Dawn's Path: Completed Work

"Of course, Janine, of course I'm coming." Alex wrung out the dishrag and tossed it over the faucet to dry.

"Not to the party. Well to the party too, but I want you to be with me tomorrow night."

A breath of air escaped Alex's lips. She didn't want to bear witness to her best friend's death. Standing there watching as Patrick drained the last pulse of life out of her and exchanged it with his blood. She didn't want to stand there helpless as Janine's soul decided to live or let go and slip away. And she didn't want to see Janine's body, writhing in agony as the blood took hold, or lying still in the embrace of death if the blood didn't find purchase. But, to risk that Janine could slip away into the unknown without her there, was an unthinkable alternative. And hadn't she asked the same of Janine, to witness her conversion, not that long ago? As much as Alex didn't want to and Janine hadn't wanted to when it had been her turn, she would stand by her side. Even if the only thing she could do was pray. "Wouldn't miss it."

"Thanks." Janine shot Alex a wide smile. It was good to have her best friend back and albeit, reluctantly, in her corner. Hiding her worry behind layers of the exuberance she was notorious for, Janine bounced off the stool. "Well now that's settled. I'd better start getting ready. The plan is to head out this afternoon. Our first stop, of course, is the mall." She stopped, planting a hand on her hip and waggled her index finger at Alex. The woman never shopped and even when Janine did manage to wrangle her to the mall, Alex never indulged. Well, since it was her special day, and Alex wouldn't refuse her anything on her special day. She was going to insist on a lot of frivolous spending. "Respect the gold card and don't be late."

Alex snickered and rolled her eyes. There was nothing wrong with her wardrobe. Even though, Janine thought otherwise. With the magazines Janine left book marked on her bed, Alex got the hint. Janine thought she needed to update her look. And well, since there was only one thing Janine loved more than shopping and that was expensive champagne. And Alex definitely couldn't go there. She was going to indulge Janine's every whim and buy something. "I'd better grab the fire extinguisher before that card burns a hole in your pocket."

"Splendid." Janine practically skipped out of the kitchen in search of new recruits to join her on the 'party bus'.

Alex shook her head and watched Janine float across the kitchen floor with visions of commerce dancing in her head. If she was worried about the transformation, she wasn't showing it. But, that was Janine. She had a way about her, a way of locking onto the positive and completely ignoring the negative, until it reached up and took a big hunk out of her ass. Her complete lack of concern for the negative aspects of life was one of the things that drew people to her and one of the things that Alex worried about the most. She would go tonight and put on her best face. Enjoy the time with her friend and savor the moments, as if they were Janine's last, because they very well could be.

Chapter 31

Angel awoke in Lance's arms. Something she hadn't planned on. His stare was weighted and heated. He wanted her as much as he worried about her. Both emotions would serve to drive him insane. And apparently, Angel knew more about insanity that she was willing to admit. "I didn't mean to fall asleep here," she said. Throughout the course of their night together, they'd christened every inch of his room, from the dresser, to the sofa, the floor, and had somehow ended up in the bed. Trying to salvage a bit of dignity, she cleared her throat and asked, "Did you even get to watch your movie?"

Lance stretched and lounged across the pillows. Lazily, he reached across the bed and draped an arm around Angel's slender shoulders, scooting her closer, tucking her tightly against him. Movie? What movie. Waking up with her in his bed wasn't awkward at all. In his opinion, this was right where she belonged. But, it was painfully obvious Angel thought otherwise and was scrabbling for cover. Not going to happen. Not after what they'd shared last night. He would not let her run from him again. "No. I was too busy watching you."

"Watching me? I bet that was about as exciting as watching paint dry." Angel shifted uncomfortably out of his arms and rose to her feet. She wasn't used to having someone have feelings for her at all, let alone admit to them so freely. Awkward and self- conscious as his dark eyes focused solely on her, she rubbed her wrists. Her thoughts traveled back to last night. What they'd done. The things she'd begged for him to do to her. She'd shared his blood and the song of the brotherhood was a soft whisper in the back of her mind. But, it was his voice that she heard in a shout.

"I found watching you very interesting. You have the most fascinating facial expressions when you sleep." He drew a deep breath to slow himself. This was not the time to push Angel. He'd love nothing more than to pick up where they'd left off last night. When he'd finally broken through and gotten to the heart of her and had held it, beating in the palm of his hand. That woman was gone. The one that loved him so freely, gave, and received in equal measure. Buried somewhere in that mind of hers, hidden behind the wide, terrified, eyes of a scared little girl.

Last night had taught him things he'd never guessed about himself. In binding her, he'd freed something inside of him he hadn't known existed. He'd fucked plenty of women in his time. Buried his cock deep inside of them and savored every passionate minute of it. But, he'd never loved any of them. Perhaps, that made him a bad person. And maybe, Angel's constant reluctance to admit her feelings for him, the way she would let him see the innermost part of her then run for cover, drawing him further and further in, was payment for his deeds.

If she needed handcuffs and pain to love him in return. He could do it. He would dominate her. Teach her to forget her past and embrace her future. Embrace him. Lance finally understood what made Angel tick. On a deeper level, the pain she craved. Exacted by the lash of a whip on her flesh was her escape from the agony of her tortured past. Roark wasn't the first man to harm her. Most of the damage had already been done. He was simply her scapegoat for all the things she had buried inside of her and could not face.

Angel understood pain. Pain was the one certainty she'd come to know in this life. And in it, she found security. Her childhood had not been a happy one. Unwanted and unloved, just one of thousands of faceless, nameless children in an overtaxed, overburdened system filled with good intentions, she'd been defenseless from those tasked to protect her. The streets weren't any kinder. Hungry and alone, her innocence spoiled and jaded far beyond her years. Angel learned quickly how to survive. Roark must have seemed like a dream come true to a desperate young woman out of options.

Huddled on the bed, her back to him. Lance saw the evidence of the pain inflicted on her flesh. He reached out to trace the lines of the puckered mishmash of scars crisscrossing her back. No sooner than his fingers made contact, she pulled away, retreating further into herself, shutting him out. Running mentally if not physically away from him.

He hated Roark for the things he'd done to her. But, even in the heat of his rage, Lance saw the truth. As horrific as Roark had been, he'd saved Angel from any number of worse fates. No, it wasn't fair. Life seldom was. And he'd take every second she'd suffered away, if he could. She believed she was broken. She was terrified of love, of living, and most of all, of herself.

Pain was the wall she built to protect herself from harm. He got it. Last night had shown him, that he had the inner strength to be what she needed. Tearing down that wall of dominance and submission, of so much pain, would take time and trust. They had all the time in the world to break through. She wanted something real to cling to. Here he was beside her, warm, living, and breathing. Wanting so desperately to love her, for her to let him in, not temporarily, but for forever. "Angel, don't."

"I should go," Angel muttered, dismissing Lance. He'd seen every inch of her. But, the stroke of his fingers across the puckered, damaged flesh was far too intimate. The soft plea of longing she heard in his voice was more painful than any lash of a whip or strike of a cane she'd been forced to endure. She couldn't. She'd allowed him to drink her blood and she'd accepted his. Not in the heat of passion, accidental, as she'd want him to believe. But, for the sole she needed something living and warm, something real to sustain her.

Throwing back the covers. Fully aware that Lance's eyes drank in every inch of her naked body and trying desperately to ignore it, she snatched up her borrowed sweats and t-shirt, hastily dressing. She had to get out of here. Escape him before she did something stupid like climb back into that soft bed and submitted to the heat in his stare.

The shard of burned wood was exactly where she'd left it, calling to her like a beacon in the midst of so much darkness and uncertainty. She would carry the charred talisman with her everywhere she went as a reminder that Roark was never coming back. The Roark that existed now was nothing more than a figment of her overactive imagination. He couldn't hurt her. He had no power over her unless she let him. Staring down at the wood cupped in her trembling palm was more powerful than any safe word. In clinging to this last bit of Roark, she had the control. Nothing could harm her again, unless she allowed it.

"You don't get to push me away," Lance said. "No running, Angel. Not this time." Lance was out from under the covers, naked and stalking across the room, reaching for her in his desperation. He was the one terrified. He was the one that might be permanently harmed if he let her go. A man in love had few limits he wouldn't test for his woman. Angel had no idea how far he'd go to keep her by his side. His fingers locked around her wrist, squeezing it tightly enough to bruise the flesh. "Stop," he commanded.

A deeply ingrained part of her sighed, shivering with relief at the bite of Lance's grip on her wrist. Her feet froze in place. Her bare toes flexed, digging into the thick fibers of the carpet. The dark, submissive corner of her mind that was so eager to please held her pinned in position. Her knees wavered, wanting so desperately to bend and bear her weight at his feet. Her fingers gripped the shard of wood, the sharp, irregular edges jabbing at her palm. Reality hovered on the fringes of her awareness. Taking her back. Drawing her forward.

Desperate to save the only part of herself she had left, Angel twisted out of Lance's grip and bolted for the door. He darted past her and blocked the exit. She felt a rising surge of panic boil to the surface of her mind. Her body responded, responding to the urgent call for defense, for safety. Lance wanted to dominate her. Not out of a craving for the sport, but because he wanted to possess her body and soul. A part of her wanted to give him everything he desired. Craved pleasing her Sir. And that was what terrified her more than anything. Roark, she'd been able to resist. To him, her submission and the constant battle to break her had been a game. For Lance, it wasn't a game. His command, his grip on her was forever. He wanted...everything.

She could not give as much as he demanded in that one word. Panic set in, erasing the illusion created by truth and logic. The things a reasonable brain might consider as real. Angel opened her fingers. The shard of wood fell from her palm and landed in a soft whisper on the carpet. Her fangs lengthened and her body tensed. Drawing all of her strength, she prepared to fight her way past him. Through him, if she had to.

Drowning in a sea of panic, her mind succumbed to the threat of reality and carried her back to the high-rise apartment. She was kneeling on the floor at Roark's private suites. HE stood between her and the door. HIS eyes were cold as death as they stared down at her in contemplation of his darkest whims. It was HIS hand restraining her wrist. The chill of HIS fingers pressed into her flesh.

Lance stumbled back beneath the sheer force of Angel's attack. He'd made a fatal mistake and miscalculated how far he could push her before she submitted, not to him, but to madness. She battled like a caged animal, out of terror and fear for her life. He cursed as her nails clawed at his flesh, finding purchase and drawing welts of blood to the surface.

Stepping and dodging the blows, arms lifted in defense. He allowed her the luxury of the rage she had held back for so long. The anger she felt at her parents for abandoning her. The fury she harbored at the system that had failed to keep her safe. Her raw hatred of the people, both men and women, that had used and betrayed her. Her blind rage at Roark for not being the savior he was supposed to be. And most of all, her white-hot hatred of herself for all the times she'd submitted to the abuses of a world in which she was nothing but a victim.

Better she take it out on him than on herself. He could take one beating in his life, if it spared her more pain from the ones she'd endured. Lance gritted his way through the bruising blows of her fists, raining down on him. He hissed from the burning sting of the deep gauges she ripped in his skin. And he swallowed back the agony of her fangs, driving home hard and ruthlessly, into his carotid. He cradled the back of Angel's head, fisting her hair to hold her to him. He stumbled as she drank deeply. Consuming him. Taking him into her. "Drink baby. Take all you need."

His knees wobbled as his body struggled to compensate for the blood she took and healing the damage she'd inflicted on him. Her mouth was hot and desperate against his neck. Her tongue flicked the wounds, coaxing his blood into her eager mouth. The sensation of it was heaven. It was hell. And everything in his life, every moment, every thought, and every experience slowed to a heartbeat and the soft whisper of a swallow. All of it came down to this second in time, to this woman. Liquid and dark crimson, he bled for her. His life, his heart, his love, everything was hers to do with what she would.

Angel fought her demons with a fury she'd never known before. She inflicted every ounce of pain she'd felt, a lifetime's worth, onto Lance. Tearing his flesh. Bruising his skin. Bleeding him into her. He didn't fight back. He took every blow she unleashed. Bore the rage she poured out on him. Lance held her to him, stroking soft circles across the small of her back with his fingertips. Clutching the back of her head as he encouraged her to take everything she needed.

Naked and exposed, he made no attempt to hide anything about himself from her. He could have easily overpowered her. Stopped her at anytime. And it was then, with him raw and bleeding, enduring the outpour of her pain, holding her for her benefit. That she began to realize the truth of love. Love was pain. Not, selfish pain, inflicted by a twisted man with a perverted, black heart. But, sacrificial pain, her pain, taken unto himself willingly by a man with a heart open and so true, for no other reason than to spare her from it.

Angel withdrew her fangs and swabbed her tongue over the wounds in Lance's neck with urgent strokes, closing them. Hot tears of anguish and regret rolled down her cheeks and onto his bare chest. "Oh God, Lance. Oh God!" She clung to him, his weight pulling them down to the floor. Anchoring them in place as they sank to their knees as if in prayer. Lance's hold was weak, his fingers trembling, clutching to the loose folds of her t-shirt. Angel eased out of his weakened hold. His shoulders sagged under the burden of holding himself upright. His hands fell to the carpet, fingers clenching and unclenching, spreading to bear the weight of him that she could no longer endure.

Tearing her limbs free of the t-shirt. Draping the cotton material across his back to warm him. Angel guided Lance to her. His body trembled, his breaths labored and panting, and skin so cool. She'd hurt him badly. Blood seeped from wounds that should have healed and would have, had she not drank so deeply. His love for her had cost him plenty. Leaving him like this to recover helpless and alone was wrong. And something, she did not have it in her to do. She was capable of great darkness. The pull of it was always inside of her, tainting everything she touched and every act of good she tried to do. She was not Roark and Lance was, not her. And this pain, consuming them both did not belong here. Clutching Lance to her body, tilting her chin to give him access, driving the cold from him with what little warmth she possessed, Angel pressed his cool lips to her neck. "Do it," she rasped.

Angel's body was so warm and he was so cold. Dizzied and weak, his heavy limbs clutched at her for purchase. The fury of her pulse beat under his lips, fluttering erratically like a caged butterfly's wings. His fangs punctured the skin, not gently as if he had control. But, savagely, ruthlessly, with hunger and desperate self-preservation, he drew her into himself. Blood was magic and power, vital strength, and the essence of a person's soul. He drank, replenishing what she'd taken. Their blood mingled, feeding his starving cells, filling the deepest part of him.

Passion hovered on the other side of so much pain. Filled with her, his cock lengthened and hardened, throbbing and bucking to find its way inside of her. Lance clawed at the baggy fabric of Angel's borrowed sweats. Wild and crazed, urgent to sate his need, he tore the cloth free and parted her thighs with his trembling fingers. The scent of her desire, thick and musky, cloyingly sweet tinted the air and drove him to a place of desperation. Her body quivered beneath the onslaught of his gentle strokes. Her back arching and hips undulating, her wet core wrought with spasms as he dipped his fingers into the deepest part of her. "Angel, please," he gritted. "Please."

Her breath puffed out in ragged currents. Passion, undeniable, raw passion consumed her body with hot need. Lance's fingers filled her, teasing, stroking, and stretching her core. His thumb circled the nub at the apex of her sex, spreading the ache till her body burned. His desire...her desire...there was no separating which of the sensations was hers and which of them was his. There was just the two of them as one mind and one body, burning together on a pyre built of blood and flesh.

The bond, forged by pain and desperation, raced through her body. Setting every nerve alight with raging want. His blood melded with hers. Binding them together. Through it she felt Lance's desire. The pure, white heat of lust and passion, and the burn, that was his love. His fingers pumped in and out of her channel, the strokes urgent and wild, deep and fast. Angel let go of her fear and pain. She let the pleasure of the building orgasm take her to a place of safety and warmth. "Yes."

Lance was not the gentleman he thought he was. He'd needed this for so long. Even though in his past escapades he'd never known she, what he felt with her, was exactly what he'd been searching for. Forever was a long time to endure alone. And all those women, the pleasure he'd given them and they'd given him in return meant nothing. This, this heat he felt consuming him was real. This was love.

Gripping her hips, he eased Angel onto her back. Guiding her thighs open for him, he wrapped her legs around his waist. Stroking the smoothness of her skin, he paused at her entrance. She stared up at him. Her dark eyes wide and lit with emotions there were no words that describe. And it was in that heated expression he knew that this was her sacrifice for their love.