Night Beyond The Night (28 page)

“Quent?” Wyatt took his arm, looking at him in alarm. Simon and Fence were staring at him.

Quent could hardly breathe. “It’s . . . Fielding. . . .” He swallowed, made himself say the words, because then the others could tell him he was fucked up. Mistaken. “That man is my father.”

His father was one of the Strangers.

When Elliott didn’t answer her knock, Jade used Lou’s passkey to open the door to his room. Her heart pounded, her palms damp.
What had he done? What had he
done?

She stepped in, and the smell of blood, of death, assaulted her. She focused on the bed, lit in a wash of morning sun and dark blood.
Oh God
.

“Elliott,” she breathed, the bottom dropping out of her stomach. “No, no. . . .” She started toward the bed, heart in her throat, but then saw the trail of blood leading away.

She turned and rushed into the bathroom, stopping short when she saw the lifeless body sprawled in the tub. “My God.”

Blood, everywhere, spattering the aged white tile. The light above the sink glowed. She was close enough to see her now, to recognize Trixie’s face. Still and white. Blood stained her clothing, but her face was clean and peaceful. A wad of bloody towels sat on the floor, testament to the losing battle Elliott had fought.

Heart pounding, palms damp, Jade breathed slowly, trying to rid herself of the clogging scent of blood. She found the bedsheet on the floor near the toilet, twisted in a pile, and she carefully covered Trixie’s face and body.

Then she left the bathroom, closing the door quietly.

And she saw him. Sitting in a chair in the darkest corner, hidden by shadows . . . as if he wished to be swallowed by them.

“Elliott,” she said.

He sat like stone, hands clasped over his knees as he bent forward, his head hanging down. “Elliott,” she said again, moving closer, reaching for him.

“Don’t touch me.”
He’d lifted his face and she saw the starkness, the pain and loathing.

Jade didn’t know what to say, how to react. She stilled, looking at him. Their eyes met for a moment, his black and angry in the shadows . . . then he tore them away. A suffocating silence blanketed the room, the smell of blood and death lingering, and her heart squeezed painfully.
Elliott
.

You’re insane
, she’d said to him earlier.

Maybe I am
.

But he wasn’t. An insane man would not be sitting here in agony like this. An insane man would not have made the choice he’d made.

Jade had no illusions about what had happened. This morning, she’d heard that Vaughn had been gravely injured, and that Lou had brought one of the men who’d rescued the teens to help him. As Flo blithely explained how miraculous it was that Vaughn had been cured, Jade’s world had begun to splinter.
Elliott, you damned idiot.
She’d run, literally
run
, to his room.

“She touched me,” he said at last, the words gravelly. He stared down at his clasped hands. “I couldn’t stop her.”

She took a tentative step closer.

He didn’t look up, but she saw his fingers clasp and unclasp. “I tried to warn her, but I was too weak. I shouldn’t have come back here.” He drew in a shuddering breath. “I looked for a dog. A cat. Something.”

Something to give it to.

“But it came too fast.”

“Elliott,” she said, his name coming out like a breath.

“I had to get away . . . I could hardly stand . . . before someone found me.”

Jade moved closer. She wanted to pull him into her arms, hold that powerful, sorrowing body. “You don’t need to explain. I know—”

“Don’t
touch
me,” he snarled.

“I need to touch you,” she whispered, ignoring the command, putting her arms around his impossibly wide, iron-rigid shoulders. He stiffened, withdrawing at her touch, and she felt him gather up as if to push her away. But she tightened her hold, pulling him close to her, half leaning, half sitting against him.

“You couldn’t have stopped her. She couldn’t have known, Elliott.” His hair slipped softly beneath her fingers, warm and wavy and thick. The brush of his lashes tickled her throat, and she felt the accompanying wetness of tears, moist in the warmth of her neck, the press of his nose against the soft part of her shoulder.

“It’s all fucked up.”

“You saved Vaughn’s life by risking your own.” It had been more than a risk, she knew. She understood now—he’d come up here to die. Where no one would find him, touch him, where he’d be safely ensconced until it was too late. But Trixie, like Jade herself, had been fascinated by him and took matters into her own hands. If she hadn’t. . . .

My God, I almost lost him.
“How could you have stopped her? How could you have known?”

He shook his head against her, and she realized that his arms had gone around her waist now. He was no longer pushing her away, but clinging. His strong fingers curled into her hips, his face buried against her. She felt him trembling, his deep rage, more dampness against her neck.

Her hands moved down to the broad shoulders, the wide expanse of his back, making slow, easy circles. Gentle strokes, round and round, sending her comfort into his skin.

“A fucking waste. A goddamn
waste
!” Elliott’s voice lifted, rough and loud. “I knew what I was doing, goddammit.
I
made the decision. And she . . . Christ . . . she fucking blundered into it.” His words were choked, tight, torn from his throat.

Jade had no answers. She could do nothing but hold him, stroking gently. There were no words. For a very long time.

He shuddered quietly against her, and she pressed a kiss to his hot temple, then down onto his cheek. It was wet and she kissed the tear gently. She drew him closer, tugging him toward her, easing him out of the chair, into her arms. “Come,” she whispered, and then found his lips.

They tasted salty and soft, warm, and so tender. She kissed him, focusing with everything she had . . . lightly brushing his lips, then back to fit her mouth to them. Trying to show him she loved him without the words . . . words that didn’t work right now.

His arms moved and came around her as they settled onto the floor, kissing, slowly . . . long and gently. Breaths slow and raspy, rough in the back of her throat as Jade thought about how she’d almost lost him. And what he must feel.

And why, suddenly, it wasn’t important to be in control. Why it didn’t matter if she answered to him about Luke . . . or anyone else.

Elliott turned his face, his breathing quiet and rough, and rested his forehead against her neck. Then, with great control, he pulled away. Hardest thing he’d ever done. He used the chair to steady himself as he started to pull to his feet.

Slow, stiff, empty. Yet . . . livid inside. Raging.

Jade looked up at him, sorrow filming her green eyes. So utterly beautiful, with the sun stealing over her shoulders and tinting her face with its glow. Beautiful, everything he’d ever wanted . . . needed. But, yet . . . not his.

What was he going to do?

With Trixie . . . with Jade . . . with this fucking curse . . . with his
life
.

He closed his eyes against it, curled his fingers over the smooth wood of the chair . . . struggled against the blistering wave of desire. Not lust. Desire . . . to hold, to have. To know.

But then she moved, reaching up toward him. He could smell the waft of lemon, he could
feel
her warmth. The blush of her nearness and her compassion. A prickling started down his back, a longing billowed inside him so strongly that his fingers shook.

“Elliott.” He loved the way she said his name, long and rolling, all three syllables clear and unrushed. Like a caress.

She reached up, closing her fingers over the hand gripping the chair. She tugged them free and he let her, unable to keep the distance that he knew . . . somewhere in the recesses of his mind . . . he needed to. But she was soft and comforting and
his
. . . so very much
his . . .
only his.

He sank onto the floor, to his knees, propping his weak self up against the side of the chair as he gathered her toward him . . . into him. He was lost. Her taste, her smell, the warmth and softness of Jade filled his hands, his mouth, his senses. He could no longer hold back. This was comfort, this was simply
good
and felt perfect . . . it had been so long. So long. Not since he’d held a woman, but since he felt settled, satisfied . . . as if he could do this.

Lining his body to hers, her breasts crushed against his chest, he dipped his face, his cheek brushing the warm tickle of her hair . . . and drew in a long, embarrassingly shaky breath.

Jade. Here. Now.

“I thought she was you.” The words slipped out before he could catch them. God, how did that make him sound?

Jade stilled in his arms, and he would have pushed her away, mortified and broken, but she lifted her face and turned so she could find his mouth. Her lips were sweet and soft, so soft and gentle.
Mine
.

He couldn’t. Shouldn’t. It was despicable. But he opened his mouth with a soft groan, took her tongue as it swept deeply, slowly . . . as if she meant to comfort him with this kiss the same way she had with her hands. His knees weakened and he settled farther back against the chair, closing his eyes. The kiss went on and on, so slow and long and deep . . . thorough and easy . . . and sad.

Elliott recognized sorrow and compassion in the way she kissed him, the thoughtful brush of lip against lip, the gentle curl of her fingers at the back of his neck. He dragged his hands through her hair, felt her hips shift against him as they moved, as he realized how easy it would be to tumble onto the floor, with this bundle of woman.

He opened his eyes. “Jade.” He heard the pain in his own voice, but forced himself to continue. “No . . .” he said, but his hands wouldn’t release her. He couldn’t detach himself from her, keep his mouth from moving over her soft temple, his hands from drawing her up close, hard, against his hard-on.

“Yes.” Her voice was steady, meant to penetrate his fog, meant to tug him along with her into the relief, the pleasure that awaited. “Elliott.”

He wanted to refuse, he needed to. But his fingers had shifted lower, closing around her waist, feeling the warmth of her there in his hands, that little strip of skin that had first enticed him as she rode off on her horse. She looked up at him, desire plain in her face. Desire and certainty.

Somehow he was moving, shifting, and they sagged to the floor, soon to be a puddle of limbs and mouths and hands. His body had sprung alive, awakening from its shell of grief. It pounded and surged, the desire, the
need
taking over, destroying his will.

The swell of her breasts beneath his fingers, the curve of her hip pressing into him. The crush of her lips beneath his as he drowned out his own protestations. The rage of his own body, pounding and alive and desperate.

The floor beneath him, pulling her over on top of him, her slender legs straddling his waist . . . the rough carpet scraping his head, her hands cradling his face.

He explored, felt the weight of her breasts, the tightness of her nipples, the delicious shift of her against him as she hovered above, filling his sight, his hands, his mouth. Oh yes. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply . . . his fingers smoothing along her torso . . . hips to waist, up her back and over delicate shoulder blades as her long hair brushed his lips and chin.

God, he
needed
. This. Jade.

She moved, her hands spanning his chest as she rose above him. Her mouth glistened, full and soft from his, her eyes shadowed and heavy-lidded. Her shirt hung loosely, gapping so that he could see a hint of shadows and curves.

She promised beauty and comfort. Pleasure. And the knowledge that he could escape the dark reality of life with this woman he had to have. The one. The one he’d been searching for.

That he should find love, here and now, in this tragic world, with a woman who couldn’t return it . . . that tore at him most of all.

But he covered her mouth again anyway. He smoothed over the warmth of her skin, tugging the shirt from the waistband of her jeans, resisting the urge to move south beneath the tight denim. She rose up, sitting back on his belly and flung the shirt away. Eyes holding his, hiding nothing, she reached behind and loosened her bra, sliding it off and onto the chair.

Gloriously beautiful, breathtaking . . . refusing to think how often she’d taken the same pose . . . he reached to touch her . . . so full and warm, her body long and curvy. She arched down against him, her breasts bare, cupped in his hands, her weight pressing into the heat of his crotch, and he gave it up. Gave it away, that last bit of resistance snapping . . . and allowed himself to
take
.

Now. Oh yes
.

He gave in and freed himself, pulling her down onto him, gently rolling to the side, taking her with him . . . the tight, high breast in his hand, the taut nipple beneath his thumb, the warm saltiness of her throat under his mouth, the long slide of legs spreading around his hips, pressing into the mad hard-on straining behind his zipper as her toes slid along his calves. She twisted and sighed against him, fueling the sudden rage of desire that blinded him to care, or reason.

Everything pulsed and pounded, everything focused on now,[_ now_] . . . the silk and sleekness, her smell, her taste. He tore at the snap of her jeans, whipping them away with a loud, rough snap as she pulled on his shirt, lifting her hips against him.

Suddenly they were skin to skin . . . oh, glorious, warm, curves, sliding with him, against him. His brain shattered, shut down, when she touched his cock, down inside the heat of his jeans, closing her fingers around him as she said his name in that winsome, inviting way. Then she gave a short, quick stroke, all along the length, once, twice . . . nearly sending him off the floor.

He lost his breath, his eyes rolling back into his head as he caught himself and pulled back from the edge. “Jade,” he said in a desperate little groan, stopping her hand though the rest of him battled for more.