Carpathian 02 - Dark Desire

danger.
    Hunger was gnawing, ever present, relentless. It seemed to worsen every day, her weakness growing if she didn't have blood. Right now, though, nothing mattered except getting Jacques to safety. Squaring her shoulders, she moved to the porch. The cabin was dark; Jacques couldn't open shutters or turn on lights.
    Shea unlocked and pushed open the door, anxious to see him.
    Jacques was up, leaning against the wall. He wore a pair of soft cotton jeans and nothing else. He looked gray, gaunt, lines of strain carved deeply into his handsome face. The wound below his heart was trickling a steady stream of blood. His feet were bare, his thick mane of hair wild and tangled. A fine sheen of perspiration coated his body. There was a crimson smear on his forehead, and beads of scarlet dotted his skin.
    "Oh, God!" Shea's heart nearly stopped. She could taste fear in her suddenly dry mouth. "Jacques, what have you done? What were you thinking?"
    She nearly leapt the distance separating them, not noticing how fast she was able to move. She could feel tears burning in her throat, behind her eyes. What Jacques was doing to himself was making her physically ill. "Why would you do this?" Her hands were gentle, tender, as she examined his gaping wound. "Why didn't you wait for me?" Even as she caught him to her, the silliest thought ran through her head. Where had he gotten a pair of jeans that fit him? But it hardly mattered at that moment.
    He will come this night, and I must protect you.
    "Not like this you won't. In case you haven't noticed, there's a huge hole in your body. You're putting far too much stress on those sutures. We have to lay you down."
    He is coming.
    "I don't care, Jacques. We can leave this place, travel all night if we have to. We have guns. Maybe we can't kill him, but we can slow him down." The truth was, Shea wasn't altogether certain she could shoot anyone. She was a doctor, a surgeon, a healer. The thought of taking a life was abhorrent to her. She wanted to patch Jacques up fast and get out of there. Avoiding trouble seemed easier than facing it.

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    He read her mind, her reluctance, easily. Do not worry, Shea, I am quite capable of killing him. He swayed against her, nearly toppling both of them to the floor.
    "I'm not sure I consider that great news," she said between clenched teeth. Somehow they made it the few steps to the bed. "And if you could see yourself right now, you might not be so certain you could swat a fly."
    Jacques stretched his long frame out across the sheets, never once making a sound. He kept his mind firmly closed, not wanting to share his agony with her. It didn't matter; Shea could see it clearly etched in his face, in the white lines around his mouth and the bleak emptiness in his black eyes. "I'm sorry I left you alone." She pushed back his thick mane, her fingers lingering in the blue-black strands. With a sinking heart she began gathering her equipment. Moving was going to hurt him all over again, and once more she would be the one causing him pain.
    It is not you torturing me, little red hair.
    "I know you think that, Jacques," she answered tiredly, haphazardly securing the red hair falling around her face in a clip at the nape of her neck. "I hurt you when I brought you here, hurt you when I operated on you without painkillers, and I'm going to be hurting you now." Shea shoved her tray of instruments close to the bed. "You're losing too much blood again. Let me stop this, and then I'll give you blood."
    She bit her lip hard as she blotted the welling red fluid and examined the open wound.
    Outside the wind rattled at the windows, howled low, rubbed branches against the walls. The sound was disturbing, raising the hairs on the back of Shea's neck. A soft whisper, like the touch of death against her skin. Jacques caught her arm, staying her hand as she began repairing the damage. He is here.
    "It's the wind." She didn't believe it, but there was nothing they could do until she had closed his wound.
    The wind rose to an eerie scream. Thunder cracked as a whip of lightning danced and sizzled across the sky. The heavy front door splintered, split. Shea whirled around, needle and suture clutched in her bloody hands. Jacques, bleeding and in agony, lying so pale and gray with scarlet beads of perspiration coating his body, attempted to sit up.
    Two men filled the doorway. She recognized Byron, but it