Chapter 3: part 2
He tore open a gauze pack with his teeth, his fangs glinting like polished ivory in the dim glow, and poured alcohol onto a cloth with a surgeon’s precision. The sharp, antiseptic sting hit her like a fist when he pressed it to the wound, a searing burn that clawed up her arm and lodged in her throat. She bit her lip hard, refusing to flinch, her jaw clenching until it ached, determined not to give him the satisfaction of a sound. His hands were steady, cool against her fevered, sweat-slick skin, and she hated how keenly she felt them—long, calloused fingers, roughened by centuries of labor, moving with a quiet, intimate precision that sent an unbidden shiver racing down her spine.
“Hold still,” he murmured, his breath brushing her arm, a faint whisper of leather and iron that stirred the fine hairs on her skin. Goosebumps prickled in its wake, unwanted and electric, and she clamped her jaw tighter, cursing the heat creeping up her neck.
“You’re enjoying this,” she muttered, her glare sharp enough to cut, though her voice wavered, betraying the tremor she couldn’t quite suppress.
“Hardly.” His smirk deepened, a wicked curve that danced in the corner of her vision, but his tone was dry, almost teasing. He cleaned the blood away with methodical care, stripping the crimson stain from her skin, and she caught the faintest hitch in his breathing—a ragged edge, hunger or restraint, she couldn’t tell. His thumb grazed the tender edge of the cut, an accidental brush that sent a jolt through her, sharp and molten, igniting a spark she didn’t want to name.
“Watch it,” she snapped, jerking back, the cot creaking beneath her sudden shift.
His eyes met hers, stormy and fathomless, mere inches away, and the air thickened, heavy with an unspoken charge. “You’re a mess, Kane,” he said, his voice rougher now, a gravelly undertone that rumbled through her. “Let me finish.”
She didn’t move, pinned by the weight of his stare, a magnetic pull that held her captive despite every instinct screaming to break free. He wrapped the gauze tight around her arm, his fingers lingering as he tied it off, brushing the sensitive hollow inside her elbow with a touch that felt deliberate, searing through her blood-soaked sleeve. Her pulse kicked up, a wild, traitorously loud rhythm she was sure he could hear, and she saw it flicker in his face—a glint of heat, quickly veiled behind that damnable smirk.
“There,” he said, his voice a low rasp, rougher than before, as if the moment had scraped something raw in him too. He didn’t pull back, his hand resting now on her knee, a casual weight that burned through the denim, igniting a slow, smoldering fire beneath her skin. “You’ll live.”
“Good.” She shoved his hand off, the contact snapping the thread of tension, and stood too fast, her vision swimming as blood rushed from her head. She swayed, and he caught her elbow, his grip cool and firm, steadying her with an ease that made her breath hitch. For a fleeting, perilous moment, they were close—too close—his chest brushing hers, the hard planes of him pressing against her softness, his scent enveloping her in a heady mix of leather, iron, and something
ancient, wild. Her heart thudded, a frantic drumbeat against her ribs, and she hated herself for the way her body leaned into it, just for a second, before reason clawed her back.
“Easy,” he said, the word a low growl, rumbling from deep in his chest. His grip tightened, a cool anchor in the storm of her dizziness, and she felt the pull—dangerous, magnetic, a current tugging at her resolve. His eyes dropped to her lips, a fleeting glance that lingered too long, then flicked back up, a silent question shimmering in their gray depths.
She broke away, stepping back with a stumble, her heart pounding a frantic tattoo against her sternum. “Don’t,” she snapped, the word a shield, her voice sharper than she meant it to be.
He didn’t push, just watched her retreat, that infuriating smirk creeping back like a shadow across his face. “Suit yourself,” he said, his tone light but laced with something darker, a thread of amusement or challenge she couldn’t unravel.
Mara turned to the sink, splashing frigid water on her face with shaking hands, the icy shock a desperate bid to douse the heat blooming in her cheeks, to wash away the phantom imprint of his touch. She dragged wet fingers through her cropped hair, staring into the rusted mirror above the basin, her reflection a gaunt, scarred stranger—eyes too wide, skin too pale, a woman teetering on the edge of something she didn’t want to name. Behind her, Silas stood motionless, a silent sentinel, but she felt his presence like a weight, a tether she couldn’t cut.
Outside, the wind howled, a mournful, keening wail that rattled the shack’s brittle walls, carrying with it the faint, ominous hum of engines—distant yet growing, a predator’s growl creeping closer through the night. Silas tensed, his head tilting with a predator’s instinct, his body coiling like a spring wound tight. “They’re coming,” he said, his voice a blade of certainty as he grabbed a duffel from beneath the cot, its canvas worn and stained with years of use. “We’re not done running.”
Mara wiped her hands on her jeans, snatching her knife from the cot, its familiar weight steadying her as the adrenaline surged back, sharp and clarifying. “Then let’s move, vampire,” she said, her tone hard, but her eyes lingered on him a beat too long, caught by the flicker of something—attraction, defiance, a spark she couldn’t smother—before she turned toward the door, the night beyond waiting like a jaws-wide trap.