Page 75 of Want Me, Take Me, Haunt Me, Make Me

In her shoes, Maxwell would have been both. He wasn’t too far from either as matters stood. God knew his own quest had taken him down some paths both dubious and laughable before he’d encountered the horrible reality of Perthrux. He’d read pamphlets by men trying to be the next Crowley, who’d only really managed to copy his nastier aspects, and attended lectures by ladies whose claims to mediumship were as transparent as the “ectoplasm” they produced wasn’t. One or two of them had even hit on some truths, if only by accident.

He still didn’t expect that much when he tookIncursionsback to his chair, and the next few hours of reading didn’t produce many surprises. The stories were entertaining in their way—he’d been only vaguely aware of the mania for interplanetary visitors, much less so of the theories about alien parentage and secret bases beneath the earth—and reading them kept Maxwell from peering at Hazel too closely and too often. That was really all he’d been looking for.

* * *

Plywood could only do so much. As carefully as she and Brandon had nailed the sheet to the wall, light still came in around the edges, enough to wake Hazel up not much past her usual time. At first, she froze. Her memory was too hazy to supply immediate answers for why the room was much dimmer than usual, why various bits of her still ached, and why the hell there was a silver-skinned figure in a dark robe sitting beside her bed.

Sleep paralysis, suggested her unhelpful mind,or alien abduction.

She inhaled slowly, trying to process. The sound caught the figure’s attention, and when they raised their head and Hazel saw their face, her mind caught up with the situation.Maxwell. Ligat. Whoever.One form had shifted to another during the night. Now that she knew who he was, his worried expression looked the same in both identities.

“Hi,” she said, becoming aware that her mouth felt like she’deaten a gym sock and her hair probably resembled a college freshman’s abstract metal sculpture. “The world’s still here, I see.”

“I haven’t checked beyond the front door, I admit, but it seems likely,” he said. Closing the book in his lap, he leaned forward to get a better view of her. “How are you?”

“You like asking tough questions, don’t you?”

Maxwell chuckled. “It’s the academic in me. I’ll save the meaning of life for later.”

“Good.” Hazel tentatively tested her muscles. “I’m…better. I’ll save specifics for after breakfast and a hot shower. Possibly not in that order.”

In the uncertain light, she could still see Maxwell’s smile, and she wondered how she hadn’t recognized him before. “If you need your back washed,” he said, casual but sincere, “I’m eminently available.”

Arousal wasn’t morphine; while Hazel felt her pulse speed up and heat uncurl between her legs, she also felt the pain of her injuries, even after sleep had taken the worst edge off. Still, the edgehadcome off. Other sensations could—and evidently did—coexist. “Give me fifteen minutes,” she said. “Then come in.”

Chapter 40

“My God,” Maxwell said, stopping cold in the bathroom doorway.

Rationally, he was being absurd. He’d known Perthrux’s servant had injured Hazel, and he’d certainly seen worse than the assortment of bruises and cuts mapped out on her bare skin. His service had shown him quite a bit about the human body’s frailty and the forces that could act on it.

Seeing Hazel made all his prior experiences seem like textbook illustrations.

One bruise covered her right side, starting an inch or two under her breast and wrapping around to her lower back. At its thickest, it was as wide as Maxwell’s hand was long. Darker bruises covered her left side from her shoulder down to her hip, and a long, thin cut stretched down her outer thigh. Maxwell, trying and failing not to stare, saw lighter patches of black and blue on her arms and thinner scratches scattered all over her.

She noticed his reaction—how could she not?—and her smile had as much self-consciousness as humor in it. “It’s more of a mood-killer than either of us realized, I know. I understand if you’re having second thoughts.”

“Yes and no,” said Maxwell, trying to put the thoughts hewashaving into a coherent form. “If I didn’t worry about hurting you, I’dhave you against the wall right now. But I do.”

Hazel’s smile grew warmer. “I’m not exactly sure how much I can take at the moment,” she admitted, and stepped forward so that her smooth, naked body brushed gently against Maxwell’s. He caught his breath. “But I’d like to find out.”

“Far be it from me to refuse a lady.”

Maxwell kissed her lightly again, lingering longer than he’d done the night before but still holding back, letting Hazel set pace and pressure alike. He didn’t lose himself as completely as he’d done before, but it still startled him when Hazel pulled away. “Shower, right?” It sounded as much like a question as a reminder—a slightly dazed question which, combined with the flush on her cheeks, made Maxwell want to reach for her again.

“Shower,” he agreed instead. “While we can still both stand.”

She’d gone to turn the water on, giving Maxwell an excellent view of her pert backside. When he spoke, she glanced over her shoulder, eyes glinting. “That sounds like a prediction.”

“Call it a promise.”

* * *

Hot water, as it had been the day before, was a mixed blessing. Hazel’s muscles appreciated it immensely. Her cuts did not. The sting came with a certain satisfaction, cleansing as it was, but she still hissed and bit her lip as Maxwell soaped up her back.

“My technique,” he asked, pausing, “or unavoidable circumstances?”

“Second. I think the only way this doesn’t hurt involves a lot of drugs.”