Chapter 1
Shouldn't have opened the door. Roland instinctively knew
the fragile-looking burden draped over Calhoun's arms was
going to wreak all kinds of havoc on his well-ordered life.
To hell with the door; he shouldn't have answered the damn
phone. Then he wouldn't have been swayed by the rare frantic
tone in Calhoun's voice when he'd called begging for a
favor. 'Course, even if Roland hadn't picked up the phone,
Calhoun would have assumed Roland to be in at this time of
the afternoon and come pounding anyway. And yeah, Roland
could have ignored that too, but doing so went against every
ingrained fabric of his being. At least the being he'd once
been.
This is what I get for remembering my manners.
"Thanks for this." Calhoun brushed by Roland, twisting so as
not to bump the head of his precious cargo on the master
bedroom door.
Roland grunted and moved into the bathroom in search of a
towel. Best to keep his opinion to himself. Get that scrawny
thing and your sorry ass out of here would not go over well.
Mumbling a string of curses, Roland yanked on the
faux-antique glass knob of the teak cabinet and searched the
handcrafted shelving for a sacrifice. All his towels were
new. Everything in his loft was new. He liked new. Crisp, clean.
Unsoiled.
The tension in his shoulders crept down his back. With
senses as heightened as his, any tainting of his personal
belongings made relaxing difficult. It was going to take him
weeks of cleaning and nighttime airings to remove the
urchin's scent: like a friggin' garden...fresh-bloomed
lavender, dewy mornings, and dirt. The dirt would only ruin
his sheets, but the other smells had him spiraling down
toward crazy.
Eyeing his choices, he grabbed one of the pristine white
towels that didn't still have a tag on it and headed back to
the bedroom. His efforts were wasted. Calhoun had already
pulled back the sleep-rumpled blankets and was laying the
filthy jumble of scraped elbows and dirty denim on Roland's
clean sheets. Roland sighed and tossed the towel on the
nearby dresser.
The bed was officially ruined. He hoped the cost of his
newfound kindness would be limited to the bed. He hadn't
even been here a week and his new sanctuary was being
unsanctified. It had taken him months to find a New York
City loft without any stains of violence, another to have it
remodeled to his exact specifications, and still another to
purge it of the stink from the contractors who had redone
it. He suspected the lingering presence of
this...girl...would take far longer to expunge.
"How long are you going to be?" Roland asked, trying to keep
his displeasure from sliding into his tone. Calhoun was
right; Roland did owe him a favor—a big one too. Roland just
wasn't sure if this qualified. This wasn't big; it was
colossal, and not only because of the cost of his Stearns &
Foster.
Calhoun glanced up at him absently from where he'd been
carefully tucking Roland's new, unwanted guest into the vast
California king bed.
Damn. I loved that bed.
Calhoun blinked as if he had to think about what Roland had
asked, his concentration obviously still on the woman
currently soiling Roland's new silk sheets.
"I hope to finish by dark. If not, soon after," Calhoun
finally said when he got his head out of his ass—or maybe
that was his head out of his dick.
"Make it dark," Roland said, his breath hissing through
clenched teeth in an effort not to inhale anymore of her
scent. Not that it mattered. All he succeeded in doing was
altering the girl's heady pheromones into candied sugar on
his tongue.
And this was why he didn't allow humans, especially females,
into his home. The seductive scents, the gentle whoosh of
blood pumping, and the soft murmurs she'd make as she tossed
and turned in his sheets. Roland fisted his hands. The call
to rut, to feed, was like a rabid animal clawing at his
insides. He'd kept that animal carefully caged, would keep
it caged. Yet something of his internal trauma must have
shown in his eyes. Calhoun's gaze snapped from Roland to the
skinny slip of a girl he'd so lovingly tucked in bed, and
then back to Roland again, his expression becoming
increasingly alarmed.
Calhoun stood to his full height, which at a towering six
foot five put him nose to eyebrow with Roland. The air in
the room began to tingle. Roland could feel the gathering of
power. See the aura shimmering around his supposed friend.
That faint light singed Roland's skin.
Roland hissed, hastily giving ground until he was across the
room and practically pressed into the panel that hid his
walk-in closet. Fury mounted within him and he had to work
hard to suppress the vicious beast from awakening. He would
never hurt Calhoun. His best friend, the only one who'd
stood by him, the one Paladin who'd seen enough humanity
left in Roland to take the chance to try and save him...to
let him exist. But even Roland had his limits, and even for
Calhoun he would not quiver like some cowed dog in a shadowy
corner.
"You're teetering on the edge, Calhoun," he snarled, letting
the fire spark in his eyes to emphasize his words. It might
burn him, but he could have Calhoun's throat in his hand
before the Paladin could draw enough heavenly light to turn
him to ash.
Calhoun stopped glowing, but even so, Roland could sense the
barely contained power bubbling beneath the surface.
"Is this going to be a problem for you?" Calhoun asked, his
eyes flint gray.
"No." Roland rubbed his face. The skin was tender, but no
real damage. "But it's been days."
Calhoun took a step forward, a lion ready to lunge into
battle. "You won't touch her."
"I never said I would," Roland ground out from between
clenched teeth. "She's safe from me."
Calhoun's eyes narrowed to slits.
"Jesus, Calhoun. I haven't taken an innocent since—"
"Since when?"
"Since you came after me," Roland finished. A flash of
memory: the red haze of the bloodlust, the loss of self. How
many innocents had he taken? He didn't know.
"She's safe with me. Regardless of when you return," Roland
said, then curled his lip in distaste. "I have some
emergency supplies in the freezer."
Pig blood and Red Cross discards. Lucky for him he was
immune to illness. Though sometimes he wondered if
contracting some horrific disease would have been a better
way to go than this interminable hell he lived.
The tension in Calhoun's body eased. He clamped a hand on
Roland's shoulder. "Thank you. After this, I'll owe you one."
"Get back here by dark and we'll call it even," Roland told
him, annoyance making his voice sound as if it were being
dragged over gravel.
Calhoun chuckled. Turning back to the bed, he gave the
slumbering girl one last long gaze. The softening in his
eyes alarmed Roland. Calhoun was tough as nails. Hell, even
his dry humor was rusty. What was she to him?
"She's special, Roland," Calhoun stated, his awed tone
confirming Roland's fears. Calhoun was already half gone.
"Take care of her."
"Special how?" Roland hoped Calhoun meant special in the
gifted kind of way, not special in the till-death way.
Humans and Paladin didn't mix. It was that whole mortality
thing. "You said yourself that she passed out within seconds
of showing up on your doorstop."
That's about all he'd gotten from Calhoun. Some woman had
shown up at his door and passed out. Moments later the
reason for her flight had become apparent as Calhoun's
sensors all went off. Rather than face an army of Ganelon's
underworld fiends, Calhoun had grabbed his new burden and
abandoned ship. And come here.
Why here? Why not to Haven? And who was she that she'd
attracted the attention of Ganelon's minions?
All questions for later, after the curly-haired chit woke up
and Calhoun had gotten his hard-ass head back on his shoulders.
The sound of a throat being cleared distracted Roland from
his unwanted guest. Calhoun glared at him, his face deadly
serious.
Shit. Calhoun wasn't the only one whose head seemed to be
misplaced. Had Calhoun replied to his question? He didn't
even know.
"What?" Roland asked, going for casual over deer-in-headlights.
"I've never regretted not killing you that day," Calhoun
said. "Not once. Just—just take care of her."
Roland could feel the shift in his friend's loyalties.
Calhoun had stood through Roland's fall from grace and
through the Elders' demands that Calhoun terminate his once
best friend. But now? And for a stranger?
There were a thousand things Roland wanted to say in the
face of Calhoun's silent betrayal. Instead he shrugged. "No
problem. She'll be safe and sound when you get back. Not a
single hair on her head disturbed."
With a last measured look, Calhoun left the room. A few
moments later the outside door snicked shut, leaving Roland
and his new roommate alone.
I should leave. It's not like I can't sleep on the damn couch.
Instead he found himself lingering.
What was it about the girl that held Calhoun's interest?
Roland's gaze followed the tangled mane of dark chestnut
curls spilling down over her neck to where her pulse
fluttered erratically.
He frowned, a twinge of concern making him start for the
bed, hand outstretched, before he stopped himself and
lowered his arm back to his side.
Tired from her flight, no doubt. She definitely looked worse
for the wear. The torn T and dirt-blushed cheeks would not
make her a fashion plate. He supposed she'd be pretty enough
when she cleaned up. She had the petite build and angular
shoulders of youth and a wealth of freckles to go with the
illusion, but her fully rounded breasts, emphasized by the
tucked blankets, and the slight crease between her eyebrows
suggested she was older. Mid-twenties maybe? Still too
young. Too innocent. Despite the dirt, this woman was pure
as the stark-white, fresh-out-of-the-package sheets she was
laying on.
Roland rubbed his hands over his face, noting the resulting
sharp sting on the inside corners of his lips.