The candles melted fine lines of wax, a deep red pooling into artistic swirls. A sulfur odor lingered, and a wasted matchstick wilted between her fingertips. Eyes mesmerized by the colors of flame, halos glowed around all five burning sticks. Heather knew the hypnotizing power of the contrasts. Dark blue at the base, sizzling the wick away, deep brown, oranges, then running white hot at the tip.
If she ran her hand through the top, it could singe fingers, blister skin, but a fraction of an inch lower? Cool and harmless.
Like her feelings: hot and cold, Zen eclipsed by fiery anger. All equally balanced, and it took staring mindlessly at harmonizing acts of nature and man to feel at any kind of equilibrium. Wanting to let loose the heat of outrage, but hone in on what is best for the situation... To remain calm, controlled.
Heather rubbed at her amulet; the smooth obsidian grounded inner demons at bay. She allowed her eyelids to drift closed, but snapped open at the sound behind her. Quietly she rose, silently wandering over. Normally the sight of an attractive man, cocooned and unaware between dark silk bed sheets would encourage a repeat performance of whatever led to exhausted sleep.
This time, grim reality made her wait and with an all new type of anticipation. The Mistress sat intently in the chair next to her guest, low noises an indication that he had finally found his way back.
The brown of his eyes appeared between lids that struggled to stay open. Once they finally did, Nick's face screwed up in pain, and he groaned, testing out his voice.
She didn't want to startle him, dealing as he was with the sensation of waking up in a strange environment, coupled with a beat up body. So she waited, until it seemed he was a bit more alert, gauging by the furrowed brow and his instant need to sit up.
"Why don't you just lay there a moment, get acclimated," she reasoned. Cool, soft, but greatly relieved.
"Where the Hell am I?" he snapped, more pissed off then she would have thought.
He pushed himself more upright, despite the agony it had to cost. Sucking in a raspy breath, he slumped flat on his back, pupils darting wildly around the room.
Her hand rested on a tense shoulder, maintaining physical contact, grounding him in reality. It took only a moment for that realization to thankfully gleam back in animal-like eyes; wild, and defensive. Slowly his breathing evened out, and Heather never broke the connection as the injured man settled back down.
"You're in the Domain. I'm the only one here."
The panic died down and self-analysis settled in. Gingerly this time, he took stock of himself; fingers tentatively probed the bruise across the right side of his cheek with a slight hiss. Nick shook his hand, fingers only slightly swollen. Then the hard part... she could tell. His ever methodical adjustment, limbs sliding under the silk as his stiff muscles were stretched out and tested.
"Fuck me!" he growled.
"I don't think you'd be up for it now," Heather responded lightly.
Only smile to spread over her face in the past two hours despite his glare. Deep down inside she knew he appreciated the tension breaker.
His hand reached down for what's a mass of ugly black and blue, old surgery scars and obvious pulsating pain.
"It needs to be iced again," she instructed, standing and moving to the confines of her room. Thank goodness for the need for ice cubes at other times, and she brought back a frozen pack from a mini fridge. By the time of her return, Nick peeked between the sheets, eyebrow arched accusingly.
"Where are my pants?" Hands rested heavily, black sheet pulled up to his midsection.
Fingers crunched the ice pack. "Hanging in my closet."
His face reflected indignantly.
She held out the ice pack as a truce, and Nick took it, unfolding the blanket back to reveal his swollen leg, his face a grimace. A moment of hesitancy and he placed the numbing agent over the old wound, his jaw set, left hand pounding the mattress when it made contact.
After a few choice words, the cold compress rested on his thigh, and the CSI draped the sheet back over to prevent the rest of him from shivering from the added coldness.
"How did I get here?"
Heather's body relaxed, a semi-normal conversation and a much-needed anchor. "Gunter brought you here on my instruction."
The alarm and humiliation was as palpable as his groans. His expression a mix of wanting to know how that happened and pleading not to ever know the exact details.
"I couldn't lift you up several flights of stairs and in here. I knew he would be careful." She wouldn't... couldn't elaborate about those tense few minutes after finding him.
The flames of her candles were too far away, and the mounting ramifications threatened her silent stability. Heather had to reel it all in for the sake of her guest. Rage unfiltered and full of primitive spite.
Her castle, the very essence of trust, violated, but this---this deed of violence and hate was not only an act of venom against this man, but a knife to her own soul. Someone dared to violate all that she held holy, and now the escalation was beyond what she ever imagined. The guilt was nothing compared to the desire for vengeance.
Not only for the man she brought into her world, but for the ideals of trust and acceptance so brutally spat upon. Feeling selfish, Heather battled the need to channel.
It was a struggle of instinct. Impulses of an insatiable need, a hand drifted towards his jaw. Her fingers traced his discolored cheek, her face drifting towards his paler one. God, she wanted to press her lips to his, let the charge ignite between them. As the moisture of his mouth drew closer, Heather plunged past willing lips to whisper in his ear.
"Did you see who did this?"
She heard his heart pound in the silence of the room, a rattle in his breath. "No, his face was hidden by one of those masks."
He was pissed. At himself, at the asshole who sought out a weak point and exploited it like hell. His tight voice told the tale. Nick Stokes was very much a man not of the type to take getting brought down by a coward who won't show his face.
"I need to get up," he rallied, but not too fast she thought.
"Dr. Gibbons says you need to rest that leg."
Nick's face reflected fire. "Doctor who?"
She leaned way too close. The old faded T-shirt he'd been changed into, begging to be ripped apart by her needy hands. Her right one really invading his personal space, running through his messed up hair. "One of my clients was here for other reasons. He checked you out before you were moved, and then okayed your transfer here to rest."
Angry, embarrassed, hard to tell. "Is he the one who..." Nick indicated to his half state of dress.
"Yes. I thought you'd prefer this to an ER or police---"
Despite a flushed red complexion now, the CSI watched her smooth out errand tufts of dark hair. "Yea, enough hospitals. And NO, definitely not the police...I don't... I just can't."
Heather was nearly all the way in the bed with him, and she really doubted it would take much to remove the rest of his clothes, and not much for him to return the favor. She jostled his leg and his face pinched up again. Whatever spell was cast over them broke. The Mistress blinked heavily, snapping out of the primal hold her desires had ensnared her in.
Backtracking, her mind recalled why her guard was down, and the boiling waters burned hot. "I could make you some tea to help you sleep some more." She used her knee to force her body away, face flushed as much as his.
He snagged her hand, using it to pull him into a painful upright position. "I don't want any tea." His eyes slits, and now he ate up the atmosphere of anger that her appetite has triggered.
"I don't have any painkillers and the swelling needs to go down before you put any weight back on it." It's a role reversal, her composure centering her energy, his freewheeling.
Nick slung back the covers, ice pack held to his thigh with one hand, and with an act of pure determination, face a sketch of pain, both legs swung over to touch the floor.
The choice was to allow him to topple over flat on his face or lend aid, so despite not wanting it Heather burdened an arm over her shoulder, another around his waist as he wobbled after placing weight on his feet.
"Where are we going?" she asked, knowing the only thing forefront in his mind was the need to be independent.
"The guy took the letter and my copies," he grunted, his weight dragging her dangerously towards the hard wooden floor, but he hobbled fairly well.
"I know." Her hands strayed accidentally around his waistband, thumb sliding along an exposed hipbone.
"I still have my memory card from my camera. I want to run a comparison." His left leg dead, dragging like a rag doll's, and his fight nearly spent.
Heather was a strong capable woman, and got him to a chair by a small office desk. Huffing and color drained to a sweaty waxen pallor, Nick gamely slumped into it, trying to fight for breath. Ice pack still pressed firmly by numb fingers that probably had no other choice. The mistress stepped back, ignoring what she could do to him in that chair, clad only in boxers and tee.
"I'll get the memory card out of your slacks." Heather smoothed out the wrinkle in her rayon dress as she walked to the far end of her bedroom.
"You could bring 'em here, ya know."
She returned with a pair of sweats and tossed them at him instead. "Easier to dress into."
He pulled them over calves, then thighs.
"I didn't think you were a boxers kind of guy. You struck me as a briefs man, or nothing."
Nick leaned against the desk, black sweatpants and a deep green worn tee snugged nicely over his body. "Hanes three-pack of gray boxer briefs are on sale all the time. Though, I've been in need of something easier to slip on."
"Never nude?" Heather slipped fully back into control mode.
The criminalist gave it serious thought. "It could get pretty hot back in Dallas."
Heather took her time walking over, the folds of her dress the only sound of movement. Watching him with interest, she handed him the memory card. "The rest of your stuff is in my safe. I'll grab it and another fresh ice pack."
His face was half obscured by shadows, but he nodded. Heather went into her walk in closet, mind filled with images of the golden tanned skin of the Texan on his back among the dark silk sheets of her bed. Unclothed except for his latex gloves. The firm, sculpted muscles of his body waiting for the exploration of every groove and tendon by her lips.
Normal never seemed so alluring.