“Are you all right, dear? Should I call someone?”
Seychelle shook her head. Who was there to call? She indicated for Doris to rest and dragged herself to her feet, using the furniture to pull herself up. This was going to be bad. Already her vision was so blurred she could barely make Doris out, and she was right in front of her. Her head pounded and her stomach was churning. In another few minutes she was going to black out if she was lucky; if she wasn’t, she was going to be very, very sick.
She staggered into the living room and found herself on her hands and knees, crawling to the front door. Managing to get out of the house by falling through the door frame, she jerked the door closed after her and rested against it, her heart pounding. There was no way she could drive her car home. The only person she could think to call was Savage. He’d programmed his number into her phone, but she’d never used it—not once in the weeks they’d been friends. Weird friends, but friends.
She had no idea if he was back from San Francisco or, if he was, whether he’d really come for her, but she didn’t have much choice. He’d been gone three days. It was possible he was home, but he hadn’t contacted her. If he didn’t come for her, she’d be riding this out on Doris’s front porch, and it was really cold outside. She was so sick. She was going to vomit, and she didn’t want to do that on the porch.
With shaky fingers, she texted him. Need help, very sick at Doris’s, can’t drive home. Can you get me home? On front porch.
The answer came back immediately. On my way.
She closed her eyes. She didn’t want him to see her like this. She knew he was trying to figure out the way her gifts worked. She couldn’t tell him, because she didn’t fully comprehend how they worked, but she was fairly certain that having taken on her parents’ illnesses to prolong their lives and now helping others the way she was doing was slowly killing her. She just couldn’t fight the compulsion.
It seemed like hours passed, because she was in agony, but she knew it was only a few minutes before Savage was crouched down beside her, sweeping the hair from her face with gentle fingers. Her heart contracted at the look on his face. So gentle. The caring there. She could see it so plainly, and everything in her responded to it. No one had ever looked at her the way he did—as if she was his world.
“Do I need to take you to a hospital?”
She shook her head. “Just sick. A migraine. Very bad. My ankle.” She had to reply through clenched teeth. If she opened her mouth, she’d get sick all over him. “Home, please.”
“Keys?”
She nodded toward her pocket. He didn’t hesitate but reached into her jacket and tugged them out. She heard the second motorcycle arrive and put her head down, embarrassed that anyone else would see her curled up in the fetal position, rocking back and forth on an elderly woman’s front porch.
“Just Ink and Mechanic bringing my bike to your house for me,” Savage said. “I’m driving your car.”
That made sense, but her head was pounding so hard she couldn’t think clearly. Nor could she see properly. She was grateful he’d come for her. Savage. She’d fallen so hard, so fast. She knew it was too soon and far, far too much. She was giving him all of her because she was the type of woman who, once she made up her mind, couldn’t hold anything back. She gave every part of herself to him. She was all in. All his. Heart and soul.
Savage gathered her up, lifting her into his arms, cradling her close to his chest as if she was the most precious cargo in the world. For one second, she was dizzy with love. With the most amazing, wonderful feeling, almost a euphoria, in spite of her lurching stomach and pounding head.
And then it hit her. The woman. The smell of her. The scent of the woman’s sexual lust mixed with Savage’s raw, violent, sexual scent. His mingling with the woman’s. The color red slashed across her vision.
Betrayal was a red-hot poker, as crimson and as bright as those streaks in her vision, only this was a knife stabbing over and over through her heart. The reality of betrayal was brutal and visceral, shredding her, ripping her to pieces, just as she’d known it would. It hurt worse than if he’d beaten her. That terrible stabbing continued over and over, driving through her body until she felt every single hole, until there was nothing left of her flesh on the bones. It hurt worse than the very real physical pain of that vicious jackhammer drilling at her head in the form of a migraine.
Seychelle struggled. Fought him. Tried desperately to get out of his arms. She had to get away from him. His touch was killing her, stripping her down to nothing but raw, visceral pain.