"Healing"
A Forever Knight/Valentine story
by Cagey
14 February 1997
WARNING: This story contains material of an adult nature, including
strong language and non-metaphorical sex. In fact, there's little very plot
at all. Just smut, smut, smut.
Legalese: None of the FK characters belong to me, but since nobody with
marketing facilities seems to want them, I figure that I can borrow them
for a while. No copyright infringment is intended. The story *is* mine,
however, so please do not repost or reprint without permission.
Other stories by Cagey may be found at
http://www.geocities.com/SoHo/1263/
Many thanks to my fearless beta-readers, and helpful friends.
As always at this time of year, For the Valentines...
"Healing"
She finally resorted to pen and paper--she couldn't stand the
mechanical hum of the gizmos and widgets, or the shock flash
glare of the blue-lit computer screen. Methodically she covered
the black-lined columns of an inventory sheet with dark ink,
her hand moving so quickly that the not-quite-dry script
blotched as she crossed the page.
"You could have made a killing in a scriptorium," Dominique
drawled from the doorway. Natalie blinked at her for a
moment. The young woman paused beneath the dark wood
frame, her ebony hair pulled back by a violet scarf. To Natalie's
sensitive eyes, her friend's clothes were a vibrancy almost
forgotten, like the pale blue of daytime sky that she saw
only in her dreams.
The laugh lines around Dominique's chocolate eyes faded. "You
know," she prompted, "Brother Lambert, fastest copyist in the
West."
Natalie smiled weakly, mentally kicking herself. "Sorry, Dom."
Hastening to reassure her, Natalie surprised herself by
admitting the truth. "I've felt kind of weird lately."
"Hrrmph." The snort was tinged with frustration. "Big surprise
--you don't eat, you don't sleep...."
"I sleep during the day, you know that. And as for eating--"
Nat waved a hand, indicating the room beyond her office walls.
"If I started eating here, I'd never stop." The pulsating
heartbeats of the last late-night stragglers mocked her words. If
she closed her eyes, Natalie knew that she would not see the
familiar blue tablecloths, the tapered candles and soft lighting,
not even the sculptured presentations of food which her
efficient and inspired staff turned out of the kitchen. She
would see the throbbing pulse points on each neck. Hear the
lethargic beating of rested, relaxed, unwary customers. She
nearly shuddered.
Oblivious to Natalie's turmoil, Dominique patted her own trim
waistline. "I know what you mean," she agreed mournfully.
"Strawberry souffle may be good for the soul, but it's doing terrible
things to my diet."
The absurdity of the statement jarred Natalie from her reverie.
She gave a short, grateful chuckle, and pulled her mind back to
business. "Did you need something?"
"The jazz band for tomorrow night canceled. They sent their
apologies. More importantly, they sent back the deposit. They
all got food poisoning at their last gig." Dominique's face was an
interesting study in pity mingled with annoyance.
"Send them some flowers." Natalie tapped a ruby-polished nail
on the desk, thinking. "I suppose we could do without," she mused.
"Hey, what's Natalie's without live music on Friday night?" Dom
complained.
Natalie smiled. It was true--in the short time that she had
owned the restaurant, their Friday nights had become a haven
for regulars. "What about that piano player we had last month?
The one you were flirting so outrageously with?"
"I don't flirt!" Dominique protested with some dignity. "Besides,
I happen to know that Jack has a date tomorrow night."
Natalie arched an eyebrow.
"Well, we weren't going out until I got off work anyway." Her
eyes lit up with devilish glee. "Besides, then he'll have more
money to spend on me."
"That's very noble of you," Natalie agreed solemnly.
"Okay," Dominique pulled on her capable manager persona
once again. "I'll give Jack a call. Thank goodness we're about
done for the night." She punctuated the statement with a tired
yawn. "You coming out?"
Natalie shook her head. "You can close up tonight." She glared
at the inventory sheets. "I'll finish up here." As the young
woman turned to go, Natalie stopped her with a gesture. "And
Dom? Thanks." She leaned back in her chair. "I needed the
break."
"You think too much," Dominique pronounced, then shot
Natalie a Cheshire Cat grin and disappeared.
Natalie allowed herself a short, bitter smile. Too much thinking
indeed. Too much planning to do. Not enough time. But the
pulsating track of Dominique's heart as the woman slid farther
away warned her that she had little time left. With some effort
Natalie pushed the sound of her friend's heartbeat aside.
"Damn!" she exclaimed in disgust. She threw down her pen and
stared blankly at the sheets for a moment. With a swift
movement she crumpled the paper into a tight ball. Let
Dominique do it--she needed to learn how. Soon.
Natalie sighed, thinking of the ever present bottle in the bottom
drawer. She glared at the computer. Glared at the drawer.
Glared at her own manicured fingers. Glared at the clock on the
wall and found with relief that she could equitably abandon
the restaurant. She could go home, start packing.
In response to the thought, she had half-risen from the chair
when Natalie sensed Dominique's return. "Locked up?" she
called.
Dominique peered through the doorway, her expression uneasy.
"Just about. There's one guy left, at table three. Wants to talk to
the owner." Dominique looked intrigued. "Weird guy--ordered
a full meal, but didn't eat any of it."
Natalie kept her face impassive. "I'll see to it. You get going--
it's late."
When Dominique bustled off, Natalie stepped into the main
dining room. The silence was almost oppressive, now that the
patrons had gone. The silence was, in fact, complete--not one
mortal heartbeat marred it.
She could practically feel him.
"Natalie," he breathed.
Even with her sensitive hearing, she only half heard him.
"LaCroix," she acknowledged just as quietly. "It's been a long
time."
***
Now, standing across from him, she marveled that she had not
sensed him before. His presence stirred her blood, a subtle hum
that pricked around the edge of her senses. It reminded her
unsettlingly of the anticipation which thrashed against her
boundaries of control when she took the first drink of blood of
the night. Or of the tightness in her chest, the warning which
told her of the sunlight outside her shuttered windows in the
morning. It was the well travelled feeling of being out of control.
"You are looking well, Dr. Lambert," LaCroix said quietly.
She did not answer, taking the time to study him instead. Her
clearest memory of him was the towering figure of anger,
vengeance personified as a corpse bearer. She could still recall
Cal's pale hand curled toward them on the silver table in her
lab. Her last impression was a shadowy one, a tall figure
whispering at the fringe of consciousness; he had been, she
suspected, the droning, utterly weary voice pulling at her
as she balanced on the brink of death.
And then there were the beating, violent, half-memories--the
twin ravages of love and hate which she did not want, but
which she clasped to her because she knew they belonged to
*him*. They were Nick's blood ties to LaCroix.
And here he was, his presence churning up those unwanted
currents.
"Thank you," she answered evenly. Natalie gestured to the
chair beside him. "May I?" Without waiting for a reply she slid
into the seat, feeling the cool leather pressed against the warm
velvet of her dress. "You're looking...worn out."
She said it with surprise. His complexion was as pale as ever,
his height imposing, his close-cut hair and high collar vaguely
menacing. But she was puzzled at the shadows around his eyes,
the palpable aura of weariness which pressed against him.
"Tactful as ever, I see." His expression was wry.
She snorted. "Tact has never been one of my virtues, as I'm sure
we both know. So, in the interests of being honest--what are
you doing here?"
LaCroix ran his finger across the blue silk of the tablecloth.
"How could I resist a fine restaurant called 'Natalie's'?"
"Easy. You keep on walking. Or flying. You should be good at
it by now."
His brow furrowed at her bitterness. Before he could reply,
however, Dominique came to Natalie's side, placing a crowded
key ring on the table beside her employer. "I've locked up."
Dominique shot a look at LaCroix, faintly warning and
obviously curious. Natalie wanted to laugh at the absurdity of
the situation. "Do you need me to stay?"
"Thanks, Dominique," she said gently. "I'll be fine." Natalie
covered Dominique's hand with her own, feeling the reassuring
warmth beneath her own cool skin. "This is Lucien LaCroix."
Somewhat placated, Dom gave LaCroix a short nod, then
squeezed Nat's shoulder in farewell. Natalie watched her go
before turning back to LaCroix. "Was I right? Will I be fine?
Or have you come to finish the job?"
He regarded her evenly for a moment, then half-sighed.
"Perhaps we have gotten off on the wrong foot," LaCroix said
gently. "Let me start again." She was astonished when he stood
and offered her a half bow. "It is a pleasure to see you again,
Doctor. I had no idea that you were doing so well." LaCroix
grasped her hand and raised it to his cool lips.
She nearly froze when she felt his touch on her skin. "You really
didn't know, did you?"
LaCroix raised his eyes from her hand, his lips pursed. "No," he
acknowledged, releasing her and sliding back into his seat. "I
thought you were dead. I hoped it. It would have been for the
best."
Stung, Natalie bristled. "I guess it depends on your point of
view."
He leaned back in his chair, silent for a moment. "You have
done well." She nearly mistook his meaning until he gestured to
the room about them with an airy wave. "How did you manage
it?"
"Courtesy of Nick." Natalie was satisfied with the surprised
look which slipped past his facade. "Before I left Toronto I
cleaned out his place. All of the money. ATM and credit cards."
The thought was no longer tinged with bitter glee. She watched
LaCroix steadily, daring him to judge her.
His lips twitched. Then, to her surprise, he chuckled softly.
"You do have extraordinary depths, my dear. And
resourcefulness. I shall remember it."
She watched him for a moment in silence. She would not
ask about Nick, dammit. "So now that you've found me, what
are you going to do?"
"I don't intend to *do* anything," LaCroix responded, his eyes
hooded. "You weren't part of my plans."
"And what are your plans?" Natalie pressed him.
He closed his eyes, and she was again struck by how weary he
seemed. "I shall be in town for a few days." Natalie found
herself staring directly into his blue eyes when he opened them.
"If it won't inconvenience you too much."
She studied the tone of his voice for signs of sarcasm. "No," she
replied, keeping her tone even with effort. "It won't. But now, if
you don't mind, I have quite a bit of work to do before my night is
complete." She rose from her chair, pulling herself up to her full
height. "I'll let you out."
"Don't bother," he replied; this time she sensed something different,
something more familiar, in his voice. He took her hand again,
but his grip was stronger than it had been before. LaCroix's lips
grazed her knuckles; when she felt his teeth nick the skin, she
expected the near-challenge she found in his eyes. "There's not a
lock able to keep me from where I wish to go."
The scrapes beneath the diamond-shaped wells of blood had not
yet begun to heal when he disappeared.
***
Natalie drowned herself in the jarring brass of a big
band. Ella Fitzgerald swam through the crowded melody, her
lilting, exuberant, daylight, human voice lifting Natalie's mood
slightly as she firmly closed another packing box.
Nat glanced around the apartment. She hadn't much to pack,
really. She'd abandoned many of her personal belonging when
she left Toronto. The furniture was rented. There was no
television--the news seemed somehow less pressing, movies too
unreal. Only the stereo in the corner, wrapping her in an
intoxicating duet between the saxophone and the chanteuse,
could she call her own.
Ella, the voice of an angel, warned her that something had to
give. The refrain pounded in her head. Something's gotta give.
Somethingsgottagive.
Natalie pointedly ignored the refrigerator, sinking onto the
couch instead. The window shades were tightly shut, despite
the black night sky beyond. Working late hours at the
restaurant kept her safely away from the sun. Nick had loved
watching the sunset, she remembered.
It made her sick. It physically hurt. It pricked at her half-healed
soul.
The image made her glance at her hand. She thought that she
could barely discern the tracks from LaCroix's warning. She
knew that there should be no scar. She should be healed.
She should be healed by now, dammit.
She ignored the refrigerator.
Natalie ran a finger over the ridges of her knuckles. Her skin
was milky white, the surface smooth as polished marble. An
incision should reveal nothing but cold, dead cells. Not blood.
Not pain. Once a coroner...once a clinical observer of the dead,
always. So she clinically noted that it had taken her too long to
heal from LaCroix's small infliction. Just as she had noted the
increasing blood urges, first absently, then with forced
detachment. Months of learning, coping, coming to terms,
building a new life--about to come crashing down. What was
there to be emotional about?
Did LaCroix's presence have something to do with the
disintegration of her fragile control? Natalie pictured him at
the restaurant: bemused expression, weary eyes. She believed
that he had not known that she survived. There was no reason
for him to expect anything else.
No reason for her to be alive.
Natalie looked at the refrigerator.
The door glided open. Inside was the usual congregation of
misted green bottles. She did not look at them. Exiled on the
top shelf was a bag. She lifted it, feeling the smooth edge of the
plastic sliding across her fingertips. She hefted it in her palm,
letting the contents settle like a pool within the basket of her
fingers. The ruby polish on her fingernails was the same color
as the human blood.
The thought nearly drove her mad with hunger. Natalie hurled
the bag to the back of the refrigerator, grabbed one of the
bottles, and tried to wash away the internal ache. After a
moment she forced herself to tear the bottle from her lips. She
whimpered involuntarily, unable to stop herself from licking
the last drop of blood from the glass rim.
She shut the door of the refrigerator, sank to the floor, and
wept.
***
She awoke with the feel of LaCroix's lips on her hand.
Natalie blinked, willing away the sensation. She threw an arm
over her face, hiding her eyes in the crook of her elbow. She did
not want to look at the bedside clock--it would mean pushing
aside the heaviness of her limbs, the lightness in her head. It
would mean giving in to the craving clawing at her insides.
With a sigh she peered over her own pale skin.
Damn--she was late. Somehow she'd forgotten to turn on the
alarm. Natalie lurched out of bed, knowing that she would not
have time for a shower. She cursed; she'd wanted time to
primp. She wanted time to slide into a dress so tight that it
pinched when she breathed, that emphasized every curve, every
fold of skin. She knew that LaCroix would be there again
tonight. Before she left this place, she wanted to see LaCroix again.
She wanted him to go back to Nick and tell him that she was
well. Wonderful. Spectacular. To make him long for her,
dream about her. To make him hurt as much as he'd hurt
her.
Natalie smiled grimly. She would make the time.
*
She walked down the street, the cold air swirling in little eddies
around her bare shoulders. She felt the chill on her collarbone,
the sharp bite of the coming frost on her fingers. She paused
outside the door of the restaurant to sweep back a stray curl;
she glaced at her reflection in the window, then pressed her lips
together to blot the lipstick to an inviting red.
In the foyer Natalie could hear the hushed conversations of the
dinner patrons, and the polite applause as notes of piano
melody slid into silence. She was surprised to find that
Dominique was not at the door, playing hostess. She knew that
Dom's welcoming smile, her eyes shining with good-natured
humor, set their clientele at ease and made them feel at home.
Natalie frowned.
She heard his voice. "Please welcome our own hidden asset,
ladies and gentlemen. A talented songbird." His warm tone, so
alien to her, was punctuated by the flutter of piano keys.
Natalie stepped forward, giving herself a full view of the dining
room. Dominique was on the stage, her cheeks flushed with
embarrassment and reluctant excitement. LaCroix, poised
behind the keyboard, had been waiting for her, Natalie realized.
His dark blue eyes did not leave hers as Dominique, led by his
lazy melody, began to sing.
"When an irresistible force such as you,"
Natalie felt her cold heart contract.
"Meets an old immovable object like me,"
LaCroix's gaze slid the length of her black silk dress.
"You can bet as sure as you live,"
She thought that she saw his lips form the words.
"Something's got to give,
Something's got to give,
Something's got to give."
Dominique's voice, like velvet, echoed in her ears as she fled.
***
She shouldn't have gone back to the apartment. She knew it
was a mistake as soon as the door slid shut behind her.
"How did you get here before me?" Natalie asked flatly,
hovering in front of her escape route.
He was on the couch, one black-clad arm thrown across the
back. Lounging, damn him, a languid smile on his
lips. LaCroix raised a hand to his face, a single elegant finger
resting against his temple. "I have my ways."
Anger pushed her forward. "Don't give me that crap," she
sneered. She threw her keys on the kitchen table, restraining
herself from leaning on the solid wood for support. "I thought
that I wasn't part of your plans."
He cocked his head. "Perhaps you aren't." His lips parted; she
could hear him breathe. "That delectable creature, however,
presents interesting possib--"
She was upon him before he realized it. As her nails raked
across his face, she knew with certainty that he had been
waiting for this. Had she? The thought made her angrier.
"Leave her alone," she snarled, a low, guttural sound. "Leave
her alone or I'll kill you myself, you son of a bitch. I'm a lot
more determined than Nick could ever be."
LaCroix held her arms pinned painfully to her sides. He
ignored the line of crimson that beaded across his pale cheek.
Natalie was nearly transfixed by it, though, watching the line
ripple as he spoke. "My dear, I'm only trying to help you."
She met his eyes, trying to freeze him with the look. "Help me?
You left me to die."
"Yes," he said, leaning so close that she could smell the drying
blood. "I didn't expect you to survive. But you did." He cupped
her chin, tilting her face up to his. She was startled by the sheer
fury--at her? she wondered-- she found in his expression. "You
have to accept who you are," he hissed.
"The walking dead?" The words came unbidden. Her memory
railed against her. Don't talk like that, Nick. You can't mean
that, Nick. You are more than that, Nick. "I can't control
myself," she spat.
His expression softened. "What do you expect?" he asked so
gently that she nearly wept. "You're starving yourself." LaCroix
traced the tip of a finger down her cheek. "You are killing
yourself. More slowly and torturously than even Nicholas could
have managed."
She reeled, as if struck. He released her, and Natalie sank back
against the couch.
"Blood is life," she heard him say. She watched, fascinated, as he
produced the bag--the worn, clear, plastic vial of human blood.
She heard the soft escape of air as he pierced the corner. He
pooled a small drop on his forefinger.
She closed her eyes. "Leave me alone."
He was beside her, his breath in her ear. "Is that what you
want?"
"He left me." She heard the voice, not really registering it as her
own.
"No," LaCroix murmured. "I took him from you. We both
thought you dead. Don't punish yourself for my mistake." His
tone was almost pleading.
Natalie felt her heart contract into a tighter ball. It hurt to breathe.
"He left me long before you took him, LaCroix." She shuddered.
"He left me when he killed me. When he hurt me with the
words 'I love you' on his lips. He left me." Numbly she realized
that she'd slid from the couch, fallen on her knees, the dress
bunched awkwardly beneath her. The torrent of images
pummeled against her fragile control. Her father's soft hand on
her cheek. Mom's voice, shrill in anger. Richard's gold eyes,
reflected in her own mirror.... She felt colder than ice, unable to
control the chattering of her teeth. "Everybody I have ever
loved." It was a dull keen. "Left me, left me."
She dimly registered the fact that he had wrapped his arms
around her. "Shhh," he crooned, his touch more gentle than she
could have imagined. "Natalie, my sweet." She felt his hand
upon her hair. He buried his fingers into the long curls, pulling
her closer against his chest. She heard his heart beat once, a quiet,
hollow echo.
LaCroix ran his fingers through her hair, down, across her
forehead. Caressing her temple. Moving to the highest part of
her cheek. She opened her eyes, saw that he had captured a
single blood tear on his forefinger. She watched as he raised it
to his lips, tasted it. His eyes were a peculiar, shining gold.
He leaned towards her, and Natalie felt his lips on her cheek.
He traced her tears with his tongue. The silence rang in her ears
as he moved down, caressing her neck, cupping beneath her hair
to pull her closer.
She tensed. This would be the end. She could not--she *would*
not survive this time.
He spoke into, *through* her skin. "Natalie." It was a word, a
promise. "It doesn't have to be that way."
He captured her lips with his.
He was kneeling beside her, pulling her mouth to him with
gentle ferocity. Natalie shuddered, the nervous tension that
held her muscles frozen suddenly dissipating. She felt as if she
were melting, pooling into his arms out of sheer amazement.
His lips trailed across hers, gently, questioning.
She moved her hands from her sides, threading her fingers
against the back of his head, pulling his body against hers. She
heard his teeth scrape across her own, felt the sharp points in
his mouth with her tongue.
LaCroix pulled back for a moment, looking at her. She saw the
gold of her own gaze reflected in his eyes. Natalie realized
abruptly how badly she wanted him. This was not LaCroix, the
dark figure of vengeance. Not Nick's shadowy menace. Not
even the mercurial LaCroix of last night. The fever in his eyes
seemed to be infecting her.
She closed her eyes, but he gripped her face between his hands.
"Look at me," he spoke with ferocity. "Look at *me*."
"Lucien," she whispered, tasting it. She raised a hand to him,
caressing his cheek. Leaning forward, she kissed the pale line
where she had scratched him. The taste of his blood sparkled on
her tongue. She heard him sigh, a release so sweet that she
gripped him to her. She dug her nails into his back, felt his
erection pressed against her. "Please," she gasped.
He nearly growled, pulling her into his lap, his back pressed
into the sofa cushions. He buried his face in the silk of her
dress, rubbing his cheek across her waist, moving up to trace the
shadow of her breasts with his lips. She undid the collar buttons
of his shirt shakily, pulling them apart enough to slip her hands
down, reveling in the feel of his bare back beneath her
fingertips. Her nipples strained against the sheer lace of her
bra, arching toward his wandering tongue. He nipped at her,
tracing an arc down the curve of one breast, up, around, before
grasping her with his teeth, biting against the double layer of
fabric.
One hand pushed against her back, supporting her; the
other found her knee, folded into his lap. He slid his hand
around her leg, gliding up beneath the folds of her dress,
kneading the muscles of her calves as she leaned into him.
Natalie pushed forward, supporting herself half on him, half
against the seat cushions of the couch, reveling in the dual
sensations. She breathed sharply as his fingers traced the line of
her panties, following around to cup her buttocks, up to stroke
the small of her back softly before dipping beneath the satiny
cloth. LaCroix grasped her hip with his hand, his fingers
pressed into her skin, his thumb coaxing her forward. She
shuddered as he ran the finger through the tight curls, teasing,
touching the willing labia. He dipped into her; she felt the soft
pressure of his finger, moaned as he pulled her to him with
gentle stroking movements.
"Lucien," she whispered. He raised his eyes from her chest, the
damp fabric of her dress clinging to her nipples. Then he
smiled, leaning backwards against the cushions and sliding her
forward to reach her mouth. He traced kisses down the curve of
her chin to the hollow of her neck, his hand never stopping in
its intoxicating rhythm at her center. She felt the gentle
pressure of his teeth at her neck, hesitating only long enough for
her to press her hand against his head, urging him forward. She
came swiftly, violently, as he slid into the soft skin. She could
feel her own blood, alive for the first time since she awoke on
that chilled floor in Toronto, swirling into him, could feel his
own desire as he pulled the moan from her, plunging his fingers
to fill her. She could feel her name on his lips.
He pulled away too soon; she felt weak, unable to help him pull
the dress from her shoulders, rip the remaining buttons from his
own shirt to free his flesh. He supported her, murmuring softly
and raining kisses on her pale skin as she tried to shrug out of
her tangled underwear. Finally she was free, and taking
strength from his desire she moved to pull his pants away
impatiently. He chuckled, a throaty sound laced with
anticipation, and she felt his fingers trace the pattern of her lips.
"You have a beautiful smile," LaCroix murmured. He pushed
the long, tangled hair from her face. "Hypnotic eyes."
She caught his face in her hands. His eyes were ice blue, the
gold temporarily at bay from his feeding. For a moment Natalie
could forget that they were crossing boundaries which she had
never imagined. She wondered, just for an instant, why he was
really here, with her. Then he buried his face in her hair, and
she didn't care.
Nat half-pushed, half-followed him up onto the couch, pressing
herself into the length of his body, now unencumbered by the
dark clothes. Her breath caught in her throat as she realized
that he was waiting for her, letting her drink in the sight of his
desire for her. She ran her hands lightly down his chest, and he
twitched. Natalie chuckled; her hands moved down, teasing,
caressing, as he had touched her, until--in a still moment when
neither of them were breathing--she slid onto him.
LaCroix gave a strangled groan and clasped her to him, resting
inside her, digging his hands into the soft flesh at the small of
her back. She waited just a second, then ground into him
abruptly, filling every part of herself with his touch. He
groaned again, then moved with her, picking up her gentle
pace. She pressed into him fiercely, trying to nearly crawl
inside him. She rubbed her cheek across his shoulder, feeling
the sharp pressure points of her own teeth on the inside of her
lips. She listened to his rapid breathing, heard her own need
ringing in her ears. And yet, she hesitated.
"I don't know if I can control it," Natalie managed from between
clenched teeth.
LaCroix gripped one hand in the back of her hair, painfully,
pulling her gold eyes to meet his. "I give you my heart." The
words thundered in her ears; she could hear the slow pulse of
her own heartbeat in rhythm with his. "Would you deny it?"
A question breathtaking in its simplicity.
As she drew forth his blood, she seemed too to be drawing out
his essence. He came inside her as a shower of warmth; his
blood filled her senses. His emotions nearly crushed her in an
onslaught--gentle wonder, blinding passion, and dark fury at his
Nicholas. She shuddered as they fell together, a cool sheen of
blood sweat binding them together.
She had no rational thoughts as she lay cradled in his embrace.
Then Natalie heard him say, quite clearly, as she drifted to
sleep, "What wound did ever heal but by degrees?" She
wondered, as she felt the feather-light touch of his lips on her
hair, whether LaCroix was speaking to her or himself. She
threaded her fingers though his, as if to keep him there until she
could find out.
She slept without dreams.
*end*
Text file Source (historic): geocities.com/zoewolfson/val
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