For a long moment, Jack panted as blood dripped from various wounds. Then he turned and knelt by Chase’s prone form, close enough to feel the residual warmth of her body and bask in her cinnamon-and-spice scent. “Chase?”
Christ, but her body did not look good. A massive bruise colored her right temple and her eye was swollen shut. Blood crusted her lips. But it was her cheek that worried him. The crawler’s hit had crushed the bone, caving in the side of her face. So delicate, Mary Chase was. Illusions, for she’d heal soon enough. But the thought of someone hitting her, damaging that fragile beauty, made his breath catch.
She came back into her body with a jolt and inhaled sharply, her body stiff as starch. Her wide golden eyes shimmered with pain. And it was bad. Her body twitched, her lips pressed tight as if she held in a cry. Before he could think, he cupped her good cheek with infinite care. He’d never touched her in tenderness. And he cursed himself for doing it now. Even so, his thumb caressed the silk of her skin.
“Hold still.” With his free hand, he dipped his fingers into the open wound on his shoulder. Fingers coated in his blood, he held them up to her soft lips. Understandably, Chase drew back, not harshly, but away from him just the same, and her nostrils pinched as if discovering something foul. He held her steady. The small movement she’d taken had made her wince. Black blood bloomed along her sunken cheek.
“Can you trust me, Chase?” He said it as softly as he could.
Her eyes narrowed. It was clear that she did not want to talk. A shard of helplessness speared his chest. And he sounded gruffer than he wanted as he eased his bloody fingers past her parted lips. “Let me in.”
Her little gasp and the moist touch of her mouth lit through him. “It will heal you,” he managed. His gut tightened, and he swallowed hard. “My blood.” Shit, shit, shit, what the hell was he doing?
Shock and hesitation were clear in the gleaming depths of her eyes. But her lips parted farther, and he slipped inside. Hell’s bells, he hadn’t thought this out properly. The tentative flick of her tongue at the tip of his finger sent a lick of heat straight down to his cock. It leapt to life with a reflexive jerk, and Jack took a steadying breath.
“Suck it.”
Her eyes widened, and Jack grimaced. “Lick it—damn it.” Heat rose over his face. “I meant, the blood. Take the blood.”
Thankfully she understood and, God help him, her lips closed around his two fingers, and the wet, warm flat of her tongue stroked along the base of them. He barely stayed the groan that wanted to rip free or the way his body yearned to sway closer to hers. Somehow, though, his hand had cupped the back of her head, and he held her close. He didn’t have it in him to draw away. Not yet.
Her lashes lowered, as if looking at him was too much to bear. But the effects of his blood, fresh as it was from his body, were immediate. Healthy color bloomed along her skin, and the bruising around her temple and eyes faded. Her cheek, however, was still crushed, the bones knitting too slowly for his liking. Nor did he fancy the winces of pain she made with each small move.
Breathing through his nose, he pulled his fingers free of the torture that was her mouth. Chase’s plump lips opened to speak, and he laid a finger on the soft bottom curve stained crimson from his blood. “It’s not enough,” he said, and then, because he was part idiot and because he couldn’t stand seeing her like this, he eased her head up to his shoulder.
The warm puff of her breath brushed the bared skin at his shoulder. And Jack shivered. Glancing down, he saw that his wound had already knitted closed. With an impatient sound, he grew a pair of claws and tore it open once more. Pain lanced down his arm, and hot blood pumped from the wound with every hard beat of his heart, but his mind was already on the woman half in his embrace. Warm, soft, fragrant. Holding her was an alien experience with which he had no practice. He did not hold women. Nor offer them his greatest gift and secret. Yet here he was.
She stared at him, quiet and thoughtful, and looking just a bit shocked. He knew she understood what he wanted. Yet he found himself speaking, low and too urgently for his own good. “Take more, Chase.”
Mary knew she’d received a hard hit, but the pain hadn’t truly registered until the fight was over. It consumed her now. Yet the moment she’d taken his blood, relief had flooded her veins. Her cheek tingled and itched as it struggled to mend. Now his solid arm was wrapped around her back, and his hand held her head to him with surprising care. He wanted her to take his blood straight from the wound. A shocking intimacy.
Later, when the pain passed and she could think clearly, Mary could cringe at the memory. But now she stared at the rich, dark blood flowing from his shoulder and acted without thought. His body stiffened at the touch of her tongue to his flesh, and his sharp, indrawn breath had her heart speeding up.
Mary closed her eyes and ignored everything around her. Nothing but his blood. Experience told her it ought to taste metallic and flat. Instead it held the flavor of bittersweet chocolate and fortified wine. Again came the surge of well-being and the sharp tingle as her blood quickened. Her lips closed over hard muscle and warm skin. Talent grunted, his fingers gripping her hair and his heart pounding hard enough for her to hear. Her br**sts pressed against his chest, and her ni**les tightened. Heat flooded her limbs, swirling low in her belly as she lapped at his blood. What was she doing? She ought to be repulsed, yet the flavor of him teased her tongue, delicious, then fading away an instant later. She wanted more. Was this why they’d kept him? Taken his blood, one after the other? The thought slammed into her, cold and sharp. She froze, her lips just touching his skin.
Against her Talent shivered, his hard body tensing as his breathing increased. Agitated. Holding it back by force.
This was wrong. She should not be using him in this way. And yet he’d offered. Mary couldn’t account for it. Regardless, she eased back, her lips brushing his shoulder in a manner that was far too close to a kiss for her comfort. He resisted for a moment, as though he thought she needed more. But then he let her go.
Mary felt no pain as she sat up and lowered her gaze to her lap. No pain, but a thick, hot press of embarrassment. Silence descended between them, smothering and unnerving. Then he cleared his throat, and his deep voice swept over her. “Better?”
Yes. And no. She’d healed. But she’d been in his arms, had taken sustenance. So very intimate. And with him.
She risked a glance and found Talent stone-faced as usual. Only his eyes held any curiosity.
“I’ve never heard of blood being able to heal,” she said.
Talent blinked. “It isn’t usual.” He looked away, and the weak alleyway light cast his face in shadows. “In truth, I don’t know of another’s blood that can.”
“How long have you known?”
His massive shoulder, now healed, lifted. “Long enough.” The corner of his mouth curled a touch, a secretive sort of smile. “You’ve heard of Ian Ranulf’s salve?”
Mary had. The ointment, made by Ian’s housekeeper, had extraordinary healing properties. Daisy went on and on about how it mended serious injuries so well. They’d used it on Winston Lane after a werewolf had attacked him.
At her nod, Talent’s smile twitched. “My blood is in it. Ian thinks Tuttle makes it. But I do. Tuttle won’t say a thing because the household reveres her for the skill.”
“Why haven’t you told Ian?”
Again his shoulder lifted. “Didn’t trust him in the beginning.”
Mary remembered her first days with Lucien. She’d feared letting anyone in. Feared that her good fortune would end, simply from the act of accepting another person’s care. She didn’t know what Talent’s early life had been like, but it could not have been any better than hers.
Talent’s voice grew flat and impersonal, his eyes on the cobbles beneath them. “Later… Well, I didn’t want to explain why I’d kept it a secret.”
She knew Jack Talent hated the idea of disappointing Ian Ranulf.
“And it’s not something I want anyone to know…” Talent stiffened, his expression hardening, and Mary realized that he hadn’t meant to voice that particular thought.
“By Adam’s touch, I swear that I won’t tell a soul.” As a GIM, it was the most sacred oath she could make.
He nodded awkwardly, then his attention abruptly turned to the corpses strewn about the narrow space. Mary hadn’t forgotten about them, precisely, but was glad to study them now. On shaking limbs she stood, and was almost up when Talent hauled her the rest of the way with a firm grasp at her elbow. He let her go immediately, brusque once more as he stepped closer to a crawler.
“Looks familiar, does he not?”
She glanced down at the crawler. “It’s Mr. Pierce.”
“Mmm.” Talent peered closely. “The real one. Or what’s bloody left of him.”
Pierce’s limbs were composed of both gold and flesh. The flesh was rotting and falling away in places, giving off a horrible stench.
“I understand shifters have an exceptional rate of regeneration, Master Talent; do you not find it odd that, although he was a shifter, Mr. Pierce is in such an advanced state of decay?”
“Yes,” said Talent grimly. “Something has been done to him. A shifter’s body ought to reject the application of false limbs. We can regrow ours, after all.”
“Curious.”
Talent turned toward the other crawler. “Now this fellow I don’t know.”
His body had been mutilated. Crude metal legs, an iron-forged false fist—which was what had smashed her face—an iron clockwork heart that looked wrong when compared with the GIM’s elegant devices. His flesh was grey and decaying about the edges of his limbs.
His torso was made entirely from iron, and coals glowed dimly at the bottom of his rib cage. He’d been the one to breathe fire upon them. The memory had Mary looking Talent over again. “What happened to your… wings?” The huge wings had been leathery like a bat’s but had the graceful shape of an angel’s.