull it out.

A freefall to the earth from a plane took about three minutes, which was too close for comfort, especially considering that his slippery fingers weren’t giving him much cooperation.

Above him, he saw Petra burst out from the plane, her scream ripping through the sky.

Fuck it.
As long as he could avoid sunlight, he’d survive a fall to the earth. Petra would not.

He grabbed the flesh of his chest and pulled, gritting his teeth from the pain of flaying his own skin and muscle until he had revealed the very white of his bones.

Using his fingers as a lever, he pried his ribs apart, his fingers straining to keep the gap open as he hooked his index finger into the cavity, probing and then—
yes
—pulling out the slug, now smashed almost flat from the impact with his flesh and bones.