Falling for Faith Page 4

  Fuck.

  She wasn’t pleased he was here, but she wouldn’t have knowingly shot at him. She just didn’t trust him, but she didn’t trust anybody. She didn’t actually wish him harm, except maybe a fat lip or a black eye or something. The other night, he’d scared her with his tying her up, but it was more her reaction to being tied up that had scared her than anything else.

  She didn’t like the fact she couldn’t get him out of her head. And she wasn’t happy he’d followed here, even though she couldn’t figure out exactly how he’d done it. But she wasn’t scared of him either. As menacing and domineering as he was, for some reason he made her feel safe. In some ways he reminded her of Eli, like her protector. She wondered vaguely at times what other ways he could be like Eli, if she could ever submit to him like she did Eli. Memories of being tied with rope, pinned under Michael’s hard body flushed her skin, while she was trying to move his limp one right now.

  She’d liked it. A lot. And that pissed her off, because she did not like being out of control. And around Michael, she was definitely out of control.

  She’d shot the guy for Christ’s sake. Blowing an exasperated sigh out, she focused on the task at hand.

  Faith sat on the floor next to the sofa to see a wan smile on his face as he peered at her through hooded lids.

  “You gonna fix me up? See? You are a sweetheart.” He flinched as she pulled the tee shirt, wet with blood away from his wound. Brandishing a pair of scissors, she cut through the fabric.

  “Fuck. That’s a lot of blood.” Faith blanched. There really was a lot of blood, it was soaking into the sofa cushions and pooling on the floor under the couch. “Here. Press this onto the wound while I get some water.”

  “Nah… Just a scratch.”

  “Do it.” He really needed a hospital, but the closest one was forty-five minutes away. She was pretty sure that if she managed to get him into her car, the drive would kill him. And calling an ambulance would involve police. Police would ask questions. And she was wanted.

  Taking a deep breath, she made her decision.

  “Okay, I’m calling an ambulance.”

  “Don’t do it, Faith.” He grabbed her arm as she rose, and she looked into the deepest fucking silver eyes she’d ever imagined. The depths of those eyes were filled with understanding… and peace. She was suddenly washed with a feeling of contentment. “I’ll be okay. Just leave me be.” His hand slid down her arm and clasped her fingers, squeezing. “I promise.”

  She hesitated, guilt stabbing through the contentment.

  “If you have to, I’ll let you treat it. But no hospitals. It’s for me as much as for you.”

  So he had secrets too. The memory of him disa-fucking-pearing at the party flashed through her head, and she nodded, still unsure if she’d actually seen that. “Okay.” God, she hoped she could do this.

  Rummaging around the first aid kit, she found an instruction booklet for basic first aid for nearly everything that could befall someone stuck in a cabin in the woods. Including gunshot wounds.

  Number one on the list was don’t move them. Too late for that one. Next was call emergency services. Not gonna happen. Number three was to check vitals: airway, circulation, skin coloring, deformity, etc. Following directions, she put pressure on the wound and felt the pulse at his neck.

  Trying not to think about her lips on the skin there, she watched his Adam’s apple bob as she felt the blood pulse through his veins, strong and steady. That was good. His heart rate slower than normal, but some random factoid from her high school Health class reminded her that athletic people had slower heart rates. Eyeballing his physique without a shirt showed her he was definitely athletic, so that explained that one.

  Looking at his face, she saw he was studying her while she worked. She tried not to look into his eyes, focusing on his skin coloring: light tan, smooth except for a light stubble and the little patch of hair below his lip, his lips were darker than the rest of the skin on his face, which was a good sign. While she looked at them, a wet, pink tongue snaked out and licked his top lip, flooding Faith’s core.

  Her eyes snapped back to the first aid manual to see what was next. She was pretty sure kissing the gunshot victim wasn’t on the list of things to do.

  Exit wound. Shit.

  “Did it come out?” Her fingers hovered over the wound, afraid to hurt him further.

  “How the hell am I supposed to know? I’ve got good eyes, but for some reason I missed that part.” He was managing a wry smile, and Faith wondered if he was in shock. He didn’t seem to be in pain, which scared her.

  “Well, we’ll need to roll you over and see if there is one. If so, I’ve got to dress it.”

  With a not-so-macho groan, he sort of helped her roll him over to find no exit wound. Fuck. There was a bullet inside him somewhere. That could not be good. At all. Trying not to panic, she went down her list.

  Next was controlling the bleeding. She looked at Michael’s face and saw him watching her with interest, if not a little wariness. Well, she couldn’t really blame him. As much as she knew about gunshot wounds, she’d never treated one.

  She dug around in the first aid kit, coming up a long pair of tweezers. Michael’s eyes widened. “You are not digging around for it.”

  “I can’t leave it in there!”

  “Warriors have lived with bullets inside them for centuries.” Michael’s eyes were intent and Faith faltered. This didn’t look like an argument she was likely to win. She sure wouldn’t want her digging around an open wound looking for a bullet.

  Her voice softened, trying to persuade him. Faith realized this was probably going to be her only chance. “You aren’t a warrior. Besides, a lot more of them died with a bullet still inside them. Infection, you know.” She felt a tear track down her cheek. If she didn’t do everything she could for him, he might die on her couch. That thought brought a fresh round of heartache, and it wasn’t just because she’d be accused of killing him. She sort of liked him.

  His hand reached for her hand with the tweezers, stilling it. “I know you don’t believe me, I can see it in your eyes. You’re trying to figure out where to hide my body. But I assure you, I’ll be fine. Leave the bullet.”

  She’d probably only make things worse trying to dig it out. Sniffling, trying not to feel defeated, she rummaged around the first aid kit again, until she found a package of powder to clot blood. She looked at him again, and saw his eyebrows had risen. “This might sting a little.”

  “I don’t think I need that. Really.” His voice had risen in pitch, and she could swear his eyes pleaded with her.

  She couldn’t resist teasing him. “That sounds an awful lot like begging to me.”

  “No. I just don’t feel like going through unnecessary… AAAGGHH! Son of a BITCH!!!”

  She’d ripped the package open with her teeth, and while holding the wound open with one hand, poured the contents into it. She put a fresh towel over the wound and held it closed, watching the vein in Michael’s forehead pop out while he gritted his teeth together and turned a strange shade of purple.

  “Breathe, Michael,” she said softly. He exhaled in a whoosh of pent up air.

  “Shit!”

  “I’m sorry, but if you’re not going to a hospital, you need to let me do what I can.”

  He closed his eyes and seemed to be focusing on his breathing while Faith continued holding the wound closed.

  “What did you shoot me with, anyway? .45?”

  “No. Sig Sauer nine millimeter.”

  “Why not a .45? You could have definitely had a better chance at killing me with one.”

  “Too heavy. Besides I’m a better shot than this. You moved too quickly when you came in. Otherwise you would be dead.” She softened her voice. “Which is good, I didn’t want to kill you.”

  “Who were you trying to kill?”

  She shrugged. Who indeed? Was Michael right? Was the other one after her? “Just got trigger happy, I guess.�
� She loosened her hold on the towel over his wound. His eyelids drooped.

  “Tell you what. I’m going to rest, and in a couple of hours, you wake me up and give me some of whatever that is you’re cooking. I’ll be much better in the morning. Then we’re going to talk.”

  “Okay.” She gave him some acetaminophen, which he took with some water before laying his head back and closing his eyes with a sigh, probably relieved she was finished messing with him.

  He seemed to instantly fall asleep, which was weird, but Faith unlaced his boots and pulled them off his feet, then slid off his socks. She ran her fingers over his toes, reveling in the perfection of his feet. Of all the things about this man on her sofa, she gets pulled in by his feet. Clean, soft, and huge, they were symbols of virility, as if this man needed something to corroborate his virility. He was probably the most virile man she’d ever met.

  She worked her way up, undressing him as she went, an act made more intimate by his total lack of consciousness. It was as if he trusted her enough to fall asleep on her sofa and let her have her way with him.

  Pulling off his pants, she noticed a sizeable bulge under his boxer shorts, even though it wasn’t erect. She licked her lips unconsciously and willed herself to get the man a blanket or two. She watched him, his chest rising and falling rhythmically, while she decided what to do. She wasn’t ready for sleep yet, although it had been a long day. The adrenaline was still pulsing through her though, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep until she knew what would happen with him.

  Faith puttered around for a couple of hours until it was time to feed Michael. Ladling some broth into a cup, she took it to him and gently touched his shoulder. She was met instantly with shimmers of piercing silver.

  He took the proffered mug, not taking his eyes off her, and drank, tentatively at first, then greedily as his eyes slowly closed. When he’d finished, he muttered to himself, “I didn’t realize I was hungry. This isn’t taking as long as I thought.”

  “Are you in pain?” Of course he was. It was a dumb question but one that was easier than questioning what wasn’t taking as long. He nodded before Michael’s hand reached around the back of her neck and pulled her forward, meeting her lips with his own.

  The kiss was searing, and not just because he’d drunk hot broth. His mouth was hot, feverish, and Faith felt a brief stab of worry that he might have some sort of infection. Then his tongue pushed inside her mouth, and all worries were gone.

  This kiss was different from the last. The last time, she’d been trying to distract him with her dominance, her control. This one though, caught her off guard, and control was relinquished with the touch of his warm lips against her own. She let him conquer her mouth, her tongue, her insides as his tongue swooped in like an invading army, leaving destruction in its wake.

  Michael’s hands clasped her head, tilting while his mouth slanted against hers, allowing a deeper kiss. He plundered her mouth, he took, he defeated her, with that one kiss.

  Faith whimpered at the surge of emotion coursing through her. She felt out of control, and as was always the case with Michael, she enjoyed it. She succumbed to the sensations of his tongue in her mouth, his hands framing her face, his hard body under hers. Faith melted into the kiss, relinquishing everything to him.

  And then the kiss changed. Michael’s mouth softened, and the kiss became gentler, his tongue lazily swooping in and swirling around her mouth, sightseeing. She met its swoops with an exploration of her own, feeling the rough texture of his tongue, the smooth silkiness of the inside of his mouth.

  The kiss seemed to last an eternity and was over in a flash - The dichotomy of time, when doing something that takes over all senses.

  When he was finished with her mouth, Michael broke the kiss, leaving Faith a quivering mess. He released her face, trailing his hands down to her shoulders, pushing her back gently. There was a softness in his eyes Faith hadn’t seen there before.

  “Good soup,” he said softly.

  Breathless, she replied, “I have more.” If soup made him kiss like that, she could make soup for the rest of her life. Shaking her head to clear it of those types of thoughts, she continued, “How do you feel?” Her eyes travelled to his chest and noticed the wound looked better, smaller. She slanted her eyes and twisted her head to look at it better. Was that possible?

  “I’m much better. Thank you. Can I have another cup?”

  “Of course.” As she walked to the kitchen to refill his cup, she shook herself. Michael woke feelings inside her that had been asleep for way too long. Or not long enough. She wasn’t ready for the intense onslaught of emotions that kiss had stirred up.

  She hadn’t felt desire since Eli. And she’d shoved memories of him so far deep in her psyche that remembering him now brought a stab of unwanted guilt and pain to her heart.

  She ladled more of the rich broth into his cup and took it to him. Choosing to stand instead of sitting next to him again, she ventured, “I think you should sleep some more. I’m pretty bushed myself. If you don’t need anything else, I’m going to bed.”

  He nodded, his probing gaze never leaving her eyes. She couldn’t handle those silver fucking eyes anymore tonight. It was two in the morning, and the adrenaline had worn off. She was beyond tired and thought she’d be able to sleep now. Something about Michael’s presence, even wounded and incapacitated on her couch, made her feel safety she hadn’t felt in years. She was going to take advantage of that and catch some sleep.

  Chapter Nine

  Michael didn’t sleep, never had. As he laid there, feeling his body reject the bullet and heal itself, he listened to Faith go about her night time rituals, getting ready for bed.

  It was happening, and he embraced the familiar feelings of anger as he relived the sensations of the warm soup filling his empty belly. He’d never been hungry before. It was happening faster than it had with the others. It had taken them weeks to get to this point, and here he was, the strongest of them all, falling in a matter of days. How weak did that make him?

  He despised weakness.

  The pain had been a bit of a shock. Actually being shot hadn’t been painful, but when Faith had tried to fix things, that shit hurt. He’d never felt pain like that before. That was part of who he was. Who he used to be. No pain. But the blinding, searing sensations of Faith cleaning the wound and trying to heal it had nearly killed him. He’d thought he would explode. Michael had been shot before, even shot in the heart. He’d had appendages cut off. He’d been stabbed, crushed, maimed, and burned. He’d always healed on his own, and efforts of healers hadn’t hurt like hers had.

  His mind turned over all the aspects of the injury and how this assignment affected it. He was falling faster than his brothers had. He’d always considered himself the strongest of the four, and the speed with which this process was happening was a little disconcerting. Could he die before it was completed? If he was falling this quickly and got mortally wounded a few days from now, would he die?

  The idea of a restful death suddenly didn’t hold the appeal it had before.

  He tried to push the thought away. His body had managed to heal itself like always, hadn’t it?

  But this time it hurt like hell. He suddenly had a better grasp of what humans went through when horrible things happened to them physically. Anger rippled through Michael at the knowledge that this was happening to him. Then inexplicably, a sense of guilt flooded him. He actually felt a little bad for all the anger he’d projected towards humans for their weakness in the face of death.

  He knew he was supposed to fall in love with Faith, and in the process, he would fall from grace and lose his immortality. He had mixed feelings about this. The immortality part was fine. Michael used to be somebody to fear. He was the one who determined worth. He judged. He used to garner respect, but now few people knew who or what he was, what he represented. He was tired of demanding respect, instilling fear, and couldn’t even remember himself why he did all those thin
gs. Anger was a human emotion he’d absorbed, and it weakened him.

  So he was cool with dying. Or had been, anyway.

  But all this love stuff? It was bullshit, and he wanted no part of it. But Faith’s fear last night, for him, had done something to him, opened his eyes to a side of humanity he hadn’t seen in a while. There was a purity in her response to him that was unexpected. She was obviously afraid she’d killed him, and some part of her motivations were based on self-preservation, that was clear. But there was something he’d seen in the depths of her eyes that spoke of something deeper, a sincerity in her actions that showed genuine regret, a desire to make him better, an urgency.

  And it tugged uncomfortably at his insides.

  He turned on his side and watched the sun come up through the windows in the living room. As the room was lit, he could take in his surroundings. This cabin had been here a while by human standards. He could tell the wood had aged and warped, seeing sun peek in through cracks and chinks in the wood. The furnishings were old but comfortable, and everything was remarkably clean. He wondered where had the cabin come from, and how long had she had it?

  There was no television, thankfully. Michael hated the incessant noise those things proffered. Humans seemed to have them on all the time just for noise. Ugh…

  The roof was tin nailed into rafters. There were a few load-bearing beams and pillars separating the kitchen from the living room but no wall. Across from him, next to the coat rack he’d fallen on last night, was a pair of battle swords hanging on the wall. Odd choice of decoration, but it seemed to fit her character. All in all, it was a nice, open space, and Michael supposed the only other room was Faith’s bedroom. It was a cozy cabin.

  He heaved himself off the couch, stretching languidly, feeling his body. His muscles were taut after his rest on the sofa, but they stretched easily. A strange creaking sound came from his bones. And that pissed him off again.