Darius didn’t turn on the overhead lights. He could see perfectly without them, and Tempest wouldn’t want them. “Come on, baby, into the bath,” he said, lifting her tenderly but quickly, giving her no chance to protest. “The herbs in the water will sting at first, but you will feel better afterward.” He seated her on the edge of the huge tub. “Do you need help with your clothes?” He kept his voice strictly neutral.
Rusti shook her head quickly, then regretted it when her head pounded and her eye throbbed. “I can take care of myself.”
“I do not think we will get into that right now. You are not up to a sparring match.” The slight teasing note in his voice surprised him even more than it did her. “Get into the tub, honey. I will be back with your clothes and a robe. You can eat when you get out.” He bent to light two more aromatic candles and let their flames flicker and dance on the water and walls.
Rusti undressed slowly, reluctantly. It hurt to move. She was numb inside, too worn out and shell-shocked even to worry about what Darius was or what he wanted from her. She knew he believed he had successfully erased her memory of what he had done to her the night before. Even now, with the horror of
this
night surrounding her, she still felt the burning heat of his mouth on her neck. She slipped into the steamy tub, gasping as the water lapped at her sore body.
Why did strange things always happen to her? She was careful, wasn’t she? She slid beneath the water, the stinging from her eye and mouth taking her breath away. When she came up, she lay against the sloped side of the tub and closed her eyes, resting. Her mind stayed mercifully blank. She couldn’t think about Harry or what she might have done to bring on his vicious attack. He had wanted to hurt her, and he had.
“Tempest, you are falling asleep.” Darius didn’t mention that she was moaning softly in distress.
She sat up quickly, arms covering her breasts, water sloshing out of the tub. One eye, a vivid green, stared up at him in alarm, the other swollen and purple. She had quite an interesting array of colors sweeping across her face and body, proof of her vulnerability, yet she still managed to look defiant. “Get out,” she demanded.
Darius smiled, a flash of white teeth. It reminded her of a predator’s silent challenge. He held up both hands, palms out. “I am only trying to help you not to drown. Dinner is ready. Here is a robe.”
“Whose is it?” she asked, suspicious.
“Mine.” It was the truth and yet not the truth. He had created it easily, instantly, from natural fibers, a trick learned over the centuries. “I will close my eyes if it makes you happy. Come out of there.” He held up a huge towel for her.
“You aren’t closing your eyes,” she accused him as she stepped into it. He was staring at a particularly nasty bruise on her rib cage. It embarrassed her that he could see the damage her attacker had inflicted; she didn’t stop to think why it didn’t embarrass her that he was seeing her naked.
Obediently he closed his eyes, but the vision of her—small, forlorn, hurt, and so alone—stayed with him. He felt her slender form enclosed in the towel beneath his hands before he allowed himself to look at her. She appeared more childlike than ever. And for the moment Darius treated her that way, drying her shivering body impersonally, pretending not to notice her soft, satiny skin, her curves, her tiny rib cage and narrow waist. He toweled the red-gold strands of hair, dark now with moisture.
“I can’t stop shaking,” Tempest said, her voice a mere thread of sound.
“Shock,” he said gruffly. He wanted to hold her in his arms, take away what had happened to her. “You are in shock. It will pass.” He quickly wrapped her in the warmth of the robe because he couldn’t stand seeing her skin so bruised and swollen. He hated the way her eyes avoided his, as if she had something wrong and was ashamed.
“Put your arms around my neck, Tempest,” he ordered softly, his voice a blend of huskiness and hypnotic power.
Rusti reluctantly complied, and he lifted her up, forcing her to look into his black, burning eyes. She almost groaned. She could get lost in his eyes. No one should have those eyes.
“I want you to hear me this time, Tempest. This was not your fault. You did nothing wrong. If you need to place blame on someone other than the man who attacked you, place it where it belongs: squarely on my shoulders. You would never have left if I had not frightened you.”
She made a sound of protest, of fear. She told herself it was because the candles suddenly went out, leaving the bathroom in darkness, but she knew it was more than that.
He held her gaze, not allowing her to slip from his mesmerizing possession. “You know it is true. I am used to telling everyone what to do. And I am very attracted to you.” He winced inwardly at the understatement of that particular comment. “I should have been more gentle with you.”
Darius carried her into the dining area and placed her in a chair at the table. A bowl of steaming soup was waiting for her. “Eat it, honey. I slaved over this for you.”
Tempest found herself attempting a smile. It stung her mouth, then she felt it inside her, spreading warmth. No one, as far back as she could remember, had ever treated her with so much caring. No one had ever made her a bowl of soup.
“Thanks for coming after me,” she said, stirring the broth, trying, without seeming to, to see what was in it.
He sat opposite her, took the spoon from her with a little sigh, dipped it into the soup, and blew on it. “You eat this stuff, not play with it,” he reprimanded, and he held the spoon to her mouth.
Reluctantly she complied. Astonishingly enough, it was good. Who would have suspected a vampire could cook? “It’s vegetable soup,” she stated, pleased. “And it’s very good.”
“I do have my talents,” he muttered, remembering all the various broths he had concocted for the baby girls, trying to keep them alive. Since Carpathians did not eat meat, he had worked with roots, berries, and leaves, trying everything on himself first, poisoning himself more than once.
“Talk to me,” Tempest pleaded. “I don’t want to start shaking again, and I can feel it coming on.” Darius held another spoonful of soup to her mouth. “Has Desari told you much about us?” She shook her head, concentrating on the warmth the soup provided.
“We travel a great deal, giving concerts, you know. Dayan and Desari are our singers. That is Desari’s voice you are listening to on the tape. She is very good, is she not?” There was pride in his voice.
Tempest liked his way of speaking, an Old World, old-fashioned manner she found oddly sexy. “She has a beautiful voice.”
“Desari is my younger sister. Recently she found her—” He broke off, then tempted her with another spoonful of soup before continuing. “She found a man she loves very much. His name is Julian Savage. I do not know him very well, and we sometimes have trouble
getting
along
.
I suspect we are rather alike, and that is the problem.”
“Bossy,” Tempest supplied knowingly.
The black eyes rested possessively on her face. “What was that?”
This time she did grin. It hurt, but she couldn’t stop herself. She suspected no one ever challenged or teased this man. “You heard me.”
His eyes burned suddenly with an intensity, with a dark, dangerous hunger that took her breath away, that made her think of the leopards he kept as companions. She pulled her gaze from his. “Keep talking. Tell me about everyone.”
Darius slid a hand over her damp hair and found the nape of her neck. His fingers curled around the slender column, liking the way she fit into his palm. Desire slammed into him, hard and unexpected, even as he was deliberately trying to view her as a child in need of his protection. He had touched her only to comfort her, but he didn’t let go. He cursed himself for his lack of control. He needed the contact with her, needed to feel her, to know she was real and solid and not some figment of his imagination.