Page 22 of Night of the Vampire
Okay. That was entirely possible, even though I'd tried to make sure he wouldn't, but I could have easily missed him with so many other pedestrians. "But, why were you there tonight? In the middle of the night?"
Slow and careful, as though he didn't want to frighten me away, he took another step toward me. "I wanted to see you."
"Why? Because of your friend?"
"Partly."
"But I already told you I can't help her."
"I said 'partly'."
I stared at him, my heart pounding in my chest and my legs feeling more wobbly by the second. "Why did you want to see me?"
"To do this."
Killian was suddenly right in front of me, his delicious smell overtaking my senses. My hands went up, gripping the front of his shirt. Vaguely, I wondered why he didn't smell like smoke. He'd been in the apartment. He'd saved us. He should stink like I did.
As if in slow motion, his head dipped down close to mine. I closed my eyes, feeling like I couldn't catch my breath, and it had nothing at all to do with the smoke inhalation. He nuzzled the side of my neck, his lips warm as they brushed against my skin. I knew I smelled awful, but I couldn't bring myself to move away. I was completely frozen where I stood. And so very conscious of the large bed right behind me.
His breath feathered against my neck as he moaned in my ear, the sound so erotic I had to lock my knees to remain standing. Something scraped the side of my throat where my pulse beat a rapid staccato. "You smell so good," he whispered.
"I don't," I told him. "I need to shower."
He froze, then slowly straightened, turning his head away before I could see his face. "I'll get you some clothes." And then he walked out of the room.
The air rushed out of me so fast my head swam and I felt behind me, looking for the bed, before I ended up on the floor. My fingers scraped along the edge of the mattress and I let my knees give out with a grateful sigh.
Killian reappeared a few minutes later with an armful of clothes. "I think these should fit you. You're about the same size."
"Whose clothes are they?" From the colors, they appeared to be women's clothing, and I felt something sharp and painful stab me in the chest.
"They're Kenya's. My friend who's sick," he clarified. "She won't mind."
His friend. Whose clothes were at his house, even though he was currently staying at hers.
Yeah, got it.
I suddenly found myself wanting to burn her clothes in the fire. "Thank you, but I can just put my own stuff back on."
He looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. "Don't be ridiculous. Even if you washed them, I don't think you'd get the smoke smell out." He laid the borrowed clothes on the bed beside me.
I could tell he was waiting for me to say something, but I couldn't even bring myself to look at him for fear he would see the pettiness in my expression.
"All right, then," he said. "I'll leave you to it." When I still wouldn't look at him, he added, "I'll leave a key and the code for the gate on the table in the kitchen. Please make yourself at home. No one will bother you here. I'll come check on you tomorrow night, after you both get some rest."
He touched my hair, still in a messy knot on top of my head to keep it out of my face when I slept.
I finally got a grip on myself. "Thank you—" I started to say as I raised my head.
But he was gone.
A wave of weakness washed over me and I sank down onto the bed, staring at the plush carpet and breathing deep until it passed. Eventually, I wandered out of the bedroom, Wiggles on my heels, turning lights on as I went. "Killian?" But there was no sign of him.
I discovered I was on the first floor of the house. The bedroom I was in was at the end of the hall. Next to it was a full-sized study with bookshelves lining the walls. It contained a simple desk that held a large computer monitor. A simple leather chair was behind it, the seat turned as though someone had just been sitting there.
Wiggles sniffed around the desk, but finding no crumbs, he plopped himself down in the middle of the floor and watched me as I walked over to the closest shelf. My attention was immediately grabbed by what looked to be an ancient edition of Bram Stoker's Dracula, set inside a glass display box. Pulling it carefully from the shelf, I admired the tan cloth cover. Stamped on the front was a color image of Dracula's mountaintop castle. There were a few stains on the binding, but overall it was in excellent condition for something that looked so old. I was tempted to see if it was signed by the author, but I didn't want to risk damaging it.
Carefully putting the box back on the shelf, I walked the perimeter of the room, trailing my fingers along the spines of Killian's collection and trying very hard not to think about what had happened to me tonight. Because if I did, I feared I would break apart, and there was no one here to put me back together.
