“You’ll heal, Jacques. Don’t be impatient. If you need something, I can get it for you.” His thumb was sending butterflies winging through her stomach. It amazed her that she was so susceptible to his charm. She just wasn’t like that.
Although his harshly sensual features remained a mask, something inside him melted, and he felt a leap of joy. He wanted to smile in spite of everything. The pain ceased to matter, his shattered memories and impotent body were merely inconveniences he would eventually get over. Shea mattered. Open the door for me that I might breathe the night, he said and tried not to devour her with his eyes. He was well aware she was beginning to see that no one—certainly not Shea with her gentle, compassionate nature—could oppose his will, a will honed in the fires of hell.
She did as he asked. “You didn’t try to get up, did you? You can’t, Jacques. You’ll do too much damage. And if you keep adding scar tissue, you’ll end up looking like Frankenstein.”
He had closed his eyes to inhale the fresh, clean night air. Carpathians never scar. It came out of nowhere. He was elated he remembered something. He was even elated he remembered Frankenstein.
Her eyebrows shot up. “Oh, really? Then what’s that thin line around your throat? I barely caught it, but it’s there.”
His black eyes snapped open, a merciless fury burning there. Shea stepped away from him quickly, her heart pounding. She could actually see red flames burning in the depths of his eyes.
He looked like a demon, an invincible predator. The impression was so strong that she brought a protective hand to her throat to cover the evidence of the ragged wounds there.
Jacques was unaware of Shea, the room, even his own weak body. The sensation of battle was strong in him. He touched the uneven, faint white scar curving around his jugular. The impression of danger was so strong, he felt the beast in him rage for release. Fangs exploded in his mouth, and his nails began to lengthen. His muscles rippled and contracted, and his power and enormous strength bonded briefly with his will. A slow, venomous hiss escaped him. Then the pain in his body from muscles waiting for release made him aware of lying helpless in a bed. He dimly remembered a woman’s anxious face, tears swimming in her large blue eyes. He should know her. He should know. Fists clenched, and he welcomed the exploding pain that drove the fragment of memory from his mind.
Shea saw his hands come up, clutch at his head to try to stop the pain. Instantly she was back at his side, soothing fingers brushing at the hair spilling across his forehead. “Jacques, stop tormenting yourself. It will all come back to you. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. Things are already coming back.” Shea padded across the room to her dresser and pulled out fresh clothes. “You persist in thinking your body can instantly set aside the trauma it suffered. It needs rest to repair itself, rest and care. So does your mind.”
I cannot do the things I must. I remember nothing, yet I feel there are things important to both of us I need to know.
She smiled at his frustration. Jacques was a man unused to being ill or injured. “You referred to yourself as a Carpathian. You know you’re from this mountain range. You remembered that.”
She moved into the other room. He could hear the sound of her dressing, the whisper of silk panties and cotton jeans sliding over her bare legs. His body clenched, burned, the rush of heat adding to his discomfort.
“Jacques?” Her voice was so soft, playing along his skin and nerve endings like the touch of fingers. “Please don’t be discouraged. Technically, you should be dead. You beat all the odds.” She moved back into the room, towel-drying her hair. “You thought I was one of your people. A Carpathian. Who are they? Can you remember?”
I am Carpathian. We are immortal. We can … He stopped, the information eluding him.
Shea leaned against the wall, regarding him with fascinated awe. Her mouth was suddenly dry; her heart slammed hard against her chest. “What are you saying, Jacques? You live forever?” What was he? And why was she beginning to believe him? Seven years buried alive. Surviving on the blood of rats. She had seen the red glow in his eyes on more than one occasion. She felt his impossible strength, even injured as severely as he was.