The Night Everything Fell Apart (The Nephilim Book 1)(31)

He stood abruptly, turning his back. “Now that you know I’m alive, maybe you should leave.”

“Leave?” Her tone conveyed utter disbelief. “Are you nuts? Where would I go?”

“Somewhere safe,” he said.

“There is no such place. Arthur. Look at me.”

He turned around. She regarded him seriously. “Even if there was a safe place, I wouldn’t go. I’m staying with you.”

“You don’t know what I am now.”

At that, her brows hiked up. “Of course I do. I’ve lived with adepts all my life, remember?”

“Not ones who aren’t...who can’t—” He blew out a breath. “Not ones like me.”

“Aren’t what? Can’t what? What are you trying to say?”

He walked to the window and stared out over the moor. “My power...it’s too much. It’s tearing me apart. I’m afraid it’ll rip you apart, too.”

“You would never hurt me.”

He pressed his forehead against the glass. “Not true,” he said. “I already have.”

He heard a sigh and a rustle of bedclothes. He imagined her untangling her long legs from the sheets and swinging them over the side of the mattress. Her footsteps approached. When she laid a soft hand on his shoulder, he flinched.

“This conversation is ridiculous,” she said. “We both know I’m not going anywhere. Come on. Turn around.”

He did as she asked. “Cybele—” Before his mind registered what was happening, she crossed her arms, grasped the hem of her blouse, and pulled it halfway over her head.

“No.” He yanked her arm down. Her shirt fell back into place, but not before he’d caught a flash of creamy skin and a rose-brown nipple. Dear ancestors. No bra. He went still, his fingers tightening on her wrist, staring at the place where that damn sleeve had slipped off her shoulder. Again.

“Not a good idea.” His voice was like rust.

She gave a huff of exasperation. “I think it’s an excellent idea.”

“It’s not. When I’m not in my right mind...sexual lust...deathlust...it all feels the same.”

Her eyes widened. “You can’t possibly think you’ll kill me.

He loosened his grip on her wrist and let her hand drop. “It could happen,” he said.

Her brows came down. “Okay, yeah. That is kinda a mood killer.” She studied him. “But maybe you’ll calm down once you wash off all that blood.”

“I washed at the well,” he said.

“You did a half-assed job of it.”

“All right.” He headed for the door. “I’ll take care of it.”

She caught his arm from behind. “Let me do it.”

He looked at her over his shoulder. “There’s no water.”

“Yes, there is. I brought it up earlier.” She nodded toward the stockpot. “It should be hot by now. I’ve got clean towels, too.” They were stacked on a chair nearby.

He hesitated.

“Arthur...”

Cybele had never been one for subtlety. The look on her face told him there was no chance of him slinking off into some corner to hide. If he went down to the library, or to the garden, she’d follow. Bugger it all, even if he fled to the other side of the globe, she’d be right behind him. To be brutally honest, he was—cowardly, selfishly—glad of it.

“All right,” he said. “But make it quick.”

He tracked her progress across the room. Why couldn’t that damn neckline stay put? The slope of her shoulder showed through the tangled silk of her hair. He couldn’t force himself to look away. Absently, she gathered all that hair into an elastic band she’d been wearing on her wrist, and then shrugged the drooping sleeve back into place. He felt the loss like a punch to the gut.

Lifting the pot’s top, she picked up a cloth and dunked it in. Water splashed. “A little hot, but I figure that’ll feel good.” She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Well, step it up. Get over here.”

His feet moved. Her scent reached out, gathered him in. A flash of dark excitement raced through him. The same sensation he’d experienced seconds before he dove to a kill.

Bloody hell.

She made a swirling motion with one finger. “Turn around.”

He met her gaze briefly before obeying the order. He tensed as the wet cloth met his skin. She stroked his upper back. Hot water trickled down his spine. She was right. It did feel good. Way too good. He swallowed.

She swiped the towel across his lower back, just above the waistband of his jeans. He imagined her hands lower, cupping his arse. Her fingernails curling into his skin. Another stroke, this time up his right flank and shoulder, and then down his arm. His breath grew ragged. When he closed his eyes, violent red light exploded behind his eyelids.

“You’re so tense,” she murmured. “Relax.”

“I’m fine,” he bit off. “Just get on with it.”

He heard splashing as she dunked the cloth and wrung it out. Her hands trembled. He felt it when the cloth touched his back again. Even so, she washed a methodical path, back and forth, working her way from the top of his spine to his lower back.

This attempt at calm didn’t fool him. Cybele wasn’t fond of restraint. She was only careful when she was uncertain. Though he could tell she was trying to control her breathing, it wasn’t quite steady. Neither was his.