Page 138 of Red Rooster

“It’s growing.” She turned back to him, and he shut his mouth so quickly that his teeth clicked together. Her smile tugged at one corner, muscle in her cheek fluttering. Her lovely blue eyes filled with tears. “The tumor. It’s growing again. That’s why I’ve been seeing you more – why the hallucinations are getting worse.”

His hands opened and closed in the air above her shoulders, utterly useless.

“The doctors can’t – or they won’t…” She wiped at her eyes again, and her fingertips came away wet this time. Her voice darkened. “My father called, and he says there’s this…this experimental treatment…”

Everything inside of Val went cold. His breathing caught; back in his cell, no doubt he was hyperventilating with his eyes closed, his stomach in knots. “But you won’t…I mean, you haven’t spoken to him…”

“I’m considering.” She looked and sounded completely defeated, and it crushed him to see that she’d given up. Even as a small, twisted little voice in the back of his mind whispered,But there’s a chance. He could save her.

“I don’t want to die,” she whispered. “Maybe that’s really selfish.”

“It’s not.”

She spun the chair slowly back around, so she faced the desk, and the myriad plaques that hung above it. Her eyes went to one, dark wood with a gold center, her name etched in the center, marking her the regional champion last year.

“You have to say that,” she murmured. “You’re a figment of my imagination.”

Sunlight filled the engraved letters, set them aflame: MIA TALBOT.

He’d wanted to touch her since the moment he found himself in the middle of her charmingly cozy living room several months back. She’d been curled in an overstuffed chair with a blanket and a book – about vampires, of all things, some silly bit of fiction rot in which two pining would-be lovers were kept apart by sunlight – and he’d been struck by the urge to hook a finger beneath her chin, tilt her head back, and press his face into her clean, smooth throat; see if she smelled the way she looked: petal-soft and rich with strong blood. But as time wore on, and he at first found himself with her by accident…and later by choice and no small amount of effort…he’d wanted to touch her in other ways. Had imagined it alone in his pitiful cell, with nothing but his own dirty hand for company.

He’d never wanted to touch her as badly as he did right now; wanted to set his hands on her shoulders, knead the tension from them. Press a kiss to the top of her head and tell her that all would be well.

It wouldn’t, though. She was dying, and there was nothing the doctors could do.

At least nothing thenormaldoctors could do.

He shifted so he stood beside her chair, able to glimpse her face and the grave sadness etched there. “Tell me about your father’s cure.”

She blinked and her eyes slid over. “I’ve told you before.”

“Tell me again.”

She heaved a deep sigh. “It’s experimental. A drug trial that’s only available to wounded combat veterans, which I am clearly not.” She gestured to her elegant riding attire, sullied by dirt down one side where she’d fallen.

Val tried not to let his panic overtake him again. He gave a sharp nod. “Yes, but if your father’s in charge, then he can do as he sees fit.”

She snorted and rolled her eyes. “Okay, I may not work in experimental, government funded medicine, but I’m pretty sure that’s not how it worksat all. And besides.” She bit her lip. “Dad is…” She shook her head. “It’s difficult.”

“He sounds like a horrid man from what you’ve told me,” he agreed, and having met the man, he agreed even more than he could tell her. “But if he could save your life…” He let it hang. They’d had this discussion before. Short of shaking her – which he couldn’t do – and begging her – which wouldn’t work, he didn’t think – he had no way of forcing the issue again.

“Yeah,” she murmured, distant now.

How easy it would be if he was truly here now. He would sit down on the desk, and open his legs, take her by the hand and pull her to stand between. Hands on her narrow waist, lips at her brow, her nose, her crushed-rose lips. “Trust me,” he’d murmur against her ear, and she would shudder, and press in closer to him. Lips at her throat, faint salt smell of her skin. She would smell like horses, like hay, like wild exhilaration. And he would sink his fangs, and drink deep, drawing the taint of disease from her body. When she was too weak to stand, he would support her in his arms, and bring his opened wrist to her mouth. “Drink,” he would urge, and she would. And she would sleep, and he would hold her. And when she woke, she would be well. And immortal. His princess.

“…Val?” She’d said his name several times by now.

“What, sorry, yes?”

She smiled at him, full of affection. “It’s bad enough my students ignore me, but even my imaginary friend does, too.”

“Don’t call me that,” he snapped before he could catch himself, and she recoiled.

He took a deep breath and softened his tone. “I’m not that,” he said, more gently. “I’m not imaginary.”

Sadness touched her smile. “But you’re not real.”

He swallowed. Clenched his jaw. Tilted his chin up to an angle that had once been imperious, had once sent men scrambling to obey, but probably now just looked pathetic. “I am,” he said with great dignity. “I amreal, Mia, and you know it.”