Carpathian 02 - Dark Desire

some distance away.
    Jacques, let me help you. Shea pleaded softly, trying to reach into his mind, trying to soothe him, calm him.

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    He snarled at her, fangs gleaming, a clear warning to stay behind him.
    "He has turned, Mikhail," Byron murmured. "He is dangerous even to the woman. We cannot afford to lose her."
    Shea ignored them, whispered soothing nonsense in her mind, trying desperately to anchor Jacques back in reality. Her hands once more found his wound. They won't touch me, wild man. They'll stay away from us. Please let me help you or I'll have no protection from them. I will be alone. She refused to lose him to injury or insanity. Outsiders might kill them, but she would never allow his wounds or his madness to defeat her. She was afraid for him, and she was afraid of him, but she would not desert him.
    "What do you need?" Mikhail demanded softly.
    "My instrument tray," she answered, not looking at him, not even turning her head. Her entire focus was on calming Jacques.
    "Your surgery is barbaric. I'll call our healer." He sent the imperious mental summons immediately.
    "He'll be dead by then. Damn you, get out of here if you won't help me," Shea snapped furiously. "I can't fight both of you, and I'm not going to let him die because you don't like my methods."
    Cautiously, so as not to arouse Jacques' wrath, Mikhail shoved the tray across the floor. It slid within a few inches of Shea's hand.
    Jacques never once took his eyes from the two men, staring at them with hatred and the dark promise of retaliation. When Shea moved, he mirrored her movements as if he knew before she did what she was going to do, so that his larger frame continuously shielded her from the others even as it crushed her against the wall.
    "Get me fresh soil." Shea's voice was hoarse, but authoritative. She kept her every movement slow and cautious, to avoid alarming Jacques.
    Byron shrugged and reluctantly did her bidding, his eyes meeting Mikhail's across the room. It was clear Byron believed that Jacques presented a real danger to all of them.
    Shea coughed several times, her throat swollen under the clear imprint of Mikhail's fingers. Slowly rising to kneel beside Jacques, keeping her hands steady, her concentration total, she used tiny clamps and stitches to meticulously repair his reopened wound. It was slow, tedious work, and she fought to maintain her mental link with him as she sutured, dividing her mind between maintaining a constant tranquil, soothing touch to hold him to her and ensuring he did not bleed out. Jacques was a seething cauldron of violent emotions. His eyes, hard and watchful, never left the other two males. Once he lifted his hand, brushed aside her silky hair, his fingertips feathering over the bruise on her temple where he had knocked her against the wall. When his hand fell away, Shea was afraid he took with it her last link to him.
    She packed the wound with soil and saliva and straightened slowly. "You need blood, Jacques." She said it softly, gently, an invitation. He had to survive, had to live. Every cell in her body demanded it.
    He did not take his soulless eyes from Mikhail and Byron. She had never seen such relentless hatred in anyone's gaze before. He neither looked at her nor acknowledged her efforts. Not once did a hint of pain show on his face.

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    "My blood is ancient, powerful," Mikhail said softly. "I will give him mine." He glided closer with fluid grace, no sudden moves to alarm Jacques.
    Shea felt Jacques' savage triumph, felt him gathering his strength. Before Mikhail was within striking distance she flung herself between them. "No! He'll kill you, he intends to—"
    Jacques' grip was terrifying, slamming her back down to his side, his fist in her hair. His fury was a tangible thing. His eyes holding Mikhail's, he bent his dark head and sank his teeth into the side of Shea's neck.
    "Don't!" Byron rushed forward, but Mikhail stopped him with a raised hand, his black gaze locked with Jacques'.
    White-hot heat, a burning brand. Shea understood Jacques was furious at her interference, and this display was to tempt the others to intercede, to draw them within his cruel reach. She lay perfectly still, accepting of his violent nature. He was so close to complete madness that one false move would send him careening over the edge. She was tired