Lover Awakened (Black Dagger Brotherhood #3)(47)

He looked up at her with wild, crazy eyes as he kept rocking and scrubbing, rocking and scrubbing. The skin around the black-tattooed bands was brilliant red, completely raw.

“Zsadist?” She struggled to keep her tone gentle and steady. “What are you doing?”

“I…I can’t get clean. I don’t want you to get dirty, too.” He lifted his wrist and blood oozed down his forearm. “See? Look at the dirt. It’s all over me. Inside of me.”

His voice alarmed her even more than what he’d done to himself, his words carrying the eerie, groundless logic of insanity.

Bella picked up a towel, stepped inside the stall, and fell into a crouch. Capturing his hands, she took the washcloth from him.

As she carefully dried off his ragged flesh, she said, “You are clean.”

“Oh, no, I’m not. I’m really not.” His voice started to rise, a terrible momentum growing. “I’m filthy. I am so very dirty. I am dirty, dirty….” Now he babbled, the words running together, the volume lifting until hysteria pinged off the tiles and filled the bathroom. “Can you see the dirt? I see it everywhere. It coats me. It seals me in. I can feel it on my skin—”

“Shh. Let me…just…”

Keeping an eye on him, as if he were going to…God, she didn’t even know what…she grabbed blindly for another towel and dragged it into the shower. With a reach around his big shoulders, she draped him in it, but when she tried to pull him into her arms, he shrank back.

“Don’t touch me,” he rasped. “You’ll get it on you.”

She sank down to her knees in front of him, her silk robe catching the water, drinking it up. She didn’t even notice the cold.

Jesus… He looked like someone who’d been in a shipwreck: his eyes wide and demented, his soaked sweatpants clinging to the muscles of his legs, the skin of his chest covered in goose bumps. His lips were blue and his teeth chattered.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. And she wanted to reassure him that there was no dirt on him, but knew that would just set him off again.

As water dripped from the showerhead onto the tile, the rhythmic sound was loud as a snare drum between them. In between the beats, she found herself remembering the night she’d followed him up to this room…the night when he’d touched her aroused body. Ten minutes after he had she’d found him curled over the toilet, throwing up because he’d put his hand on her.

I’m filthy. I am so very dirty. I am dirty, dirty….

Clarity came to her in the shifting way of a nightmare, cleaving into consciousness with chilling illumination, showing her something ugly. It was obvious he’d been beaten as a blood slave, and she’d assumed that was why he didn’t like to be touched. Except getting hit, however painful and frightening, didn’t make you feel dirty.

But sexual abuse would do it.

His black eyes suddenly focused on her face. As if he’d felt the conclusion that had found her.

Driven by sympathy, she leaned in toward him, but the anger that bled into his face stopped her.

“Christ, female,” he snapped. “Will you cover yourself?”

She glanced down. Her robe was open to her waist, the swells of her breasts showing. She yanked the lapels together.

In the tight silence it was hard to meet his stare, so she focused on his shoulder…then followed the line of muscle to his collarbone, to the base of his neck. Her eyes drifted up his thick throat…to the vein that pumped just under his skin.

Hunger shot through her, making her fangs elongate. Oh, hell. Like she needed bloodlust right now?

“Why do you want me?” he muttered, clearly sensing her need. “You’re better than this.”

“You are—”

“I know what I am.”

“You are not dirty.”

“Damn it, Bella—”

“And I only want you. Look, I’m really sorry, and we don’t have to—”

“You know what? No more talking. I’m tired of the talking.” He stretched his arm out on his knee, wrist up, and his black eyes became devoid of any emotion, even anger. “It’s your funeral, female. Do it if you want.”

Time stopped as she stared at what he grudgingly offered. God help them both, but she was going to have him. With a quick move she arched over his vein and scored him cleanly. Though it must have hurt, he didn’t jerk at all.

The instant his blood hit her tongue, she moaned in bliss. She’d fed from aristocrats before, but never from a male of the warrior class, and certainly never, ever a member of the Brotherhood. His taste was a delicious roar in her mouth, an invasion, an epic, screaming blast, and then she swallowed. The torrent of his power ripped through her, a forest fire in the marrow of her bones, an explosion that pumped into her heart in a glorious rush of strength.

She trembled so badly she almost lost contact with his wrist and had to grab onto his forearm to steady herself. She drank in great, greedy pulls, starved not just for the strength, but for him, for this male.

For her, he was…the one.





Chapter Eighteen


Zsadist fought to keep still as Bella fed. He didn’t want to disturb her, but with every pull on his vein he was getting closer to losing it. The Mistress was the only one who’d ever fed from him, and the memories of those violations were as sharp as the fangs buried in his wrist now. Fear came to him, hard and vivid, no shadow of the past anymore, now a very present panic.