Serpent's Kiss (Elder Races #3)(74)

But he was still curious about why she took that knife.

He raised his voice and called, “How are you doing in there?”

“I’ll be out in a few minutes,” Carling called.

She had found the bedroom she had picked as elegantly decorated as the living room. There was another vase of fresh-cut flowers, the bed was made with French linens and another pair of French doors opened onto the wrought-iron balcony. The marble bathroom was large and as luxurious as the rest of the suite.

Carling stared at her reflection in the bathroom. She was halfway through cutting off her hair. She had luxuriated in the hot shower, soaping herself all over with the complimentary soaps and shampoo. Then she had toweled off, and considered the long wet tangled mess that hung down her back, and her without a brush. So she had reached for the knife.

She could only achieve a ragged cut without hair scissors, so she considered the teenage boy with the choppy hair style and tried to mimic that effect. She left just enough length so it could be restyled with more finesse at a later time. She finished quickly then fluffed the damp silky locks and considered the effect.

A stranger in the mirror looked back at her. The short ragged hair emphasized the stranger’s high cheekbones, full lips and narrow jaw, and turned her long dark eyes huge. After wearing the heavy waist-long length for so long, her head and neck felt so weightless it was dizzying.

It would do for now. She suffered yet another pang when she looked at the large pile of hair on the marble floor, but the sense of freedom was a much stronger lure. She smiled, shrugged on the hotel bathrobe and walked into the living room.

Rune stared at her, stunned. “Oh bloody hell, you didn’t,” he muttered. He rubbed the back of his neck. “You look magnificent, but all that gorgeous hair.”

“It’s a season of change,” she said. And none of that hair was going to mean a blasted thing to her if she was dead, so she might as well enjoy the feeling of freedom while she could. “Who was at the door?”

“A hotel employee. The paparazzi have started to flock.”

“Of course they have.” She regarded him. “You haven’t showered yet.”

“I’ve been busy.” Rune grabbed a leather kit out of the duffle bag and gave Carling a quick kiss on the cheek. “Bloody f**king gorgeous, but f**king hell. I’m going to miss that hair. I’ll be five minutes. Wait to call the Djinn until I’m done, okay?”

Warmed in a way that had nothing to do with the physical, Carling touched his jaw in a brief caress. “All right.”

When he had left, she picked up her shredded caftan and looked around the living room for a wastebasket. She found one tucked discreetly under a table. When she pulled it out to stuff the caftan in it, she found a wadded-up piece of cloth already in the bin. Curiously, she pulled the cloth out and shook it open.

It was Rune’s T-shirt with the picture of the hairy man. What was his name again? Jerry Garcia. Rune had thrown his favorite shirt away when she wasn’t looking. He had to have done it just now, when she had been in the bathroom.

How about that.

She let the caftan fall into the wastebasket and pressed her hand to her mouth. She closed her eyes and put her face in the shirt. It was saturated with his masculine scent. She took several deep breaths. The worn cotton material was soft against her cheeks. Then she gently folded the shirt and tucked it into the bottom of her leather bag.

Rune was as good as his word. When he rejoined her, she had opened the balcony doors and was looking over San Francisco’s distinctive skyline.

He had forsaken the bloodstained jeans in favor of slipping on the other pair, dirty though they were, although he had elected to remain shirtless and shoeless for the moment. The sprinkle of hair on his chest was several shades darker than his tanned skin and still damp. His wet hair lay sleek against his strong, well-formed skull, and just a whiff of his clean, masculine scent was enough to make the backs of her knees tremble.

She struggled between pride and desire. But really, how much would she miss her pride in a few weeks when she was dead?

Even with that thought, it was still remarkably hard to do what she wanted. She jerked forward and hit an unreasoning wall of fear. She had to shove her way through it to reach Rune’s side. His arms were already going around her as she put her head on his shoulder and leaned against his chest.

That was what she wanted. Just that one thing, his arms around her while she rested her head on his chest, and reaching for it had been one of the hardest things she had ever done.

Rune put his cheek against the top of her head. The rough haircut had done startling things, like lend a hint of piquant charm to her face. The odd flash of fear in her eyes as she came toward him tore up his gut, somewhere deep inside where that f**king hook was embedded.

I’m so scared, she had said to him, back on the island. He could not imagine what it must be like to face the possibility of one’s death. The thought of facing Carling’s death . . . He couldn’t process the thought. His mind whited out.

“Rune,” she murmured.

He realized he had clamped around her with bone-bruising force, and he made himself ease up. He cleared his throat and said roughly, “Sorry.”

“Are you all right?”

He didn’t answer her directly, mostly because he didn’t know if he was all right. “You need to call the Djinn. We need to get him looking for the knife.”