feed. If he was completely honest, he needed her touch, her attention. Deliberately, he moaned softly in his mind, his head back, eyes closed. He sensed her instant alertness, her concern. A rustle of papers signaled she had set her notes aside. Jacques beat down a sense of triumph, concentrating on the pain that encompassed his battered body.
Shea glided across the room, not noticing how silent she was, how efficient her body had become, moving with grace and speed. Her hand was cool on his forehead, soothing. She brushed back his grimy hair, her touch so soft that his heart ached. She bent to examine his wounds with a professional eye. Antibiotics wouldn't work on him any more than they did on her. Perhaps new soil would help. "I'm sorry I can't take your pain away, Jacques. I would if I could." Her voice was filled with concern, with regret. "I'll get you some fresh soil and wash your hair for you. It isn't much, but it can be soothing and might help." Her fingers were drawn to his mane of hair again, then traced his shadowed jaw in a small caress.
Both his hands came up, caught her with surprising strength, his black eyes capturing hers so that she felt she was falling forward into those dark, mysterious pools. You have not fed. She could get lost in his gaze for all time. She could hear the sound of her heart tuning itself to his. It was strange yet normal how their hearts seemed to want to beat in the same rhythm.
"I don't drink human blood. I transfuse if I'm desperate, but I can't make myself drink it," she explained quietly. She felt him now, in her mind, his touch calming and gentle. But there was also a hard authority in him. His will was so strong, nothing could resist him when he insisted. She wanted him to understand. "I am human, Jacques. Drinking blood is abhorrent to me."
To try to live for any length of time without feeding is dangerous. You must drink. Although Jacques tried to make it a simple statement of fact, it came out as a soft command. He didn't know where the information came from, only that it was true. It was plain to him she wanted his understanding in this ridiculous regimen she was forcing on herself, but it made no sense to him, and he could not allow such foolishness. He had to find a way to make her realize what she was doing to herself.
She smoothed back his hair, the touch of her fingers stirring interesting reactions in his battered body. Unaware of what she was doing to him, Shea smiled into his eyes. "I accepted a long time ago I would die if I was unable to find a cure. Now, do you want me to wash your hair?"
His hands tightened on her slender shoulders, pulled her down to him. You know, little red hair, as your lifemate it is my duty to see to your health. My purpose in life is to protect you and see to your needs. You are weak, unable to perform the most basic survival skills. This cannot continue. You must use the blood you are supplying to me for yourself.
There was something magical in his voice. She could listen to it forever. "There's very little left. As it is, I'll have to visit the local blood bank soon." She had already used most of her units to try to replace the tremendous volume of blood he had lost. "Really, Jacques, don't worry about me. I do this all the time."
Look at me, little Shea. His voice dropped an octave. Low. Compelling. An enticement. His black eyes held her green ones. Warmth flooded her mind; arms surrounded her, held her close. She fell further into deep, dark pools of burning heat. You will accept my blood, as you are meant to. He gave the command softly, firmly, holding her mind with his. The strength of his will, shaped by centuries of practice and honed by the fires of hell, conquered hers. Without hesitation he drew her to his chest, cradling her tenderly in his arms.
She seemed so light, so small and fragile. He loved the line of her throat, the satin perfection of her skin, her mouth. With one nail Jacques opened a small wound in his heavy
Shea glided across the room, not noticing how silent she was, how efficient her body had become, moving with grace and speed. Her hand was cool on his forehead, soothing. She brushed back his grimy hair, her touch so soft that his heart ached. She bent to examine his wounds with a professional eye. Antibiotics wouldn't work on him any more than they did on her. Perhaps new soil would help. "I'm sorry I can't take your pain away, Jacques. I would if I could." Her voice was filled with concern, with regret. "I'll get you some fresh soil and wash your hair for you. It isn't much, but it can be soothing and might help." Her fingers were drawn to his mane of hair again, then traced his shadowed jaw in a small caress.
Both his hands came up, caught her with surprising strength, his black eyes capturing hers so that she felt she was falling forward into those dark, mysterious pools. You have not fed. She could get lost in his gaze for all time. She could hear the sound of her heart tuning itself to his. It was strange yet normal how their hearts seemed to want to beat in the same rhythm.
"I don't drink human blood. I transfuse if I'm desperate, but I can't make myself drink it," she explained quietly. She felt him now, in her mind, his touch calming and gentle. But there was also a hard authority in him. His will was so strong, nothing could resist him when he insisted. She wanted him to understand. "I am human, Jacques. Drinking blood is abhorrent to me."
To try to live for any length of time without feeding is dangerous. You must drink. Although Jacques tried to make it a simple statement of fact, it came out as a soft command. He didn't know where the information came from, only that it was true. It was plain to him she wanted his understanding in this ridiculous regimen she was forcing on herself, but it made no sense to him, and he could not allow such foolishness. He had to find a way to make her realize what she was doing to herself.
She smoothed back his hair, the touch of her fingers stirring interesting reactions in his battered body. Unaware of what she was doing to him, Shea smiled into his eyes. "I accepted a long time ago I would die if I was unable to find a cure. Now, do you want me to wash your hair?"
His hands tightened on her slender shoulders, pulled her down to him. You know, little red hair, as your lifemate it is my duty to see to your health. My purpose in life is to protect you and see to your needs. You are weak, unable to perform the most basic survival skills. This cannot continue. You must use the blood you are supplying to me for yourself.
There was something magical in his voice. She could listen to it forever. "There's very little left. As it is, I'll have to visit the local blood bank soon." She had already used most of her units to try to replace the tremendous volume of blood he had lost. "Really, Jacques, don't worry about me. I do this all the time."
Look at me, little Shea. His voice dropped an octave. Low. Compelling. An enticement. His black eyes held her green ones. Warmth flooded her mind; arms surrounded her, held her close. She fell further into deep, dark pools of burning heat. You will accept my blood, as you are meant to. He gave the command softly, firmly, holding her mind with his. The strength of his will, shaped by centuries of practice and honed by the fires of hell, conquered hers. Without hesitation he drew her to his chest, cradling her tenderly in his arms.
She seemed so light, so small and fragile. He loved the line of her throat, the satin perfection of her skin, her mouth. With one nail Jacques opened a small wound in his heavy
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