Page 37 of Immortal Bastard (The Order of Vampires)

“That should be warm enough. If the water chills, you can add more from the kettle.”

She trailed a tattooed finger through the water. Crossing to the door, she held it open to him.

“I’ll leave you to bathing then.”

Her gaze followed him in an almost entrapping sense. Dark lashes framed her watchful eyes as her mouth curved ever so slightly with the hint of a smile. Alas, they were forming a truce.

“Is there anything else you need, pintura?” His voice turned gravelly as the image of her naked body soaking in the tub filled his mind.

Her dainty fingers curled around the thick edge of the open door. His chest filled with a much-needed breath as the scent of lavender mingled with her familiar fragrance. She smiled at him sweetly, and he drew closer, a magnetic pull luring him in.

Then the door slammed in his face.

Right. So, she was still upset about being taken and held against her will.

Every couple had challenges.

CHAPTER 5

As Delilah washed, she noticed several things that were not quite normal. Her fingernails, which she always kept clipped short for work because they easily split and cracked, were strong and peeking past the tips of her fingers. Also, the scar she’d had on her knee since eighth grade when she fell off a dirt bike was gone. Most alarming, though, was her tattoo, the one of a ladybug over her knuckle, the one she’d gotten before all the others when she was just a girl, was fading. She’d have to touch it up as soon as she got back to her shop.

Like a feather, something tickled at the edge of her mind, irritating, and begging to be investigated. Some deeply buried part of her conscience that favored self-preservation and sanity told her not to examine those nagging instincts too closely.

She needed to cope with her circumstances and focus on escape. She could process the trauma of whatever was happening to her later.

Not wanting her fear to overwhelm her, she concentrated hard to avoid the most upsetting of her thoughts, repeating several commands like affirmations.

Don’t pay attention to the psycho on the other side of the door.

Try not to dwell on the big gaping hole in your memory.

Don’t think about him choking you—while he fucked you.

And what happened earlier…

Oh God…

Shame reared its ugly head and she submerged under the water, screaming in frustration.

She focused only on what she could handle, temporarily ignoring the sense that something absolutely terrible happened to her, something that went deeper than a kidnapping and assault.

She rose from under the suds and stared at her hands. No hangnails. No scars.

She searched her body, noting the tightness of her skin over lean muscle. There were no creases or dry patches. Not an ounce of blubber, not a dent of cellulite, and not a single mosquito bite when she knew damn well she got lit up last week at a bonfire party.

Dragging her sharpest fingernail across the back of her hand, she watched as flesh peeled back like pulp leaving a raw scrape in her soft skin. Seconds later, the mark was gone.

“What the fuck?”

The water grew cold, but she was reluctant to get out, not wanting to face Christian again. So confused about what he did to her and what he expected of her, she feared moving. If she stayed very still, perhaps she could stop time, stop this nightmare from continuing.

The man was destined for disappointment. She wasn’t staying. It was just a matter of escaping and getting to a phone.

His mixed signals baffled her as he flip-flopped between kind and cruel. Didn’t he realize as soon as she was safe, she’d go to the police? She had no loyalty to him and wouldn’t hesitate when it came to seeking justice. She hated him. Yet sometimes he watched her as if he wanted, more than anything in the world, for her to like him. That sort of insecurity was a complete contradiction to his default setting of arrogant controlling asshole.

Earlier, when she’d yelled at him, he actually looked hurt. Well, what did he expect? He kidnapped her. They weren’t friends.

And damn her for being such a waif of a cliché, because she had liked him on some level. And part of her, despite everything he’d done to her, still lusted for him.

She sank into the tub again, so disgusted with herself that she thought she deserved to drown. What sort of modern woman did she represent if she still fell for that pull-your-hair playground bullshit?

There was something seriously wrong with her because he did way worse than pull her hair. And damn her to hell, because the moment she thought of him pulling her hair a bolt of desire spiked through her, deflating her fury.

She must still be on drugs. That was the only explanation. He probably put something in the juice or her food.