Page 50 of White Horse Black Nights

His voice is hoarse. “You have no idea how much I want—”

His voice cuts off mid-thought as his head jerks to the side, like he heard something. His eyes are suddenly clear, alert. His body goes perfectly rigid overtop me.

Blinking hard, dizzy from desire, I push up to one elbow. “What is it?”

“Smoke.” His eyes zero in on a spot on the wall while focusing on his sense of smell. He says tightly, “The common room is on fire.”

This is such a stark turn of events that my brain can’t switch back on fast enough. I shake my head.I don’t want this to end!

Helplessly, I object, “I don’t smell anything . . . ”

But my words trail off. Of course Basten, with his godkissed senses, would smell smoke long before I would.

He sits upright, gazing down at me with dilated pupils, his breathing still fast. It’s clear there is only one thing in this world he wants right now more than to fuck me—and that’s to protect me. He drags a hand over his face. Instantly, he switches into guard mode. “I have to get you out of here.”

He grabs my wrists.

My body is still slick with desire. My pebbled nipples haven’t gotten the message about the danger. The dull throb between my legs demands attention, and frustration swells in my chest as he drags me out of bed.

“Basten, wait!”

I lick my lips, trying to find words. But my brain is blank. I don’t know how to tell him how much I wanted him, how much I still want him. That now that I have a taste of freedom, I don’t intend ever to go back to the way things were before.

His expression softens in understanding. Briefly, he cups the curve of my jaw. “This . . . You . . . ” He starts again. “We have to go, Sabine. Get dressed.”

Finally, I snap out of my haze and realize how dangerous it is to stay in a burning building. Dragging a hand over my scalp, I take quick stock of where I left the overdress on the bottom bed rail. I tug it over my chemise, then crouch to look for my shoes under the table.

Without warning, my heel pushes down on a loose nail sticking up from one of the floorboards. Pain stabs through my foot. My knees buckle. Dropping to all fours, I let out a cry.

Basten is by my side in an instant. “Sabine?”

“My foot!” I gasp.

He makes quick work of inspecting the puncture wound that’s oozing blood. Acting fast, he swings his rucksack over one shoulder, and then picks me up off the floor. Carrying me in his arms, he tromps across the room and kicks the door open.

Smoke billows up the stairs. A woman screams from a different floor. Doors slam, and feet gallop as the other guests hurry to flee.

I wrap my arms around Basten’s neck, burying my face in his massive chest, as he carries me through the smoke, and out into the night’s safety.

Chapter16

Wolf

Smoke billows out of the windows and doors of the Manywaters Inn. The street is thick with coughing guests who have escaped the fire, and more people rush from nearby houses to help put out the flames. With the Innis River just a stone’s throw away, people swarm the bridge, lowering buckets tied to ropes to fill with water.

As I carry Sabine, I scan the crowd for a familiar face, but Folke isn’t among the survivors in the street. With his wounded leg, he can’t climb down stairs easily. If he’s not here, there’s a chance he’s still in the building.

“Have you seen a man with a cane?” I shout to a burly older man who is leading the efforts to put out the fire. “Light brown skin. Mid-thirties. Graying hair.”

Unable to spare me much attention, he quickly shakes his head.

Fuck!

The flames throw heat on us as the inferno reaches the second floor. I tote Sabine through the crowd, to the recessed doorway of a fishmonger’s shop across the street. I ease her onto the stoop, then set to investigating the wound on her foot. The nail cut deep but cleanly, which means as long as I can stop the bleeding, she should be fine. There’s always the risk of infection, but we’ll be in Duren the day after tomorrow, and Lord Rian has teams of healers at his disposal—even one with a godkiss that can mend torn skin. He’ll ensure that she’s showered with medical attention.

I rip the hem off her dress and use the fabric strip to bind her bleeding wound. She gives a hacking cough, her lungs clogged from having passed through the smoke. Her eyes are watering, ringed in red. She rubs them with the back of her hand like they ache.

I smooth a hand down her hair. “Sabine, can you walk?”

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