He couldn’t help rubbing his finger back and forth over the scrapes on her ribs and the side of her breast. Each pass sent more blood pounding through his cock, but that only made him feel as if he was really alive when he’d been dead for so fucking long.
Savage closed his eyes against the sight of her bruised, swollen face. Her tears. She wept, but silently. He wasn’t positive she knew her tears were there, but he did—and that was so dangerous when she was with a man with cravings and addictions like his.
He shook his head. “You do know that something’s wrong with you. Why aren’t you screamin’ for help?”
“You’re my fiancé, right? You’re my very first fiancé. I’ve never had one before.”
The laughter in her voice stunned him. She was hurting. He read it on her face easily. He could feel the fine tremors racing through her body as it shuddered in pain. Still, she had that sense of humor. A little sick like his. He was trying to scare her so she’d throw him out. He didn’t belong in the same room with her. Not now. Not ever. He was trying to let her know what a sick bastard he was, but so far, he hadn’t succeeded. She was making it impossible to save her. To save both of them.
He stroked caresses over her cheeks, those high cheekbones. Her soft mouth. Both eyes. He lingered over the dark-colored bruises and then swept the pads of his fingers very lightly over the knot on her head.
“This hurts bad, doesn’t it?” His breath was a whisper of warm air blown softly over the swelling. He brushed his lips lightly over it as if he could kiss her better. He kissed both eyes lightly and then followed the trail of her tears, licking and sipping until he was certain he’d collected every last one of them and there were none left.
“Yes,” she whispered again.
“I can make it all better. I can turn your pain into something else.” His voice, his touch, was mesmerizing. He knew because he had been raised to be compelling. He knew every expression to use, the tone of his voice, the octave that appealed. He just hadn’t bothered for years, because he hadn’t wanted to keep anyone.
Savage pulled back abruptly. What the fuck was he thinking? Tying her to him? That wasn’t happening. Not now. Not ever. He sat up and rubbed his head. He kept it shaved, although he had thick hair. He liked the look and he knew it added to the intimidation factor. He was Savage and he always would be. He didn’t keep women. Certainly not a woman, not one like this woman, not one for himself. He slid off the bed.
“Gotta go, Seychelle. Hit the call button after I leave and tell them to up your meds. There’s no reason for you to suffer like this.” For him. She was suffering for him.
He turned back to her, because he couldn’t stop himself from making what he knew was a huge mistake. “I’m fuckin’ going to kiss you, Seychelle. Just this once. Gotta leave with the taste of you in my mouth. If you object, now’s the time to say it. Don’t know if it’s goin’ to matter to me, but I’ll take any objection you might have into consideration.”
He wasn’t joking, but that dimple of hers came out again, making his cock leak like a sieve and his heart stutter in his chest. She didn’t voice an objection. Her blue eyes drifted over him as if she was claiming him. He felt the touch of those blue flames licking his skin, burning him so deep he knew he wasn’t getting her out of him anytime soon. It didn’t matter. He would never see her again. It wasn’t safe for either of them.
His mouth settled on hers. Her lips were full, soft and paradise just to feel. He was risking everything just to kiss her, and the moment he did, the moment his mouth was on hers, she gave herself to him. Fire. Flames. Passion. They poured into him. She tasted like heaven. Something he’d never experienced. An angel sent to save him, and all she got for her trouble was bruised and scraped flesh.
It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but kissing her. Taking her taste into his mind, then his body. Setting up an addiction. He was a fucking fool for kissing this woman. He’d known he’d be lost, and he was. Thunder roared in his ears. His blood thickened into molten lava. Electrical sparks seemed to dance over his skin. She tasted like innocence. She tasted like sin. Passion welled up, hot and undeniable. Real. Every single nerve ending that had been dead since he’d been ten years old flared into fiery, hungry predatory need.
Abruptly, he lifted his head. He caught her jaw in his hand, thumb pressing deep. “Look at me, Seychelle.” He waited until those eyes of hers looked straight into his. “Your life is worth far more than a fucking bastard like me. You don’t ever trade it for anyone’s again. You got that? You deserve it all. The white picket fence. The dream. All of it. Don’t throw it away on someone like me. Do you understand?”
She was looking right into his eyes. She had to understand. She had to see him. Right down to his rotted soul. He was a killer, and she couldn’t fail to see that. He wanted her to see him, to see inside, where he never let anyone see. He wanted her to know what she’d saved today. How close she’d come to death for a man who was trained to kill and had been doing so since he was a young child. A man whose first thought was to kill when anyone crossed him. She saved that. Worse, he was a monster. The real deal. She saw that. And still she didn’t flinch. He wanted to shake her.
Instead, Savage’s hold on her face gentled and he touched his lips almost tenderly to hers. He wasn’t going to see her again—not ever. That would be a disaster. He knew her now, knew how soft she was inside. Knew her compassion and her need to save others. He had to stay as far from her as possible. He wasn’t a man who saved lives—he took them, but he would make an exception this one time, even though she saw the monster he never let anyone see unless they were going to die.
* * *
Seychelle took a deep breath and stared at the door. The moment she had put her hands on the man and pushed him to move him out of the way of the truck, she had felt an overwhelming darkness in him. Her heart beat too fast. She couldn’t look away from the door. She didn’t react to men. She just didn’t. Women either. There was something terribly wrong with her. Until him. Until she saw him in motion, running across the street directly in the path of that oncoming truck. She didn’t know why, only that such a beautiful man couldn’t die.
Touching him wasn’t a good idea. Having him lie on the bed in a dark room with her wasn’t a good idea. Kissing him was probably the worst idea of all. He’d moved his hands over her lacerations as if he claimed them—claimed her. It hurt, yet she couldn’t make herself pull away. In some way she wanted him to do it, because she felt even more connected to him. The way he looked at her, touched her, was more intense than she’d ever experienced in her life. For the first time in her life, despite the fact that she was hurting like hell, when he touched her like that, even before he kissed her, she felt herself go damp with arousal.
It was a damn good thing she was never going to see him again.