Page 32 of Close Quarter
Amsterdam?
He sat up. No. On a ship, heading to New York. Only this vast room--with too many windows, a balcony, and more space than his first apartment--was not his cabin.
What the hell?
Then the memories came. Radmila's perfect lips. Jarek's jagged teeth. A shudder ran through his body. They had eaten him--his flesh and blood. His soul.
He didn't hurt at all, at least physically. He examined his arms. Smooth, unblemished skin over his wrists, chest unmarred by claws or teeth. He ran his hands over his neck. No scars. Nothing.
No clothes either. Naked in someone else's bed.
Silas.He had come, a sword-wielding angel, out of the night. Fought the vampires. Killed them.
The cabin had to be his. But Silas was nowhere to be seen. Rhys scrubbed his face with his hand and took a better look at the room.
In the far corner of the cabin, a pile of crumpled and bloody clothing had been heaped around a dead potted tree. Dried leaves had fallen on top of the clothing and lay near the hands clutching the pot.
Hands.Rhys sucked in a breath.
Silas had wrapped himself around the plant.
The heap of clothing was his, still worn, in tatters and stained rust-red with blood. Every inch of skin not covered by cloth bore cuts and bruises.
Rhys couldn't tell if he was dead or sleeping.
"Silas?"
The lump stirred and cursed in a language Rhys didn't understand. Silas uncurled from the tree. Sitting up took him far too long.
"Holy shit!" The words slipped from Rhys's mouth.
Silas was far from the same man he accompanied to dinner, gaunt and so pale he looked blue. The rags of his clothes hung from his frame. Bloody gashes covered his neck and his shoulders, and he clutched his left side. His nose was a mass of bulging purple. "I didn't mean to fall asleep."
Even his voice had lost its fullness and life.
Rhys slipped out of the bed. God. He wanted to pick the man up off the floor and hold him.
"What did they do to you?"
Silas held up a hand and scooted backward several inches. "Don't!"
Rhys froze in his tracks. There was terror in Silas's eyes. Fear of him. "Don't what?"
"Don't come near me." Silas scrambled away until his back hit a set of dresser drawers.
The words were a knife to Rhys's stomach. "I want to help you. You're injured."
"How very observant you are."
The bitter sarcasm brought an unexpected stinging to Rhys's eyes. Not again. Not his man. He clenched his fists until his nails bit into his palms.
Silas swayed, even though he sat. He placed a hand on the floor, probably to keep himself from toppling over.
Rhys took another step forward.
Silas lifted his head and growled a single unintelligible word. He bared his teeth and tensed every muscle. Feral. Like a trapped wolf.
Rhys stopped. "Why won't you let me help you?"
