Darkness Bound

57

The fury was a thing inside of him, an animal of bloodlust and blackness that wanted to claw its way out of his skin.

Hawk couldn’t remember the last time he felt such pure, unbearable rage.

With Jacqueline cradled limp and bleeding in his arms—breathing shallowly, white with shock—Hawk went to his home, his pace just under a run so he wouldn’t jostle her. Cursing his lack of a ladder and the proper tools to make a pulley, he entered his home the way he always did when in human form.

He climbed the rope.

With Jacqueline a dead weight over one shoulder, he slowly and carefully pulled them up with both feet twisted around the rope, one hand pulling as his powerful legs pushed, an arm wrapped around her thighs. He navigated them carefully through the circular opening in the floor that opened into the lower level, and, once he had his feet beneath him again, took her upstairs.

He laid her on her stomach on his bed as gently as he could, wincing when she moaned.

She was conscious, but barely. When he straightened and got his first good look at her raw back up close, it was all he could do not to scream at the top of his lungs and break every piece of furniture in the room.

Alejandro would pay for this.

He knelt beside her, brushing the hair gently from her face. “I have to wash you, namorada . . . clean the skin to ensure there’s no infection. Then there’s a salve . . . you’re going to be fine, okay? I’m going to take care of you. I’m going to take care of everything.”

Her lashes fluttered. He glimpsed her eyes, blue, hazed with pain. She whined, a small, high noise in the back of her throat. Her lids drifted closed.

God, what had he done? How had he let this happen? He’d promised her no one would hurt her; he’d promised her only moments before they came here that he’d protect her and now . . .

Every curse Hawk had ever heard flooded his brain, and he wanted to shout them from the windows. He wanted to kill something with his bare hands. He wanted to make someone bleed.

He rushed to prepare the salve that would help her. Because he so often needed the salve himself, he kept most of the ingredients dried in glass jars in the cupboard. There were a few items that had to be fresh, an antimicrobial herb and a vine whose leaves were an analgesic, so he went into the forest for those, hating to leave her but having no choice. When he had gathered and prepared all the ingredients, he ground them to a paste with a tincture of other medicinal extracts, and returned to her side with clean cloths and a large bowl of cool water.

He saturated the cloth in the water, wrung it out, and caressed Jack’s arm. She hadn’t moved from how he’d left her, sprawled facedown on his bed.

“Okay, Jacqueline. I’m going to start. I’ll wash away the blood first, then apply the salve. I need you to try and stay as still as possible.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I know it hurts. I’ll be as gentle as I can.”

She made a faint noise of acknowledgment, but didn’t open her eyes.

The strap of her bra had broken during the lashings. He cut the elastic around her shoulders but otherwise left it intact so he didn’t have to move her to get it out from beneath her body. Then he began.

As soon as he touched the cloth to her naked back, she gasped and jerked as if she’d been electrocuted.

“I know. I’m sorry. I know.”

He stroked her arm, trying to soothe her, cooing soft words of encouragement as he gently washed away as much of the blood that had streaked down her lower back and sides as he could. The usmi had avoided the delicate kidney area, thank God, but there would be scars.

There would be so many scars.

Twenty-five to be precise.

Her breathing had changed from shallow to ragged, strained. He looked up from his work to find her staring at him, her lips twisted, eyes glazed in agony.

She whispered, “Boy, that was a real barrel of laughs.” She cracked a smile. Then her eyes squeezed shut, her face crumpled, and she began to cry.

That was worse than anything yet. Her tears were like a sword thrust straight through his chest, punching the breath from his lungs, leaving him weak-kneed and trembling.

Hawk lowered his forehead to hers. Her skin was hot, burning hot.

“Finish,” she pleaded, the barest of whispers. “Please . . . Hawk . . . get it over with.”

When he pulled back he had to look away and swallow, trying to gather his wits and his strength, trying to understand how things had gone so wrong so quickly, trying not to give way to tears himself.

Mercifully, his dead father’s voice remained silent.

He finished washing the streaked and caked blood from her skin. He applied a thin layer of salve with the lightest touch possible. He laid clean strips of cotton over the ointment, removed her boots and socks, and gave her small sips of water and a tonic to drink that would help the pain and help her rest.

Hawk sat on the floor next to the bed and held her hand until she fell into a still, silent sleep. He stared out the windows through the night, watching over her, keeping vigil until the light rose soft and pink over the tops of the trees.

Then he went downstairs, leaned over the porch railing, threw back his head, and screamed so loudly it sent every bird in the trees within a quarter mile into panicked, shrieking flight.