"Let's get you back inside." He picked her up, holding her close as he raced back into the house. "I think you'd better take a shower and warm up."
"No." She touched his cheek, her fingers like ice against his skin. "Just lay with me, hold me."
Her voice was distant, frail. Worry snaked through him. He took her upstairs, peeling away the remains of the night dress before tucking her under the blankets. He stripped off his own clothes and climbed in beside her, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close.
"So cold," she murmured, nestling against him.
"I know." It felt like he was hugging ice rather than a flesh-and-blood woman. He pulled the thick comforter over them both then ran his hands up and down her arms, trying to get some heat into her.
"How are you feeling?"
"Sore. Cold." A tremor ran through her, through the link between them. But her thoughts, like her voice, were still distant, still weak. "My hair hurts."
No surprise there. Given the force of the energy that had flowed through her, it was a wonder she hadn't been burned to a crisp. "Would you like some coffee? Something to warm you up?"
"No. Just hold me."
He did, long into the night. It was close to dawn by the time the ice melted from her skin, and she began to retain some heat and regain her color. He didn't relax, just held her close, listening to her breathe and fighting the growing need to close his eyes and catch some sleep himself.
Dawn came and went. Light crept past the curtains, slithering heat and warmth into the room. Birds chirped noisily, cows mooed and, somewhere in the distance, a tractor spluttered and chugged. Finally, she stirred, though it was more a soft sigh of pleasure than any real sense of movement. But the quick thrust of heat through the link told him she was not only awake, but aroused.
He ran his hand up the warm length of her body and gently teased a nipple to life. Amusement ran through her thoughts, warm and lazy. But she didn't stir and didn't open her eyes. Making him do all the work, he thought with a smile.
He kissed her shoulder, her neck, her ear, all the while continuing to stroke her breasts. Her breathing became sharper, and the link between them grew hazy with need—his as well as hers. He pressed himself against her, thrusting gently against the round perfection of her bottom. She sighed again and reached back, touching him. Her caress ran heat though his body and almost shattered his control. He groaned and ran his fingers down her stomach to the mound of her hair. She shifted slightly, opening her legs to his touch. Lord, she felt wonderful—warm and wet and oh-so-ready for him. He stroked her gently, teasingly, bringing her close to the edge of a climax before pulling away.
"Tease," she murmured, her breathing hot and hard.
He smiled and continued his gentle exploration of her body. Got lost in the wonder and warmth of it, until the ache in him was a fire that burned through the link, wrapping them in passion and love.
Love that was returned, even if she wouldn't admit it.
He ran his hand down to her hip and cupped her again, caressing her, gently at first then more urgently as her breathing grew sharp and wildfire ran through the link, threatening to explode. As the shudders began to overtake her, he shifted, thrusting himself inside her. She groaned, a soft sound of pleasure he echoed. Her heat encased him, her muscles contracting against him as her climax grew. She touched his hip, holding him close, her movements as urgent as his. He thrust hard and fast, wanting, needing to come with her. Then the wildfire exploded, and her climax sent him spiraling beyond control and into bliss.
For several minutes he could do nothing more than simply lie there, wrapped in the warmth of her body, too contented, too spent, to move. A man could get used to this , he thought, and fervently hoped she'd give him the chance to do just that. While he had no doubts about his feelings—or hers—he still wasn't sure whether she'd step past her fears and looked towards the future.
"How are you feeling?" he asked, after a while.
"Wonderful," she said, and turned to face him.
Her eyes were no longer green, but the ethereal silver-gray of a storm-witch.
"What?" she asked, the warmth fleeing her expression and replaced by fear.
"Nothing," he said, as calmly as he could. "It's just your eyes. They've changed color."
She scrambled out of the bed and ran to the mirror. For several seconds she simply stood and stared, her fists clenched and every muscle taut. Then she reached out, touching her reflection, as if not quite believing it was she. "How is that possible," she whispered. "My eyes were green. How can they change so completely overnight?"
"I would say it has something to do with the spell and the powers involved." He hesitated. "Other than your eyes, do you feel any different?"
She shook her head, and outlined her reflection's eyes with her fingers. "I look like Helen."
"I've seen photos of the two of you, and you've always looked like her." The eyes only made it more noticeable.
"But… it's not me. I look in the mirror, and I see Helen. I don't see me any more."
He rose and wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. She was trembling, but whether it was from fear or cold he wasn't sure. "What I see is what I have always seen—a beautiful, courageous woman with amazing eyes. Whether those eyes are green or gray doesn't matter. It's only a surface alteration. It doesn't alter who you are inside."
"But I don't know who I am any more." There was more than a hint of despair in her voice.
"Everything's been twisted around. The past I remember has turned out to be nothing more than a lie, and it's killing people. Killed Helen…"
She broke off, a sob catching in her throat. He turned her around, and she buried her face against his chest. Tears tracked silently down his skin, their touch warm. He brushed a kiss over the top of her head and just held her. Nothing he said would make any difference right now. Too much had happened in too brief a period, and she just needed time to sort it all out.
Though time was the one commodity they didn't have a lot of.
As if to confirm the thought, his phone rang. Kirby jumped, her fingers clenching against his side. He brushed another kiss across her head, then released her and walked across to the pile of their clothes.
Picking up his still damp coat, he dug into a pocket and dragged out his phone.
"We got problems," Camille said immediately.
He rubbed a hand across his eyes. More problems was the last thing they needed. "What?"
"Russell's been attacked. They grabbed Trina and left him for dead."
But obviously not dead dead , he thought with relief, or Camille's tone would not be so calm. "How badly is he hurt?"
Camille snorted. "That fool witch obviously doesn't know much about vampires. Even damn Hollywood knows a stake through the heart is one of the better ways to incapacitate—" "Camille—" She sighed. "She shot him though the heart. Didn't even use a silver bullet. Then she roped him in front of the window. Maybe she just intended to let him fry."
"From what I've seen, that's more her style. She seems to like her victims to suffer." And thanks to that thirst, Russell was still alive. It would have been a different story had she aimed for his head. "Where is he now?"
"Still at the motel. The manager heard the ruckus and called the cops, and by the time Russ had it sorted out, it was daylight."
Kirby stood beside him. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and shifted the phone so that she could hear. "So, what's the plan?"