so they could pour it on Derek's face. Dumb.
Roland was the Sultan of Death. If I continued to oppose the rakshasas, I would come into a
confrontation with his agents. I would be discovered.
«Are you alright?» Dali asked.
«Never better,» I said.
A hot anger swept through me. If I was discovered, I would fight him to the end with everything
I had, just like my mother had. I was fucking tired of paranoia and panic. It was an irrational, totally
idiotic thought, and I reveled in it.
Jim came up the stairs. «He's up and talking.»
I rushed down, abandoning my coffee.
CHAPTER 24
HE SAT ON THE BED, HIS LEGS COVERED BY A BLUE sheet. He was human and his
color had returned to its normal skin tone. His hair was still dark brown. And that was about all that
remained of the former Derek.
His face had lost its perfect symmetry. Its lines, so sharply defined before, had thickened and
grown harsher. His features gained a rough hardness, and from the top of his mouth to his hairline,
his face seemed slightly uneven, as if the shattered bones of his skull didn't quite mesh. Before if he
walked into a rough bar, someone would whistle and tell him he was too pretty. Now people would
stare into their drinks and whisper to one another, «Here's a guy who's been through some bad
shit.»
He looked up. Dark velvet eyes regarded me. Usually a hint of sly humor hid there behind the
solemn composure of a Pack wolf. It was gone now.
«Hi, Kate.»
His lips moved but it took me a second to connect the low, raspy voice with Derek's mouth.
«Damaged vocal cords?» I asked.
He nodded.
«It's permanent,» Doolittle said softly. He stepped out of the room and closed the door. It was
me and Derek now.
I perched on the side of the bed. «You sound like you kill people for a living,» I told him.
«I look like it, too.» He smiled. The effect was chilling.
«Is there a spot on you that's safe to punch?»
«Depends on who'll be doing the punching.»
«Me.»
Derek winced. «Then no.»
«Are you sure? I have a lot of baggage to release from the past couple of days.» My voice was
breaking. I struggled for control.
«Positive.»
All of my guilt, all of my worry, all the anxiety and pain and regret, everything I had carefully
packaged and stuffed away into the deepest recesses of myself so I could function, all of it swelled
into an unbearable pressure. I fought to contain it, but it was like trying to hold back the tide. A hint
of relief was all it took. The flood burst through my defenses and drowned me.
My spine turned to wet cotton. I clamped my arms to my sides, trying to hold myself rigid and
keep myself from slumping over. A hard, hot clump blocked my throat. My heart thudded. It hurt, it
really hurt, and I didn't even understand where the pain emanated from. I just knew I hurt all over.
Cold and burning up at the same time, I had to clench my teeth to keep them from chattering.
«Kate?» Derek's alarmed voice demanded my attention. If only I could speak, I'd be okay.
I wished I could cry or something; I needed, desperately wanted, a release, but my eyes were dry
and that pressure remained locked in me, battering me with pain.
Derek pushed from the pillow toward me. He'd gone pale, his new face rigid like a mask. «I'm
sorry.»
He put his forehead against my hair, his arms around my shoulders. I hung suspended in my own
painful world, like a speck in a storm.
«You can't do this to me again.» My voice sounded rusty, as though it hadn't been used in years.
«You can't show me you're in trouble but not let me help. Not let me do anything.»
«I won't,» he promised.
«I can't deal with the guilt.»
«I promise, I won't.»
Everyone I dared to care about died, violently and in pain. My mother died putting a knife into
Roland's eye, because he wanted to kill me. She was stolen from me before I had a chance to
remember her. My dad died in his bed. I didn't even know how or why. He had sent me on a
training run, three days in the wilderness, just me and a knife. The smell had hit me ten yards from
the front door. I found him in his bed. He was bloated. His skin had blistered and fluids had leaked
from his body. He'd disemboweled himself-the sword was still clamped in his hand. I was fifteen.
Greg died on assignment. We'd had a fight a few weeks before his death and we didn't part on
good terms. He was ripped to pieces, his body shredded as if it had gone through a cheese grater.
Bran was stabbed through the back. He was almost immortal, and still he died, in my arms. I so
desperately tried to keep him alive, I nearly brought him into undeath.