Forcing herself to stay positive, she turned to check on Riker just as he hissed in pain, lips peeled back to expose fangs streaked with his own blood. His mouth twisted in a silent snarl, and instinctively, she leaped backward, her heart thundering in her chest.
Jesus. Even hovering near death he was terrifying.
But he was hovering near death, and as he settled down with a low moan, she got her anxiety under control.
He might be a vampire, but right now, he needed help. She inched closer to him, her fingers flexing as if eager to touch him. He’d been gruff with her, threatening, a little rough, even. But he hadn’t harmed her . . . yet. She couldn’t help but wonder why, given that he seemed hell-bent on blaming her for every wrong done to vampires, including the death of his mate.
And what was up with that, anyway? Why would he blame her family for that incident, when he was the one who had driven the blade through Terese’s throat?
Something wasn’t adding up, and Nicole hated secrets, hated unknowns. Even as a child, she’d wanted answers to everything, had loved Nancy Drew and wanted to grow up to be a private detective.
Terese’s death and the slave rebellion changed all of that.
Riker groaned, his big body shuddering. His misery skinned her alive. It didn’t matter what he was or what he’d done. He was hurting, and it was her fault. A strange sensation, one she hadn’t felt in twenty years, coursed through her veins and straight into her heart: true compassion for a vampire.
“Damn you,” she muttered. “I’m sure you’d just as soon eat me as look at me, and here I am feeling sorry for you.”
Very gently, she placed her palm on his sternum, feeling his chest rise and fall in a halting rhythm. His heartbeat was strong, but his skin was chalky and hot.
Shifting, she put her fingers to his throat and winced at the bounding pulse. A low, pained moan vibrated all the way up her arm and once again crept into her heart.
She glanced over at the small fire. “I’ll be right back.” She had no idea if he could hear her, or if he even cared that she’d be back, but for some silly reason, she wanted him to know he wasn’t alone.
Cursing herself for a fool who was probably saving the life of her own murderer, she tore open a packet of alcohol swabs and tossed the contents. The fire hadn’teven come close to burning all the plant matter, but she used a stick to scrape up what little ashen cinders she could get into the little foil packet. Next, she dusted off a flat rock and dumped the warm ash onto it. With another rock, she ground the would-be medicine into a fine powder.
She returned to Riker, cradling the pulverized ash in her palm. “Hey.” She eased down next to him and tilted his head up. “I’m going to need you to breathe this in.”
He thrashed, slamming his arm into hers and dumping half of the precious ash out of her hand. She tried again, with similar results and what would no doubt be a knot on her elbow later.
“I guess we do this the hard way,” she muttered.
She straddled his broad chest, using her thighs to hold him still. The moment he exhaled, she gripped the back of his head and lifted it until his nose was in her palm. When he tried to squirm away, she held harder.
“Riker, settle down, okay? I need you to inhale for me.”
She wasn’t sure if he heard, but he sucked in a huge breath, the rush of air sounding like it had come from someone who had been holding his breath un— derwater for an hour. Ash shot into his mouth and nostrils, and then he was coughing, bucking under her, and clawing at his throat. For a split second, his eyes opened. Misery and accusation whirled in the silver depths, gutting her.
“Easy, vampire.” She peeled his hands away from his neck and held them against his chest. He was strong though, and she had to plaster the weight of her body on his to ease his struggle and keep him from tearing at his own skin. “I know it hurts, but the ash is working.”
She hoped. God, she hoped. If she’d made things worse, she’d never forgive herself.
Gradually, he stopped fighting, but he kept hold of her hands, even when she tried to extricate herself from his grip. Between her thighs, he was hot, his body so wide she figured she’d feel the tug of tightness in the morning.
Dear God, what would sex with him be like, if just holding him still gave her muscle strains? And why in the world would her mind go there?
Maybe because there was some truth to all of the talk about vampires being supersexual creatures. A friend of hers had once said that the ugliest man on earth would be hot if he had fangs. And if he had the extremely toned body that came as standard issue on all vampires. Daedalus was still trying to figure out the biology behind that.