Author's Note: I want to take a moment to truly, deeply thank all of my reviewers, each and every one of you make me smile, just for taking the time to leave a review, and I am eternally grateful for your patience and support. So this one's for you, my lovelies. Please feel free to share any comments, concerns or criticisms with me. I welcome constructive feedback, and I love hearing your opinions! :)
PS - The song 'Samson' by Regina Spektor is absolutely lovely, and was the main inspiration that led me to name the creature Samson. Beautiful song, I highly recommend it.
SAMSON
She slept fitfully beneath his gaze, because she did not truly believe that he was there. He did what he could to keep her calm, but it was not enough. She had grown pale, and dark shadows had formed beneath her eyes. She slept peacefully for only a scarce few hours each night, and the rest of it was spent in a feverish half-sleep, in which she muttered to herself and let out faint, weak cries.
"Of course I'm here," he said with a humorless smile, reaching out to touch the pale curls that had formed a tangled halo around her head.
He followed her everywhere; he had not been out of earshot since the moment she had stepped foot out of her home in France to begin the journey to England. But she did not believe this, or did not want to, and so she did not feel truly safe, even when he was sitting right next to her.
He'd wondered about that. What was it that made her sleep peacefully when she knew he was near? Could it all be in her mind? Was her mind truly capable of torturing her so?
It was one of the reasons he'd decided not to let her know he was coming to England with her, but it was not the only reason, nor was it the most important. He hated the idea of such cruelty, his mind revolted against it, but it had to be done. He had to know if these terrors were a figment of her imagination – in which case they should return even when he was near, simply because she thought he wasn't – or if they were far more deeply ingrained in her consciousness.
But she did not scream when he was in the room with her. And though she did not sleep as soundly as when she was sure of his presence, her mind was not fooled by his ploy. The terrors didn't go away just because she thought he was near; they simply went away when he was near.
"What frightens you so, Helena?" he wondered, reaching out and resting his hand on hers.
Curiosity burned in his blood like acid as he thought of what Lena had said before she'd fallen asleep. He had seen the man she spoke of, sitting behind her in her family's box at the Opera. Margot claimed – and he was sure she'd overheard one of her parents say this and was simply reciting it back to him – that Jacob Stanford was "a black-hearted fool." And even though he did not know the man, and no longer considered himself an unreasonably violent person, he had instantly become aware of a deep, aching desire to wrap his fingers around Stanford's throat and crush that arrogant smirk off his noble face.
Judging from his expression, Gregoire had felt a similar urge. Unfortunately, Lena's brother had decided not to act on it.
Lena stirred, and he went instantly still and silent, watching her with hawkish golden eyes.
"Greg?" Lena demanded, frowning, furrowing her eyebrows and curling her hand into a fist beneath his. He waited, watching her with an expression of growing concern. "Jacques?"
"It's me, Lena," he said quietly. "I'm here." He remembered the name Jacques, Lena had spoken of him before; he was a servant from her childhood who had often escorted the Dubois children on their adventures. A rustic, she had called him. A kind man, rough around the edges, but always ready with a smile and a solid determination to protect the two children as if they were his own.
Her frown disappeared, and her eyes fluttered open. But he did not panic; she was almost always hallucinating when she spoke in her sleep, and even when she had her eyes open, she would not be completely lucid for several minutes.
"Something was chasing me," she whispered, staring out into the middle of the room. "I slipped." He leaned forward, eyes narrowing, as he waited for her next words. "But a man saved me, Jacques. He was very tall." Her fingers curled around her bare upper arms, and she shivered before him, even though there was a bright fire crackling in the hearth next to them. "Why am I so cold?"
He narrowed his eyes down at her, aware of a curious buzzing sound in his ears. A wave of bitter cold flashed through his body, as if empathizing with Lena's memories. Or perhaps drawing from memories of his own.
He could remember the numbing chill of the wind as it sang through dead, hollow trees. The sound of water running, a river rushing down from the mountains, swollen with melted snow. And the sound of laughter, far off in the distance. The laughter of children. He remembered the hollow ache of despair and sadness within him that throbbed like a wound with every beat of his heart.
He had cried out to the heavens, begging for death, begging for justice and revenge. Begging for something. Anything.
And then he had seen her, flitting through the trees, a flash of bright, buttercup yellow in a world of ash and snow. He had watched her run along the riverbank, silent and swift. She couldn't have been more than eight years old, but he had not known that at the time. He had only known that she was another human. A child. A beautiful, innocent child with long golden hair that streamed behind her as she ran. A child whose eyes were wide with silent terror.
Terror that had not been directed at him.
And when she had slipped and fallen into the river, he had known with every fiber of his being that he had to save her. He had seen her venture close to the banks, and he had watched in frozen horror as she lost her footing and slipped silently into the icy, turbulent water.
It had happened in an instant, one minute she was there, a bold spot of springtime color in the dead wintry landscape, and the next instant, she had disappeared beneath the murky brown waters. The river had swallowed her whole.
For that brief moment, nothing else in the world existed except for the sharp stab of panic that had gripped his heart and sent him sprinting towards her. For that moment, he had not been a monster. He had not been deformed or unwanted or scorned.
For that brief moment, he had just been a man. A man who knew in his heart that he could not sit by and do nothing while a child drowned.
His mind focused like an arrow, targeting the part of his memory that could pinpoint his general location when this had occurred. He didn't think about the consequences of what had happened. He didn't think of the bullet still lodged in his shoulder, covered by a bright pink scar. He could only see that little girl, pale and lifeless when he pulled her out of the water.
He had been in France. He had left the De Laceys and gone west, towards the setting sun, hoping to find eternal blackness at the end of the horizon, and he had ended up in southern France.
God help him. Twelve years after he had saved that child from the river, he had returned to her, and he had not even realized it.
"Oh, God," he whispered, falling to his knees by her bed. He reached out blindly and pulled her hands into his own. Lena did not notice. She was still shivering, silent and delusional. Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling.
He could not have heard her even if she had spoken. Blood was pounding in his ears, rushing through his head at a dizzying pace. Memories that he had not bothered with for years sprang to the surface of his mind, flashes of colors and voices. Laughter and pain.
"It couldn't have been you," he said, leaning down to rest his head on her hands. "I can't bear the thought that I might have lost you like that. It wasn't you, Helena. Please, God, it wasn't you."
His eyes burned with tears he refused to shed. He squeezed them shut and pressed his lips to the back of her hand, praying that he was wrong. That this was not the source of her nightmares. That she had never been so close to death.
If he hadn't been there, that little girl would have died.
And his life would have been over before he'd even realized it. He would never have known her touch, or her kiss. The sound of her laughter. Her voice.
Lena's grip tightened, suddenly, fiercely, and he realized that she was lucid. When he lifted his head, he met her gaze, and despair was instantly replaced with a bolt of pure terror.
"I am hallucinating," she whispered. Her eyes were wide, and her gaze searched his face, as if memorizing every feature. The city lights that filtered through the window curtains were very faint, but he knew with every fiber of his being that she could see his face, if only barely. "I'm going to wake up and you won't be here."
His mind screamed with relief. This was a way out. He could be free. He could run from her and she would think that he had just been a dream. A figment of her imagination.
All he had to do was leave. Stand up and disappear. She would go back to sleep thinking that she was merely insane.
"I love you," she said fiercely, and he saw the glint of tears in her eyes. His grip on her hands tightened instinctively, but the rest of him remained motionless, too shocked for thought or movement. "I didn't tell you that before I left. I wish I had."
She was talking to him like she might never see him again. Like he was truly just a figment of her imagination. The pain that sliced through his chest sucked the oxygen from his lungs. She was holding on to him with a grip of steel, as if he would disappear when she let go.
She loved him. She loved a man whose face she had never seen, a man who had threatened to kill her on a nightly basis for the first several weeks of their friendship. A stranger that snuck into her bedroom at night.
She didn't realize what she was saying. He clenched his jaw and sucked in a breath, trying to quell the desperate hope, the longing, that reached up from the depths of his mind to overwhelm him. She didn't realize what was going on. She wasn't lucid. Once she saw him, saw his true appearance, the love she imagined she felt for him would disappear, dissolving in a torrent of screams and tears. Once she realized how ugly he was, how unnatural.
"You don't know what you're saying," he growled, looking away from the tears that slid over her pale cheekbones.
"I love you," she repeated stubbornly. "I'll tell you constantly until you believe me. I love you."
"Please, Helena, don't do this," he whispered, lowering his head. Suddenly, she released his hands, and her fingers slid into his hair, combing through it, caressing, and sending a current of pleasure shivering down his spine. He closed his eyes, fighting the urge to moan, or to topple her back into the bed. Her fingers were soft, light, sliding through his hair and lifting his head back up. And suddenly her lips were on his, hungry and desperate. His entire body tightened, shot through with electricity, crackling with it. He knew that feeling. He remembered it.
Her fingers tightened, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss. Her tongue flicked across his lips, delicate and shy, and his heart skipped a beat. The entire world, everything around them, disappeared, and he was alone with her, in a world where he belonged. In their world.
"Oh, God," he whispered into her lips. When his body came back to him and he could move his limbs once more, he reached up, lightning fast, and slid his arms around her waist, pulling her to the edge of the bed, up against his chest. He pressed her tight against him. He could feel the curves of her breasts, the wild beat of her heart, her quick, shallow breaths. Silken lips sliding over his. The soft, sweet moan that escaped her as she melded her body to his.
"I love you," she whispered, and began to trail delicate kisses over his jaw line and down his neck. Pleasure jolted through him; every inch of his body was alive with desire and electricity.
He was alive. He was breathing, and his heart was beating, and he held the most incredible, the most beautiful and kind and passionate woman in the world in his arms
He was alive, and he thanked God for it.
"Lena, please," he begged. He wasn't sure what he was begging for. Was he begging for more, or for a chance to escape from her grasp? If he left now, what would she do? Would it break her? Would she be alright?
He didn't know if he had the strength to walk away from her.
"I won't stop," she told him, and very gently grazed her teeth over the soft skin just beneath his ear. His entire body jerked wildly, overwhelmed by the sensation, and by the pure lust that raged through his blood. She laughed, light and sweet and playful. It was the first time he'd heard her laugh sincerely since she had left France.
"Helena," he gasped, as her hands slid from his hair, down over his shoulders, splaying across his broad chest. He was reminded of the first time she had touched him, the night he had fallen to his knees before her and begged her to be kind to him. But her touch was not hesitant or light now, it was hungry, desperate, and full of hope and promise.
"I love you," she said, and lifted her head to catch his lips in another deep, passionate kiss. "Tell me you believe me," she whispered. "Please, believe me."
He went still. Did he believe her? Or was his mind so lost in lust and passion that he couldn't distinguish true belief from desperate hope?
Her hands balled into fists on his chest, gripping the soft woolen fabric of his shirt, but when she kissed him again, he pulled away. His mind was buzzing with desire and confusion, and he had to get control of himself. He had to think. He couldn't do this. Not yet.
"You are so warm," she whispered. He slid his hands up to cover hers, and pulled them away from his shirt. Then he slid one arm around her waist and gently lowered her back against the bed. She clung to him, stubbornly refusing to let go. "Stay with me tonight. Please."
He froze, a grim, humorless smile flickering over his lips. How many times in one night could a man freeze solid from emotion? He hoped his nerves weren't dying off from sheer overstimulation.
She didn't realize what she was saying. She thought she was dreaming. There were no consequences in dreams.
But, God, the idea that she wanted him, even if just in a dream…
"No, Lena," he murmured, brushing his fingers through long, curling blonde hair. Everything about her was soft, silken, and warm.
"You are my dream; you can at least do as I ask," she muttered, frowning slightly despite the soothing touch of his hands. He grinned. He couldn't help himself. Even now, when she was delirious from lack of sleep and emotional distress, she was a force to be reckoned with.
He sat next to her, but he did not lie down. He didn't trust himself enough; his willpower was already cracked and frail, hanging by a single thread.
"Go to sleep, Lena," he murmured, leaning down to place a soft kiss on her forehead. Her hand found his, and her grip was so tight it was almost painful. He smiled. "I will stay with you. I swear it."
He saw her relax, and he let his gaze slide over the soft white nightgown that hid her curves. She was beautiful. Everything about her was beautiful.
"I love you," she said softly, and her eyes fluttered closed. Her grip on his hand loosened. She was exhausted, physically and emotionally. He prayed that tonight, at least, she would sleep deeply.
He leaned down, brushed his lips against hers in a feather-light goodnight kiss.
"I know," he whispered, and sat back to wait for dawn.