Page 66 of Edge of Oblivion (Night Prowler 2)
The doctor smiled. “For not finishing what you started earlier.”
Dear, sweet lord in heaven. He stood there, staggered, while Bartleby gazed at him, serene as Buddha, moonlight shining soft off his spectacles. A low rumble of thunder broke the silence, and somewhere off in the distance, a dog began to howl.
“Go on, then.” The doctor waved him away and sat back down in his chair. He stretched his legs out over the grass and tipped his head up to the sky just in time to watch the moon slip behind a thundercloud. “Go find clarity, my friend, and maybe with it you’ll find some peace of mind. After all these years, you deserve it.”
For not finishing what you started.
It repeated in Xander’s head like a broken record as he slowly made his way through the dark house, down two sets of stairs, to the bedroom level where he’d woken up early this morning. He paused at the landing, staring down the long corridor to the door at the end where he’d left Morgan—
fled her—his heart pounding so hard he’d thought it might break through his ribs and explode, killing him.
She was delirious. She was joking. She was just trying to get a rise out of him so she could torment him later about his stupidity.
Right?
Her scent teased the air, wound up inside his nose, luring, tugging him forward. The energy of her Fever throbbed in exquisite, crackling pulses over his skin. Knowing exactly what waited for him behind that door, he wondered if this was God’s way of punishing him for everything bad he’d done in his life. It definitely felt like punishment.
A little moan from behind her closed door, and again he thought he would die. Desire flamed in him, hot as the sun, consuming. A noise like tremendous static roared in his ears.
His feet moved him down the hall.
He placed his open palms on the closed door and stood there with his arms braced against it for seconds, minutes, what seemed like hours, fighting against every raging instinct in his body.
You will not do this. You will maintain control. There’s no going back from something like this, there’s no good that can come of it—
The low moan came again, and his will began to fracture. He put his hand on the knob and slowly turned it.
The scent that slipped from the open door was so heady and overwhelming he was rocked back on his heels as it hit him in wave after wave of perfumed beauty. Ferocious, the animal inside him hissed and writhed to be free.
Xander pushed the door open farther. When he saw what was inside he froze.
The room was in shambles. Broken things lay scattered across the floor: a lamp, a yellow vase, a flat-screen television that had hung above the narrow credenza. A framed oil had been shredded to pieces, tossed to a corner. The bedsheets were in disarray, the satin comforter lay in a rumpled pile at the foot of the bed...the bed itself was empty. Frantic, his gaze darted over the darkened room. Morgan wasn’t on the floor, in the chair, anywhere he could see—
From the adjoining bathroom there came the sound of running water, followed very quickly thereafter by a loud crash.
He bolted across the room, threw open the bathroom door, and came to a skidding halt beside the sink. She was crouched on the tiled floor of the shower—naked, shivering, knees drawn up to her chin—as water poured all over her, poured all over the shards of frosted glass that lay scattered around her.
The shower door was demolished. Ragged bits of glass stuck out from the metal frame like shark’s teeth. A few of them fell tinkling to the tile.
“Morgan!” He frantically searched for blood, for signs she’d been hurt. “What happened? Did you fall? Are you—” She glanced up at him through dark lashes, and her agonized look punched an aching hole into the very center of his chest.
“It h-hurts less if I b-break something,” she said, teeth chattering.
The relief that washed over him was so strong he had to close his eyes for a moment to manage it. “You did this on purpose.”
He opened his eyes to find her nodding into her knees, her dark hair fanned over her shoulders and back, dripping wet. “S-stupid d- door.”
Steam curled up in feathered wisps from her shoulders, and as he reached in to turn off the faucet he was shocked to realize the water pouring over her was ice-cold. The steam came from her skin.
She was burning up.
“You need the morphine,” he growled, reaching for one of the towels that hung on a rod beside the sink. He knelt beside her and carefully draped it over her shoulders.
She pushed it away. “Water,” she said, her voice cracking. “I need cold water.”
Reaching an arm up to the faucet, she made a move to stand but staggered. Before she could fall Xander had her in his arms, had her—shivering, wet, and burning—pressed against his chest. He kept his eyes on the ruined door as he maneuvered them past it, avoiding jagged glass and the view of her naked breasts, both inches away. He snatched the other towel from the rack and awkwardly tried to pull it over her while she squirmed in his arms.
God, the fragrance of her—the heat—
