If Angels Burn

She knew what the inquisitors had done to his body, but what had they done to his mind?



Heather dragged Alex back to reality. "Doctor? Is something wrong?"



"No. Let's start with the upper lumbar and work our way down," she said, and tugged her mask up over her mouth and nose. Although there was no reason to be concerned about germs, Alex couldn't abandon her training or the need to keep a sterile field around her patient. "Watch the monitors; we'll need to dose him again in sixty minutes to keep him under. Scalpel."



After Alex harvested the first graft from the back of Jamys's right thigh and immersed it in a blood-saline bath, she had to literally peel the scar tissue back from his spine and prep the ruined muscle. The flap she'd cut away healed as she was placing the graft, but once the new tissue had attached itself to the damaged muscle, she abraded the underside of the flap and the foundation site and pressed them back together, forcing them to heal together.



"BP and heart rate low, but regular," Heather murmured. "The first unit of blood is nearly gone, Doctor."



His body was sucking it up like a kid would chug Pepsi. "Rig two more units, but decrease the drip." Too much blood would saturate his tissues and make it harder to correctly seat the grafts.



Alex couldn't operate on too large an area, as the derma would close faster than she could cut, but she made steady progress. Heather administered blue salt solution into his intravenous line twice more before they finished the final grafts, and Alex began repairing the surface derma. She'd discovered from working on Cyprien that sanding the scar tissue in small segments, as if it were rough wood, actually eradicated it. New, unblemished skin immediately formed and healed in its place.



Even with her mind clouded by Cyprien's mojo, the nurse reacted with gratifying awe. "That's incredible work, Dr. Keller."



"He's doing most of it." She frowned as a strange stream of thoughts entered her mind. Jamys? It was hard to make out what she was seeing, the voice groaning, the images dark and fleeting. None of them made sense at first, but slowly the voice and images shifted into something more familiar.



Beloved. Big, callused hands rolling a white, naked body over on a bed of gold satin. Wake up. Low, masculine laughter, stroking fingers. Want me? One hand squeezed a full breast; another glided down between two pale thighs. Angel, yes, Angel.



"Uh." Feeling the sensation as if it were being done to her, Alex nearly doubled over. Quickly she erected the mental walls to block out the thought stream, and took in a shaky breath when it receded. If that was Thierry, he isn't planning to kill her. "Clamp."



When she finished, Alex tossed the copper-plated scalpel into the cleanup bin and pulled down her mask. Carefully she inspected the length of the boy's back until she felt satisfied with how he was healing.



"Keep him quiet and on his belly. I'll be back in a few minutes to check the grafts again." She stripped out of her surgical gear and left Heather with Jamys.



Outside in the hall, Marcel, Cyprien, and Liliette were waiting. The men stood on either side of the elderly woman, and Michael was saying something to Liliette in French. His quiet voice came to a stop when he saw Alex.



Even if the Durands were his friends, Cyprien didn't seem the type to keep watch and hold hands. Alex hadn't expected to see him until the next time he wanted to slap her around.



He didn't slap last night, her conscience reminded her. Not even when you left him standing in the rain with his pants down around his ankles.



Alex addressed the Durands first. "Jamys did very well; I was able to repair the damage to his back. Barring complications, I should be able to begin the work on his hands tomorrow."



Marcel muttered something heartfelt under his breath. "And my brother?"



"I'll be performing the first of his surgeries in a few hours." Alex glanced at Cyprien. At the least, she owed him an apology. At the most—no, she wasn't going there. "May I speak to you privately for a minute?"



They left the Durands and by unspoken agreement went to the basement level. Thierry wasn't making any noise, and Alex went over to the grid to check on him. He lay curled in a tight ball of misery in one corner.



First to get the embarrassing part out of the way. "I was out of line last night," she said, her voice gruff. "I'm sorry."



Cyprien joined her. "No, you are not."



"I'm trying to be." She watched Thierry twitch in his sleep. This was all becoming too important to her, and she had to stop pushing him away. But if she let down her defenses, and let Cyprien have a piece of her heart, what would he do with it? "Michael—"



He shook his head. "Forget it."



So much for smoothing over hurt feelings and working out a decent relationship. "Right, then we need to talk about Jamys."



His eyes narrowed. "You said the surgery was a success."



"It was; There's something else." Just in case Thierry could understand what she was saying, she motioned him away from the cell and lowered her voice. "Have you been able to get a response out of Jamys since he came here? I don't mean verbal, I mean any sort of physical sign that he's aware and understands what you say or who he's with or where he is?"



Cyprien frowned. "No, but the others have been just as quiet."



"This isn't quiet. This is more like catatonic." She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. "He's not showing reactions because I don't think that he's having any."



"I don't understand. He has shown no sign of distress or unbalance." He glanced at Thierry's cell.



"No apparent signs. Everyone reacts to trauma in different ways. Thierry went nuts. Jamys shut down." Alex went to the fridge and removed a blood pack. "I should have picked it up from the way everyone has to guide him around. He's like a statue." As she took out a syringe, she wondered if she should mention the thought streams coming from Thierry.



"You didn't give yourself an injection last night, after you returned?" Cyprien asked quietly.



"No." Alex went to stab the needle into her arm, but Cyprien caught her wrist.



"You will stop using needles."



He couldn't trust her, or love her, but the man had no problem telling her what to do. "You will stop ordering me around." When he didn't let go, Alex glared up at him. "We settled this last night, didn't we?"



He snatched the syringe from her hand and tossed it aside. "Now it is settled."



"That's okay." Her lip curled. "I have more."



Michael could forgive her for what she had done to him in the rain. She had apologized, in her own inadequate way. He could ignore the sarcasm and the insults. She was a modern woman, a woman who considered herself equal to a man. His feelings for her were solid enough to withstand the embarrassment and indignity she had caused him.



It was the sneer that went over the top.



There was no question of what to do. He simply snatched her up in his arms and carried her upstairs.



"Put me down." She thumped his shoulder with her fist. "I already have a long, long list of reasons to kick your ass. Add one more thing to it and I will."



Michael had nothing more to say to her. She would always be in danger until they finished what they had started.



Éliane walked toward them. "There is a call from Ireland—"



"Not now." Cyprien brushed past her and mounted the stairs. Alex swore and struggled in his arms, but he ignored her. He took her into his rooms and kicked the door shut.



"Feeling better now that you've shown me who's Neanderthal and in charge?" she asked as he carried her to his bed.



Michael lowered her onto the silken coverlet. The garments she wore for surgery had no buttons or zips, only a drawstring keeping the baggy green pants from falling down her hips. He hooked his hands in the triangle of the shirt's neckline and tore it down the middle. She wore no bra under it, and her breasts gleamed, golden and full in the lamplight, the nipples pebbled tight.



"We did this last night," she reminded him, "and you didn't like how it ended."



He kept one hand between her breasts, pinning her in place while he ripped off the pants. He caught her wrist before her nails could reach his face and looped one of the tattered pants legs around it.



"You are not tying me down." Alexandra fought in earnest now, jerking the arm he stretched out, straining at the tight knot he tied between her wrist and the bedpost. "I'll scream the roof down."



He let her scream as he tied down the other arm and her strong, kicking legs. Finally he stood back and studied his work. The material of the garment was incredibly strong, while Alexandra was weak from the attack, the long hours of surgery, and likely a lack of blood. The bonds would probably hold, and if they didn't, he would go and retrieve the copper chains they had used on Thierry.



She stopped screaming and gave him a look that promised dire, extended retribution. "You're not making me drink your blood."



"I'm not giving you my blood." Michael began to unbutton his shirt. She was his sygkenis, his woman, and it was time she understood what that meant.



Her gaze followed his hands as he undressed. "Okay, so we're having sex." Her voice had gone husky and she ran the tip of her tongue over her upper lip. "Do I get a say in this, or are you going to make me hate you for the rest of eternity?"



"Add it to your list." He dropped his shirt and trousers on the floor and went to the bed. It was perverse, even cruel, but the sight of her pleased him. She was always so collected and competent. He liked seeing her helpless, at his mercy.



She shrank under him, turning her head away from his mouth, working her wrists and ankles, trying to jerk something free. He covered her, settled on her, let his weight press her deeper into the puffed silk. He had never had her fully naked under him, and took a moment to appreciate the new sensations. Her body, small as it was, fit perfectly against his. Her soft skin yielded to the toughness of his own, absorbing his heat, warming him with hers.