Twilight Hunger (Wings in the Night #7)

Twilight Hunger (Wings in the Night #7) Page 26

Dante got out of the car, faced the house. The deepest sense of dread he had ever known swelled in his chest, overwhelming even the pain of the bullet hole. He could feel her inside. Her essence was weak, tenuous, and fading more with every breath.

His own body swayed with weakness, reminding him yet again just how closely they were linked to one another. Max grabbed his upper arm, steadied him. "Are you all right?"

"It's her. God, she's so weak."

"I know. Come on."

He let her lead him, and he noticed that Lou stayed below as they started up the stairs. He couldn't stop thinking that if Morgan died, it would be his fault. He should have listened to her from the start. He should have changed her right away, when she was strong. Now, even if he managed to save her, she would never know the preternatural strength she would have had if he had acted sooner.

He hated his selfishness. His fear. Yes, he'd been afraid of her. Afraid of the power she had over him. She could hurt him, destroy him. She would-if she died.

They reached the upper floor, and Max walked him along the hallway to the bedroom door. She tapped once, then opened it.

Lydia and David were beside the bed, but Dante's gaze barely swept over them on the way to Morgan. Oh, God, Morgan. He closed his eyes, lowering his head. She looked like a ghost already.

Max went to Lydia, to David. Spoke to them softly. Dante watched them as they each bent to kiss Morgan's forehead, then walked past him on their way out of the room.

Then Max leaned over her. "I've brought him, just as I promised I would."

Dante steeled himself, schooled his face into an expression of calm, and finally moved into Morgan's range of vision. When she saw him, her weak smile of welcome tore at his heart.

Then she shifted her gaze to her sister again. "Thank you."

Max nodded. "I won't see you again, will I?"

Morgan didn't answer, and Max leaned down to hug her gently. Then she straightened and backed away. "Be happy."

Dante glanced at the window. It was nearly dawn. He knew they would both be weak after the transformation, if it even worked. They would be vulnerable. He couldn't do it here. He needed her in a haven, safe from the sun. Gently, he bent over her, sliding his arms beneath her and lifting her from the bed. She was light as a dried stalk as she gazed up into his eyes. God, how he loved her.

He looked once more at Max. "Thank you for helping us."

"I only wish it hadn't taken me so long to figure out who the real monsters were."

Turning, Dante carried Morgan to the balcony, her white nightgown trailing down his side. He braced himself and leapt over the rail. The landing was jarring. It rattled his teeth, but he managed to remain upright. Then he carried her away from the house, toward the cliffs. He could feel Max's eyes on them as he walked into the night. He could feel her tears, as well.

He took Morgan into the hidden place beneath the house. As far as he was aware, she had never told anyone, not even her sister, about this place. It should be safe. He wouldn't put her in the coffin, not now. Not considering how near death she was, how frightened she must be. Instead, he tore the lining, and satin pad from it, and made them a cozy nest on the floor. Then he reclined there, his back against the wall, with her resting across his body. He bent to press his lips to hers.

She kissed him back. He felt it, sensed her responses, even though, physically, she could barely move. He touched her chin. "You'll be with me now. Always with me, Morgan. I'll never doubt you again."

"Yes," she whispered.

Lifting her chin, he pressed his face to her throat, bit down and pierced her jugular. Inside him, fires licked to life. Her pulse, fluttering against his tongue, the warm flow of her blood, the arousal he felt waking in her body, even in its weakened state, combined to create an answering need in him. And the hunger raged, as the hunger always raged in his kind.

He mustn't take too much, he reminded himself. Only a little. He felt her slipping away and drank deeply, until he pushed her into the shadowy realm between life and death. Her heart stuttered, skipped. He lifted his head away and stared down at her half-lidded eyes. A breath escaped her. A rattling, broken breath.

Quickly he tore the flesh of his wrist, and when the deep red blood welled, he pressed it to her lips. The touch of that fluid sparked her. She swallowed, and as her mouth filled, swallowed again. And then she began to suck, to draw the liquid from him. She needed a lot, and he knew what she felt. Not only because he had felt it himself, but because he felt every sensation that went through her. They were one while she fed at his wrist. Everything she experienced registered in his brain. Everything from how deeply she loved him to how badly she wanted him.

He weakened, and she sucked harder. Dizziness came, and still she drank. His head fell sideways, and his vision grew dark around the edges. He tugged his wrist slightly, but she held on and kept drinking.

Finally he gave a firm yank. He bound the wrist in a strip of fabric.

She fell backward, her back arching over his arm, her eyes falling closed.

Dante gathered her upper body, cradled her in his arms. "Please, don't die. Not now. God, let this work. Let it be enough. Let it work!"

Her lips moved, just slightly, right against his ear. Her breath, a whisper, weak but insistent. "Make love... to me... one... last... time."

He closed his eyes in misery. "It can't be the last time, my love. It can't." Pulling her over him, he dragged the white gown up her body, bunching the fabric around her waist. She was naked underneath. Her body lay against his chest now, her legs parted around his hips, linked behind him. He reached down to free himself from his jeans and immediately pressed himself into her. She was wet and yearning, ready for him. The blood lust did that. Even in this state, her hunger was for his body as much as for his blood, and it always would be. He clasped her hips, pushed himself deep inside her. She would have moved if she could have. He knew she couldn't, so he did it for her. Gently, slowly, as tenderly as he knew how. He kissed her and held her and moved very gently inside her. He had never made love this way-not in either of his lifetimes.

They were still locked together when the sun rose. And as she sank into slumber, he couldn't tell if she were dead... or undead.

And then he slept.