He cursed his weakness, both of body and mind. He needed more blood, hot human blood. It would speed his healing. There was something terribly important eluding him. It slipped in and out of his mind, leaving pain and fragments in its wake. If he could just hold it for a moment he might remember, but it never stayed long enough to do other than drive him mad. It was unbearably frustrating to have his memory taken from him.

Shea groaned softly, the sound cutting through him like a knife. She was shivering, even in her heavy robe. His gaze quickly jumped to her face. She was in pain. He felt it in her mind. Instinctively he laid a hand on her stomach, fingers splayed wide. Something was happening inside her body. Again his head seemed to splinter as he tried to catch the memory. He should know. It was important for her.

Shea rolled over and came to her knees, clutching her stomach. Her eyes were wide with fear. She was extremely cold, as if she would never be warm again. Shivering, she could only rock back and forth as wave after wave of pain shook her small frame. Heat was burning her insides, eating through her internal organs, squeezing her heart, her lungs. She rolled off the bed onto the floor, landing hard, attempting to protect her patient from whatever virus she had contracted. The towel unraveled, and her hair spilled out like dark blood pooling around her head. Her abdomen was on fire. A fine sheen of perspiration coated her body; across her forehead was a faint ribbon of scarlet.

Jacques tried to move, to get to her, but his body was not his own, lying heavy and useless. His arm couldn’t reach her. His every movement brought pain rippling through him, but his world for so long had been pain, he knew no other. It had been his only reality in the darkened eternity of the damned. Pain only added to his iron will. He would live for all eternity and find those who had taken his past. He would turn that same iron will to finding a way to help Shea.

Shea’s slender body writhed, locked, writhed again. She rolled to her knees, tried to crawl toward her medical bag. She wasn’t thinking; the movement was blind, instinctive. She had no idea where she was or what was happening to her, only that the fire consuming her had to stop.

He struggled, raged at his inability to move, to help her. Finally he lay back, crawling into her mind as he had many times before in an effort to save himself. Come to me, to my side.

The whisper of sound, the thread of sanity, was in her head. Shea knew he had not spoken aloud. She was hallucinating. She groaned, rolled over, and curled up in the fetal position, making herself as small as possible. She would not go near him. If this were contagious, he would not survive such a virulent flu.

What if she didn’t survive? What if she had brought him here, and, with no one to care for him, she left him to die slowly of starvation? Somehow she had to tell him there was blood in the icebox. It was too late. Another wave of fire beat at her, attacking her internally, spreading to every organ. She could only draw up her knees like a mortally wounded animal and wait for it to pass.

You must come to me. I can help ease the pain.Thewords penetrated her next moment of lucidity. He sounded so tender, so unlike the way he looked. She didn’t care if she was going crazy, if she was making his voice up; there was a soothing quality, like the touch of gentle, cool fingers on her body, to the voice in her mind.

Shea was going to be sick. Something in her, some ridiculous shred of dignity, made it possible to drag herself to the bathroom. He could hear her, fighting to stop the endless stomach spasms. Her agony was worse for him than his own, his rage at his impotence growing until he was consumed with it. Fingernails lengthened to murderous claws, tore holes in the sheets. Outside the wind picked up, howled at the windows, and ripped through the trees. A low growl rumbled in his throat, in his mind, increasing in volume. She was trying to protect him. He was a male of his race, his duty to take care of his own, yet she was suffering the fires of hell and refusing his aid lest she somehow give him her illness. He knew it was hers alone, that the fire twisting her insides was something important. She had to come to him; he did not know why, but every instinct, every cell in his body demanded her compliance.

You must come to me. I cannot get to you. There is no danger to me, little red hair. I must insist on your obedience.Itwas an imperious demand, the voice a soft yet steely thread of sound. Very Old World, heavily accented. At the same time his voice was brushing at her skin, soothing her, promising his aid.

In the bathroom, Shea splashed cold water on her face and rinsed her mouth. She had a minute or two before the next wave hit. She could feel the wild man’s mixed emotions. He was frustrated with his inability to help her, was determined to reach her should she not respond. She was amazed that he needed to help her. It was an all-consuming emotion that vibrated in the air. Shea wanted to do as he commanded but was terrified of infecting him. The way her body was convulsing and pulsing with pain, she was certain it would kill him. Yet she wanted the comfort of another being.

I cannot come to you. You must come to me.His voice was pitched low, black velvet enticement, impossible to ignore.

Shea pushed herself off the wall and stumbled back to the bedroom, her face starkly white, shadows under her eyes. The bruises and wounds on her throat stood out plainly. She looked so fragile, he was afraid she would break if she fell again. He held out a hand to her, the expression in his dark eyes a mixture of demand and gentleness.

“You probably gave me rabies,” she muttered rebelliously, but already the fire was eating at her spleen, her kidneys, spreading from tissue to muscle, bones, and blood.

Comenow! I cannot take your suffering a moment longer.Deliberately he used that same mesmerizing tone, so that she felt an overwhelming need to do as he asked her. The voice seemed to be echoing in her mind, impelling her forward until she made it to the bed, rolling into a ball, burying her face in the pillow, hoping for death.

His hand gently, almost tenderly, pushed back the heavy fall of hair from around her face, traced his thumbprint on her neck. He made an effort to search inside his mind for information. There was a key somewhere, a way to end her suffering, but, like his past, it eluded him. He was failing her when she had already endured so much to ensure his survival. He wanted to roar at the heavens, tear someone’s throat out. They had done this to him.

Two humans and a betrayer. They had taken his past, shattered his mind, and imprisoned him in a living hell. Worst of all they had taken away his ability to protect his lifemate. They had created a monster the likes of which they could not conceive.

He touched her swollen throat, examined her wounds. Shea was beside him, locked in her own world of suffering. This was so wrong. His head ached, splintered. He damned himself and wrapped an arm around her waist, offering her what comfort he could. The dawn was upon them, and he inadvertently did the one thing he needed to do. He issued a sharp command and sent them both to sleep.

Chapter Three

The silence in the cabin was broken by the hum of night creatures singing to one another. The sun was setting, and the land was once more theirs. Air filled lungs, a chest rose and fell, a heart began to beat. The rush of agony always overwhelmed him, took his breath, his mind. He lay still, waiting for his mind to accept the atrocities that had been done to his body. Hunger rose, a sharp, gnawing emptiness that could never be assuaged. Rage flooded, consuming him, a need to kill, to fill the terrible emptiness.