The farther away she moved, the stronger the magnetic pull to follow her tugged at something deep in his chest. He gave in to the urge with slow, methodical steps. Her pale skin, dilated eyes and multiple injuries all spoke of the degree of trauma she’d experienced tonight. How could he inflict more?
A truck rounded the corner, headlights swinging over the ground behind her. The backlighting threw a golden halo around her. She whirled toward the sound of the approaching engine and moaned.
Suddenly, all the frightened tension left her body. And then she was freefalling straight backward.
Henrik launched himself toward her and caught her in his arms before her soft body made contact with the cold, hard ground.
Jakob appeared right next to him, stance clearly ready to intervene.
“I’ve got her, brother,” the king said, voice full of gravel.
“Are you sure—”
“I’ve fucking got her.” He rose, cradling her in his arms. Heat roared off her. “Jesus, she’s burning up.” He shot to the Range Rover’s backseat. Lars already had the door open. Henrik climbed inside and slid to the middle, Kaira still in his lap, her feverish heat soaking into his chest.
Jakob stood in the open door watching, his expression full of hesitation.
“Let’s go.” His brother inhaled as if to speak, and damn if Henrik didn’t know what he was going to say. “Goddamnit, I’m fine. Let’s go.”
Jakob closed the rear door and climbed into the passenger seat.
Amazing thing was, Henrik did in fact have it under control—or what passed for control for him. The bloodlust was there, causing his fangs to throb so hard he had to keep applying the counter-pressure of his tongue against the sharp points to offer some relief. And the hunger was there, squeezing his gut and burning his throat. And the monster still paced at the gates of his mind. And all three threatened to pull him under the surface and suffocate him in the evil of the demon growing stronger within him.
So what stopped him?
She stirred against his chest, and he drew his gaze to her face. Young. Pretty, with her soft blond hair and high cheekbones and inviting pink lips. Beautiful, actually. He stroked his hand over her forehead. Dry heat blazed off her skin. What was wrong with her? Had she been feverish when he’d drunk from her? Her succulent taste. The quenching of his eternal thirst. The way her soft body cushioned all his hard angles. These things came readily to mind. But not whether she’d had a temperature.
He frowned and concentrated. The memory of her appearance in the gallery paraded through his mind’s eye. The gown had skimmed over her feminine curves, framing enticingly appealing cleavage and the slim column of her throat. As intriguing, her gray eyes had held the wisdom and weariness of someone who’d handled her share of life’s downs and then some, despite her age. He knew the look—and the feeling. How odd to find something so fundamental in common with someone so different from himself.
Realization washed over him.
She was what stopped him. It had been her voice in the gallery that had snapped him from the fantasy of taking her right then and there. And it had been the squeeze of her hand and the sound of her pleading words that had given him the wherewithal to stop drinking from her when he’d been in so very deep—not to mention completely convinced he no longer possessed that kind of willpower.
Both times, he’d been about to drown, and she’d resuscitated him with merely a word, a touch.
Sharp tingles played under the skin of his palm. He rubbed it against the wool of her coat without realizing what he was doing.
Lars hung a hard left onto the nearly hidden rural road that would take them into the mountains overlooking the city and the fjords that led out to the Norwegian Sea.
Henrik braced his hand against the seat to minimize jostling her. When he looked down again, the top of her coat had sagged open, revealing the savagery that had been done to the silky material of her gown—and to her throat.
And not just by him.
He pulled the coat closed, giving her the modesty she deserved.
Jesus, it might almost be easier to tolerate if he’d been the sole cause of her misfortune. Even a moment’s entertainment of the thought that Soul Eaters had touched her, fed from her and nearly killed her was enough to boil the blood where it flowed in his veins. The growl rumbled from his chest unbidden.
Jakob’s gaze snapped toward him.
“Don’t worry about me. Just hurry,” Henrik rasped. “She’s not well.”
The Rover shot ahead. Soon, they turned again, this time onto the gravel drive that twisted through a dense stand of trees. A rusted metal gate swung open as the truck approached and closed immediately behind them again. They’d been on security cams for the past mile. His warriors knew they were inward bound.