Damn me...
She was incredible. Her long blond hair was the color of honey, and it fell in soft waves around her thin shoulders. Her skin was pale, with rosy cheeks and lips that had obviously been protected very carefully from the harsh Alaskan climate. She stood close to six feet in height and wore a white cable-knit sweater and jeans.
Her eyes were a pale, pale blue. So light that at first glance, they were almost colorless. And as she came into the room with her hands stretched out as she moved slowly and methodically, trying to locate the wolf, he realized she was completely blind.
The wolf barked at him twice, then turned and went to his owner.
"There you are," she whispered, kneeling to pet it. "You shouldn't bark, Sasha. You'll wake our guest."
"I'm awake and I'm sure that's why he's barking."
She turned her head toward him as if she were trying to see him. "I'm sorry. We don't get much company and Sasha tends to be a little antisocial with strangers."
"Believe me, I know the feeling."
She walked toward the bed, again with her hand outstretched. "How do you feel?" she asked, patting his shoulder as she located him.
Zarek cringed at the sensation of her warm hand on his flesh. It was gentle. Searing. And it made a foreign part of him ache. But worst of all, it made his groin hard. Tight.
He'd never been able to stand anyone touching him.
"I'd rather you not do that."
"Do what?" she asked.
"Touch me."
She pulled back slowly and blinked methodically as if it were more habit than reflex. "I see by touch," she said softly. "If I don't touch you, I'm completely blind."
"Yeah, well, we all have problems." He scooted to the opposite side of the bed and rose to his feet. He was bare except for his leather pants and a few bandages. She must have undressed him and treated his wounds. That thought made him feel rather strange. No one had ever bothered caring for him before when he'd been wounded.
Why would she?
Even Acheron and Nick had left him to his own devices after he'd been hurt in New Orleans. The best they'd offered was a ride home so that he could heal in solitude.
Of course, they might have offered him more had he been a little less hostile toward them, but hostility was what he did best.
Zarek found his clothes folded on a rocking chair by the window. In spite of the painful protests of his muscles, he started pulling them on. His Dark-Hunter powers had allowed him to heal for the most part while he slept, but he wasn't in as good a shape as he would have been had the Dream-Hunters helped him. They often came to injured Dark-Hunters to heal them during their sleep, but not Zarek.
He scared them as much as he scared everyone else.
So, he'd learned to take his hits and deal with the pain. Which was fine by him. He didn't like people, immortal or otherwise, anywhere nearby.
Life was better alone.
He grimaced as he caught sight of the hole in the back of his shirt where the shotgun blast had struck him.
Yup, life was definitely better alone. Unlike his "friend," he couldn't shoot himself in the back even if he wanted to.
"Are you up?" the unknown woman asked, her voice surprised. "Dressing?"
"No," he said irritably. "I'm pissing on your rag. What do you think I'm doing?"
"I'm blind. For all I know you really are peeing on my rag, which is a very nice rag incidentally, so I hope you're kidding."
He felt a strange twinge of amusement at her comeback. She was fast and smart. He liked that.
But he had no time to waste. "Look, lady, I don't know how you got me in here, but I appreciate it. However, I have to get going. Believe me, you'll be very sorry if I don't."