Unspoken (Shadow Falls: After Dark #3)(55)

At least the big, bad vampire waited until Miranda had stepped out before speaking. “Actually, I think you’re going to start explaining right now. And start by telling me why Chase isn’t here. I texted both of you.”

But damn, all this happened so fast, Della didn’t know how to start to explain. “Yeah, but … uh, Chase kind of … He—”

“Spit it out,” Burnett ordered.

Della would have commenced spitting, but a loud crash came from Holiday’s office. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a jet black grackle come flying out of the office.

Standing closest to the door, Della slammed it shut to prevent the bird’s escape. Turned out, however, it wasn’t necessary. Burnett, almost as if he expected it, or if he caught and ate birds for dinner most of his life, reached up and snatched the bird from the air.

“Go check on Perry,” Burnett snapped, while he stared daggers at the feathered captive.

*

She found Perry a little woozy from taking a whack with a lamp across the head. But he was fine. After a few minutes, Burnett asked again about Chase. She spilled her guts. If his red face and four-letter muttering were any indication, Burnett didn’t take the news well. Della, however, was too concerned about Chase to be traumatized.

The first thing Burnett did was call Holiday and ask her to go check on Chase. Then he called Steve to meet Holiday there, where she was to assess if another doctor needed to be called in.

“Can I go now?” She wanted to be there to hear Steve’s assessment.

Burnett looked puzzled. “Don’t you want to hear what Perry’s cousin has to say?”

“You can just tell me, right?”

He studied her. “Just like you told me about Chase being hurt?” Frowning, he waved his hand. “Go. I’ll fill you in. But we will talk about this.”

Nothing like postponing an ass chewing. She flew off and arrived just in time to hear Holiday calling Dr. Whitman. Chase’s wounds now looked infected.

*

Chase woke to an empty stomach, his need for blood almost painful.

He lifted his eyelids and stared at the ceiling, feeling disoriented. A vague memory of going to the prison, of … pain. Lots of pain. Bits and pieces of memory fell into place. The were had escaped, another had cut him with a knife. Then the ghost had appeared.

Leo, the guard, had called the council.

He tightened his muscles, preparing to shoot out of bed to find answers, when he caught two scents. Baxter. And then one a hell of a lot sweeter than his dog.

Della.

Careful not to move, he glanced to the side through his lashes. The need for answers faded against his growing need to just … linger here. In this moment, with her, beside him. Asleep. In bed.

A smile, the one that just naturally appeared when she was close, widened his mouth. He worked to keep his breathing low, so as not to wake her.

She lay on her side, both her hands tucked under her cheek. Her dark lashes so long that they rested against the tender skin under her eyes.

Skin with a little dark tint, a sign she hadn’t gotten enough rest. How long had she been … here? How long had she been a hand’s reach from him, sharing his bed and even his pillow? He resented sleeping, feeling the time wasted, when he could have been watching her.

She lay so close he could feel her breath, a light tickle, on his neck. A strand of dark hair rested against her cheek. He longed to reach out and brush it away. Touching her hair was one of the things she didn’t balk about. Or at least not too much.

Little did she know how much he loved touching it. Not that there weren’t other parts he longed to touch. Still, the dark strands were soft, a lot softer than his hair, and always smelled like … like a girl’s hair should smell. A cross between a fruit and a flower.

He fought the need to run his fingers through the long dark strands, knowing that when she woke up this closeness would end. She’d pull back.

Della always pulled back. He just kept telling himself that the day would come when she wouldn’t. When touching her wouldn’t be risky. When she would touch him back.

He studied her lips—so pink, with the perfect shape. He wanted to press his mouth against hers. To taste her. He wanted … His gaze lowered to the scoop of her tank top, where the soft swells of flesh pressed against the cotton fabric. He recalled how she’d looked in just her panties and bra when he’d gone to her cabin the other night.

For that matter, he’d seen her naked when she’d been sick, in the beginning of her second turn. Mentally, he’d tattooed that vision to his mind, where he visited it often.

What he wouldn’t give to take her clothes off—every stitch of material—then to remove his own and feel her against him, skin to skin.

The feeling of rightness shot to his chest and then whispered lower, where his body hardened from all his wanting. Closing his eyes, staring at the blackness in his mind, he willed the primal urges to lessen. The last thing he wanted to do was to come off like a pervert. She didn’t deserve that.

He felt her stir, heard her breathing increase. Was she … He opened his eyes.

She stared at him, her lids still heavy, sleepy and sexy. He expected her to jackknife up, to put more space between them.

She didn’t.

“You’re awake.” She smiled. Damn, but she was beautiful when she smiled.