A Very Demon Christmas [Demon Hunters 1] (7 page)

He gave in to the craving to be close to her and leaned on her slight shoulder. The wound was already starting to knit together and his fever easing. Though he could've managed fine on his own, she helped him into the apartment, and he let her.

His half-demon constitution provided the benefit of rapid recovery from anything short of a mortal injury. If he'd been a full-blood demon, then he wouldn't have been hurt in the first place. Probably. Thad—the damn rogue had still been a wicked fighter. Colin could do things most demons couldn't. His ability to read minds made him a hard male to surprise. The unusual talent along with his handy trick of altering both moods and memories could've come from his human mother or the combination of interspecies DNA that made him a rarity.

"How bad is your arm? Do I need to cut off your coat?"

Holly's question yanked him back to the present. “No."

Really bad idea, since he was carrying a small arsenal.

She tugged at the jacket, and he flinched as the recent gash reopened and began to leak.

"I'm getting my scissors."

"No!” His harsh snap made her take a step back. Then she bowed her head as if he'd struck her. He softened his tone to a low growl. “Give me a second."

He shrugged out of the right side and stopped. Without the coat she'd see the blood.

Her head came up, and her eyes snapped to his. “I knew your voice was familiar. It was you at the club."

Hello, worst-case scenario.@ He couldn't read a single damn thought in her beautiful head, and it looked like he couldn't alter her memories either. Since he'd earned her anger, he left her pissed-off attitude alone. Besides, the odds were lousy that he could change her mood. He wasn't up for another failure.

A glint of pain flashed in her amazing green eyes. The wounded look changed to cool determination so fast he wasn't sure he hadn't imagined her hurt. While the idea he'd injured her made him feel like belly crawling was too good for him, he still couldn't explain to her why he'd left the club so abruptly, what he'd been doing, or how he'd gotten injured. The less she knew about him, about his world, the greater her safety.

Uneasiness coiled in his belly at the reminder that he didn't have a fucking clue about how much she knew.

"Either you take it off, or I cut it off, your choice,
Sir
."

He might have imagined her hurt, but his sweet little slave made her anger clear.

"Wait here.” He crossed to the bedroom, but she stayed on his heels. Since he didn't have the energy to put on demon speed, he veered to the bathroom. She followed him.

"Give me a minute.” He added enough compulsion to make the average sub jump back and kowtow.

Holly shook her head stubbornly. “Not while you're bleeding. Either I assess your injury, or I'm calling 911. Your choice, Sir."

Worst-case scenario slid into disaster territory. He closed his eyes, trying to focus on how to get Holly out of his apartment without involving human emergency services.

"Please, let me look at the wound. The moment I'm certain you're stable, I'll leave. Fair enough, Sir?"

Yeah, she'd softened her tone, but she was serious, and he was big trouble, because she was fucking irresistible. He nodded, eased off the heavy leather coat, folded it, and placed it on the counter. The dress shirt was already trashed, so he pulled a small pair of scissors out of a drawer and handed them do her.

"Dear God, where all are you cut?"

"My arm, just my arm.” His lips thinned in self-loathing. “Most of the blood isn't mine."

Making good use of the scissors, she snipped, peeled away the neatly trimmed sleeve, and then unwound the sash he'd used to stanch the blood loss. At least he'd already stashed his weapons inside his long coat, or she'd be asking worse questions.

"Alcohol wipes, tape, gauze?"

"Left side of the medicine cabinet."

"You need stitches."

He shook off her comment. “It's a scratch."

"It's not a scratch. You'll be lucky to retain full use of the arm. Tetanus up-to-date, Sir?"

"Yes.” Colin didn't explain he was immune to human diseases.

She opened the left cabinet door. Her eyes narrowed at the well-stocked shelves. Then she began to select supplies. “Is surgery a hobby of yours, or this kind of knife-wound business as usual for you, Sir?"

"A little of both.” The truth slipped out of his mouth.

After she'd scrubbed her hands and forearms way more thoroughly than he would have bothered, she snapped on a pair of sterile gloves with enough energy to make him wince. “Are you a...” She shook her head. “Never mind. I really do not want to know, Sir."

That was the first smart choice she'd made. He wisely kept that thought to himself.

"This is going to hurt.” She swabbed his upper arm with Betadine, which stung worse than the rogue's poison-coated claws.

"The cut goes down to the bone. It really needs stitches. Do you have a local anesthetic, Sir?"

"Butterfly tape works fine.” That comment earned him another narrow-eyed glare, but she applied the tape closures and then carefully wrapped his wound in gauze.

He opened his mouth to thank her for the help, and she stuck a thermometer under his tongue. Relief that she wasn't leaving, yet, kept him silent. Besides, he still hadn't figured out what to do about her.

Leave her alone was the obvious answer, but he didn't like it. She didn't know anything about him other than he was a member of a BDSM club, liked to tie up pretty women, acted like an arrogant asshole, and got in fights. Too bad his covert life was nowhere near that simple.

Holly checked her watch and waited for the second hand to make another sweep. Her neighbor, aka Master Colin, had made it perfectly plain he couldn't wait to get rid of her. What kind of man blew hot and cold like that? Had he thought all that erotic torture at the club and then pretending that spending hours tying her up with sensuous rope—that she could still feel on her skin—was nothing special? Had it all been some kind of sick joke? Or was he really just that cold? She could have sworn he'd been attracted to her. He'd fooled her good, and she should be furious with him. But he was hurt no matter how tough he acted, and she felt his pain like an icy fist squeezing her heart. She couldn't walk away.

No sensible woman would want a man who tortured her for fun, whose business was violent and, in all probability, illegal. She was a very sensible woman who still wanted him, especially because of the seductive way he tortured her senses, his strength, his protectiveness... To be completely fair to herself, the man was very appealing in a devastatingly gorgeous, panty-melting, arrogant jerk way that any woman with a pulse would find hard to resist. His heady scent was more intense in the confined space. Even the soap she'd used to scrub up, an intoxicating vetiver, reinforced his sensual spell.

From the edge of her vision, she studied him. His butt was parked on the closed toilet seat after he'd been in some kind of vicious brawl. With skinned knuckles and ten-o'clock shadow, he should have repulsed her. He still looked sinfully beautiful. His dark hair fell forward, accenting his elegant eyebrows and dark eyes. Smooth bronze skin covered his sharply defined muscles. The slash on his left bicep had just missed desecrating an intricate tattoo of a bird's foot with realistic razor-sharp talons that dripped blood.

She shivered at the blend of art and reality. To keep busy, she gathered the first-aid supplies she'd used and reached for the medicine cabinet. The mirrored door reflected feathers growing out of his back. Swallowing a gasp, she glanced again. The feathers were an illusion. They were actually another tattoo or perhaps part of the same design. Whoever had done the work was a true artist. The level of detail was incredible—the results startlingly lifelike and, like everything else about him that she found so disturbing, none of her business.

After cleaning up, she removed the thermometer from his mouth, grateful her fingers didn't tremble. “Normal.” She shook the mercury down to below ninety-five degrees with a couple of expert flicks of her wrist, wiped it clean with an alcohol-dampened cotton ball, and returned it to its case. Then she reached for the doorknob, turned, and said briskly, “A couple of aspirin will help with your achiness.” Hurt and bitterness edged into the tone she tried so hard to keep professional as she continued. “To be safe, you should have a complete course of antibiotics, but you would have to see a doctor for the prescription, and I know you won't."

"Stay."

"Why?” she asked very reasonably.

What a pity he didn't have any nice reasonable answers to give her, at least none he was willing to share. He took much too long to answer. Finally he said, “Because I want you to."

Lovely, except his expression said that he wasn't thrilled about needing her help. He certainly couldn't have been referring to anything romantic, or else he wouldn't have ditched her earlier at La Ceinture Noire.

"Just for a few more moments.” Pathetically reluctant to leave, she added, “I could make tea, if you'd like."

She bit off the
Master
that had almost slipped out and stared at the smooth black-and-white tile floor while she waited for him to tell her to leave or that he wasn't into tea or both.

"Tea would be great."

Holly nodded and excused herself to check out his kitchen. Along the way to look for tea makings, she took in the sights. Colin's meticulous medicine cabinet was echoed in organized shelves for music and movies. Built-in cabinets on one wall of the living room probably housed his sound and video equipment. A sofa long enough for a tall man to stretch out on faced the entertainment center. The gray cotton slipcover surprised her as did the soft cushions. She ran a palm over the inviting white suede decorative pillows and a cashmere throw. He was a man of contradictions. He clearly liked order, yet he had a sensual side. Behind the couch, a silver dome lamp arced in a graceful line to provide a comfortable reading light. An e-reader and a slim remote waited for the master of the house on a sturdy coffee table.

Obviously he wasn't a holiday kind of guy—no lights, no tinsel, and no tree.

After opening nearly every cupboard and scanning his frighteningly well-organized pantry—the soups and spice were alphabetized—she returned to the bathroom. Her earlier kind thoughts had evaporated in a steam of temper. He was playing cruel yo-yo games with her feelings. “You don't actually drink tea do you, Sir?"

A slow shake of his head answered her question and made her feel a bit like cruel Nurse Bully. He was a jerk. But he was seriously injured, and she was the one who'd insisted on rushing to his aid. Her need to save every wounded stray she saw was what had put her back into his domination and submission sports arena. A place where she didn't know the rules and couldn't win.

She kept her eyes away from him and from the mirror that reflected his utterly male beauty with such disconcerting flashes of revelation. “I'm going. Do you need anything before I leave?"

"No, thanks. You've been very kind."

While he stood too quickly, she watched with helpless horror as her fear seemed to have simulated the special slow-motion effect of movie disaster scenes.

His jaw clenched, probably to keep back a sudden rise of nausea from a concussion he hadn't mentioned. She chided herself for not examining his head for lumps and tenderness. Then he swayed and clutched at the granite counter to catch his balance. Red drops of blood seeped into the gauze around his bicep.

Wrapping an arm around his waist, she ignored the temptation of all that smooth skin over rippling muscles and barely glanced at the provocative trail of dark hair arrowing into his pants. She angled him back toward the toilet. “Park it, Superman, before you fall down and break something you need."

"Bedside manner needs work,” he grumbled, but he sat.

Good. If he was making smart-ass commentary, then his concussion or possible internal injuries couldn't be all that serious. She hoped.

"Shit, there's blood on your coat. Take it off. I'll get it cleaned."

"Don't worry about the silly coat. Let me take care of you."

His lips tightened into a stubborn line. “Not in that coat."

After all, she didn't have anything he hadn't already seen. Her cheeks still heated as she slipped off her coat and hung it on the hooks on back of the bathroom door. “Happy now?"

"Ecstatic.” His gaze slowly moved over her from her messy topknot to her still sparkly heels. “There's a robe in my closet you can use. Get it."

"After I've checked your wound."

He closed his eyes, a gesture she took as agreement. Supporting his arm on her hip, she carefully unwound the bandage. A tiny rip where the last of a scab had been torn off, an already fading pink scar, and the neatly placed butterfly tape closures were all that remained of the bone-deep gash. “What are you?"

He met her stunned gaze with one of his burning looks. “Fast healer."

"No one heals that fast. I bet you weren't even in a knife fight, were you?"

"Never said I was,” he grumbled.

"I want some answers, so you can quit giving me the evil eye. While I'm asking for the moon and stars, do me a big favor and stop acting as if we hadn't spent at least an hour together with me naked except for your rope, Master."

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Gripping the solid counter, Colin levered himself upright. Then he turned on the cold water. He leaned over the stainless-steel sink to splash his face and drank from the faucet. He straightened and speared his wet hair off his face, stalling for time. “Get the robe, put it on, and then we'll talk. You want a beer or some scotch?"

"Scotch with some ice and lots of water, please."

He nodded his understanding and headed for the kitchen. What a fucking mess. She'd already figured out he wasn't an average human. Since she remembered him from the club, plainly he couldn't alter her memories any better than he could read her thoughts, which was not worth a damn. Inconvenient didn't begin to cover the situation. Her knowing too much about him and his world was hazardous to her health.