Dark Fire by Christine Feehan. Dark Series – book 6

Tempest sat down right where she was, on the side of the road in the pouring rain. Furious at himself for acceding to her demand to stand when he knew she was too weak, Darius ignored her protest and swung her back into his arms as if she were a child. For once, she didn’t protest, didn’t say anything. She turned her face into the warmth of his chest, burrowed close to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart, and lay passively in the safety of his arms, shivering from shock and the cold rain.

Barack had made the drive in record time. He liked the speed of modern cars and took every opportunity to hone his racing skills. He stopped exactly in front of Darius, his face, through the windshield, a mask of darkness. The youngest of the men, he had retained remnants of the easygoing boy they had all been so fond of until Syndil was attacked and they began to trust no one, not even themselves.

Darius pulled open the car door and slid in, never relinquishing his hold on Tempest. Her eyes were closed, and she didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge the vehicle. It worried him. She is in shock, Barack. Thank you far getting here so quickly. I knew I could count on you. Get us home with the same speed. Darius spoke to his friend on their mental pathway rather than aloud.

Shall I wait for Dayan? Barack inquired, using the same mental path that was familiar to all five of his people.

Darius shook his head. Dayan would make better time flying, even in the storm. As would he, if he were willing to frighten Tempest to death by whisking her through the air. He was not. Indeed, he knew that his unfamiliar emotions were feeding the intensity of the storm he had created.

Tempest didn’t speak on the long drive back to the campsite, but Darius was aware that she was awake. Not once did she doze off. Still, her hold on her self-control was tenuous at best, so he stayed quiet to avoid saying or doing the wrong thing, anything that might make her want to run away again. He couldn’t let her go. The attack had only proved to him how much she needed him, too, and the last thing he wanted to do was create a situation where she feared him or challenged his authority.

Julian Savage was lounging lazily against the motor home as they drove up. He straightened with his casual strength, a ripple of muscles that revealed his power, as Darius slid from the seat of the car, the small, red-haired woman held unbelievably protectively in his arms.

“I know something of the healing arts,” Julian offered softly, although he strongly suspected that Darius would refuse his help. The man’s hold on the woman was fiercely possessive; Darius would never turn her over to another man.

Darius flicked Julian a smoldering black glance. “No thank you,” he answered tersely. “I will see to her needs. Please ask Desari to bring Tempest’s knapsack to the bus.”

Julian was careful not to allow a glint of humor to show in his eyes. Darius had a soft spot after all. And she had red hair. Who would have guessed? He couldn’t wait to tell his lifemate. With a slight salute, Julian sauntered away.

Darius jerked open the door to the motor home, entered it, and gently placed Tempest on the couch. She rolled into a ball, facing away from him. He touched her hair, his hand lingering, trying to convey comfort. Then he turned the tape player on low, so Desari’s haunting recorded voice could fill the silence with healing, shimmering beauty. Next he filled the tub with hot, scented water and lit special candles, their aromas also designed to promote healing.

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.