Page 71 of Inked & Bloodbound
“I need to get you home.”
She nods, so I wrap my arm around her waist and lift her off the ground, scooping her up like a sleeping baby. She curls inward, and it triggers my protective instincts. How small and fragile she is against me. How easily she could be broken.
When I lay her gently into the passenger seat of the Maserati and buckle her seatbelt, she makes a tiny noise of thanks. I push her hair away from her forehead and plant a tender kiss on her brow before closing the door.
We drive in silence, and when we reach her place, I notice it immediately—a familiar scent that doesn’t belong. Sweet, almost cloying. Like cotton candy. Human, but one that’s been around vampires long enough to carry their essence.
A familiar. I don’t recognize it from the Hollow, but I’m certain it’s Lazaro’s work.
I should have known to expect this eventually, but even still, hot rage creeps up my neck and into my cheek. They’ve found her. Someone from the Sixth has been here, in her sanctuary, probably while we were out tonight. Sniffing around, mapping the territory, letting me know they can reach her anywhere.
Lily doesn’t notice my reaction as I unlock her front door and carry her inside. She’s still too shaken and I’m grateful for that. She has enough to worry about without knowing her home has been violated. And if she sees me lose it again, I’m not sure I’ll be able to handle that look on her face. The one that reflects back at me and reminds her I’m a violent monster. An irredeemable dead creature filled with insatiable thirst, incandescent rage, and supernatural strength.
I leave her in the bathroom, slumped on the ground with the taps running a bath whilst I check the house, discreetly sniffing the air looking for traces of the human smell that lingers.
Whoever was here came through the back door and has been through the whole place. The scent trails from room to room, lingering near drawers and cabinets, as if the intruder was looking for something.
The scent is strongest in her bedroom, and when I peel back her blush-pink bed covers, a mist of Lily’s scent disperses and almost knocks me off balance. She truly is the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted or smelled. Every inch of her is a perfect sensory wonderland, begging to be tasted. And to know that a stranger was here, in theplace she feels safe enough to sleep makes me burn with deep fervor.
I lift her pillow to my nostrils to take a deep sniff, and the scent has traces of familiarity, but I can’t place it right now. It’s cloying, sweet, and with an undertone of something repulsive. Like a candy cane laced with tooth decay. I commit the scent to memory and replace the pillow in the exact spot I found it. If it’s the last thing I do, I plan on chasing down its source like a bloodhound with a vendetta.
When I return to the bathroom, Lily hasn’t moved from the spot where I left her. Slow, heavy breaths rattle through her motionless body, which remains folded on the tiles. Her glassy, vacant eyes stare into space. Her condition appears to have worsened in the few minutes I’ve been gone.
“Fiore,” I say softly. “I’m going to take care of you, okay?”
The bathtub is almost full, so I shut off the taps and test the water with the back of my hand, making sure it’s not too hot for her. Stacked along the ceramic edge are mismatched jars of colorful salts and soaks, each capped with a wooden lid. I grab a fistful of rose and chamomile-scented pebbles and scatter them across the steaming water.
“Easy now,” I say, lifting her off the tile and propping her on wobbly legs. “The water will be good for you, my love.” I kiss her hands and back away toward the door, still holding them. “I’ll give you some space, but I’ll be right outside the door, I promise. I’m not going anywhere.”
Her trembling hands grip mine, and she shakes her head defiantly. “No,” she croaks. “I want you to stay.”
These are the first words she’s spoken aloud since the bar, and even though it’s hoarse, her voice sounds like sweet music to my ears.
“Then I’ll stay.”
She sways against me, her hands fumbling at the hem of her dress. I watch her try to lift it over her head, but her arms tremor so badly she can barely manage to raise them. After a moment, she drops her hands to her sides in defeat.
“I can’t…” she whispers, her voice so small I almost miss it. “My hands won’t stop shaking.”
She gapes up at me, and I see a flicker of trust warring with caution.
“Will you help me?” The words come out barely audible, like she’s afraid to ask.
“Of course, amore.” I keep my voice gentle, and I reach for the zipper at the back of her dress. “I’ve got you.”
She stands perfectly still as I work, her breathing shallow but steady. When the fabric pools at her feet, I help her step out of it, then guide her toward the bath. She leans heavily against me as I swirl my hand in to mix the salts.
“The water’s perfect,” I murmur, supporting her as she steps into the tub. “Just relax. You’re safe now.”
She sinks into the warm water with a shuddering sigh, and for the first time since the attack, some of the tension leaves her shoulders. But her eyes remain distant, like her thoughts are locked somewhere I can’t access.
“Cass, I’ve got a headache,” she says. Her voice already sounds stronger. “Give me that hand and put it on my head. Like a cold rag.”
“Anything you need.”
When I place my icy hand against her brow bone, she sighs and sinks lower into the water. For a while, we stay like this—with me kneeling beside the tub with my palm providing cold relief, and her lying still with her eyes closed. Occasionally shifting position and punctuating the silence with the sound of water sloshing against the sides of the tub.
The guilt of seeing her like this, so fragile, hits me like a freight train, and I realize how badly I’ve fucked this up.