Descent (Kissed by Death) - Tara Fuller Page 0,43

a dark throbbing cloud of pain enveloped me.

“Easton?”

He pushed himself to his knees and unstrapped his belt and blade, letting them fall to the floor. The dark room kept his face concealed. I was afraid to see. I needed to see. He climbed onto the bed and collapsed beside me.

“Oh my God…” I brushed the hair back from his face. He winced under my touch. Bruises blotted out his pale skin, and blood beaded up from a cut on his lip. “What did you let them do?”

“I’m fine, Red,” he said, voice raw. He reached up and ran his fingers through my still-damp hair. “You listened.”

“Of course I listened. And you’re not fine,” I whispered, feeling his pain as if it were my own. I could see it. Dark, violent waves, pulling him under again and again. “You’re bleeding.”

He was bleeding for me. To keep me safe. My heart swelled, and an achy, unfamiliar feeling overwhelmed me.

He closed his eyes. “Maybe I like to bleed.”

“Maybe you’re an idiot.”

He cracked an eye open and chuckled. “Wow. I managed to get an angel of joy to call me an idiot. I’ve seen it all now.”

“And I just heard the infamous Easton laugh,” I retorted. “So I guess I’ve seen it all now, too.”

His gaze drifted down from my face, and his violet irises practically glowed in the dark. “Red?”

“Yes?”

“Where are your clothes?” He didn’t take his eyes off of me, and I suddenly felt self-conscious in nothing but my undergarments. No one had ever seen me like this. I felt out of control with his eyes on me. Like I was free-falling toward something unknown and didn’t want to be caught. I pulled my knees up to my chest to cover myself and wrapped my arms around my legs.

“They got wet in the tub,” I said. “I didn’t like how the leather felt against my skin.”

He finally tore his gaze away and stared at the ceiling, clenching his jaw. After a moment, he leaned up, groaning. He lifted his arms a little and cursed under his breath.

“Help me get this off, will you?”

“Your shirt?”

He nodded, so I reached over and gingerly helped him pull it over his shoulders. Once it was off, his head rested against the wall, and he grimaced. “Now put it on before I do something I’ll regret.”

I didn’t really know what he meant by that, but I was grateful for the clothing. And the view. Easton looked like a living piece of art. Muscles and scars defined him, telling stories he’d never himself admit out loud. His chest heaved, pushing and pulling the scorching air from his lungs. It was mesmerizing to watch, to see him like this…flesh and blood…alive. I suddenly couldn’t get past the need to touch him. It wasn’t just the overwhelming joy pulsing beneath my skin and pressing against my ribs, making me feel as if I were about to be torn in two. It was something else. Something undeniable, an ache that could be soothed only by laying my skin against his.

Without thinking, I ran my fingers over the ridges of his bruised abdomen, skirting around the large, gaping wound on his side. There was so much pain there. If he’d only let me, I could take some of it away. He grabbed my wrist. I looked up to find him watching me, jaw set into a hard line, eyes intense and smoldering.

“Don’t,” he growled.

“Please, let me help,” I said. “I can take some of the pain away.”

“At what cost?” he asked, catching me off guard. His jaw clenched as he watched me. “It’s an exchange, isn’t it? You give me a piece of Heaven and I give you the Hell that’s in me in return.”

I swallowed the dread, heavy in my throat, and nodded. He was going to push me away again. I couldn’t let it happen. I was desperate for this. Didn’t he understand I needed it as much as he did?

“Just this once,” I pleaded. “Please.”

His throat worked as he stared down at me, conflicted and hot and hurting. I ran my hand over his battered ribs. He hissed in a breath, and his head fell forward.

“What do you want, Gwen?” he whispered.

I stared at his chest, breathing hard, heart beating a frantic rhythm. “I want to touch you. And I don’t want you to stop me.”

He hesitated, but when I ran my fingers over the crisscross pattern of raised white scars that slashed across his ribs, he didn’t stop