“Oh,” he said, his voice rumbling through parts that had no business being rumbled, “you remembered all on your own.” He set aside the clipboard and put his long, slender fingers to the pulse in her wrist. “You didn’t come, but you wanted to. And I wanted to make you come. Wanted to feel you spasm around me.”
His eyes darkened as he took in her face, her throat, her breasts beneath the hospital gown. “I can still smell what we did. Smell your desire.” He pressed more firmly against the skin of her wrist, where her pulse throbbed harder with every word. “I can feel your desire.”
So could she, in the ache between her legs, the sweet pinch of puckered nipples, the rush of moisture that funneled through her sex.
“I wonder,” he purred, “how your desire would taste.”
Good God. The effect he had on her, the way he made her crave things she’d never wanted . . . it shouldn’t be happening. Not only was the man an enemy, but the lust itself . . . it shouldn’t be there at all. Sex had always been a weapon, a tool, the only form of currency that never ran out. Sex with a man was certainly not recreational. The times she’d tried to make it so had ended in anger, frustration, and emptiness. She faked orgasms like everyone else faked laughter at dumb jokes.
“Stop touching me,” she said a little too breathlessly, “or the only thing you’ll be tasting is my fist.” An idle threat, given the stupid spell, but threatening him made her feel better.
To her relief, he released her and stepped back, his arousal straining the front of his scrubs. Averting her gaze, she reached for the ankle restraints, but he shook his head.
“Leave them. Your hands are free so you can eat, but you aren’t at liberty to walk around.”
“Okay, Hellboy,” she said. “What if I have to go to the bathroom?”
“A nurse will assist you.” His voice pitched low with dark amusement. “Unless you’d rather I helped.”
“Thanks, I’ll pass.” She dragged her fingers through her tangled hair and cast a longing gaze at the food the vamp nurse had brought. “Do I get to eat, or what?”
He handed her the tray, and even though her stomach growled at the sight of what appeared to be an egg salad sandwich, she hesitated. “What kind of eggs are in this?”
“Could be anything. Rusalka. Harpy. Bone devil.”
She had a feeling he was messing with her, but it didn’t matter. She couldn’t take a bite. Not until she asked the vital questions that had been bugging her since she woke up.
“So, uh, where am I, exactly? And what do you plan on doing with me?”
“You’re at Underworld General Hospital. As you can probably guess, we specialize in nonhuman medical care. Our location is secret, so don’t ask.”
“UGH? Your hospital is called, ‘ugh’? Oh, that’s precious.” Doc Humorless gave her a flat stare, and she sighed. “How did I get here?”
“Ambulance. We have our own.”
“Of course you do.” She wished she could remember even the smallest detail of the trip here, but her mind was a black hole. “What about the Cruentus? Is it dead?”
“He’ll be released tonight.”
Rage burned like acid in her belly. “It killed my friend.”
“Your colleagues have killed many of mine,” he shot back.
She ground her teeth and forced herself to take control of her emotions. Truthfully, she’d never considered Janet a friend—she’d learned long ago to avoid attachments to people who risked death daily, but if he wanted to talk about loss, she could go toe to toe—or hoof, paw, whatever he had—with him. But right now, she had to play smart. And smart meant intel. She just hoped Guardians had already found Janet’s body. The thought of an Aegis warrior rotting in a sewer made the acid in her gut bubble.
“So where do you get training for something like this? Because I’m thinking a lot of you wouldn’t blend real well in anatomy class.”
His pager went off, but he ignored it. “Anyone who is human or can pass as human trains in human medical schools. I’m a medical doctor with a degree from Harvard, for example. We train all others ourselves.”
He brushed his fingers over the medical symbol on the pocket of his shirt as though making sure what he’d said was true. At least, she thought it was a medical symbol. The familiar winged staff encircled by two serpents had been replaced by a sinister-looking dagger. The vipers wrapped around the blade looked ready to strike. And the feathered wings had been replaced by batlike, tribal wings in a pattern similar to those on his arm. She frowned, because she’d seen it before . . .
His necklace. His pendant matched the design on his scrubs.
“It’s a modified caduceus,” he said, and she tore her gaze away from the design because now the image of the silver blade caressing her skin while he’d been inside her was burned into her brain. “My youngest brother designed it. We couldn’t very well use a human medical symbol.”
“I still don’t understand how demons can get into medical school. Don’t you have to have good college grades, or hey, here’s a novel idea—proof that you’re human?”