For the Dead Travel Fast
—-xxx—-
The room was molten when she returned; the intoxicating allure of him had hit her at the doorway of the extended stay, and she'd been flying up the back stairwell half-crazed and half-terrified.
But he was alone, the room was empty. No one lurking.
Her heart was in her mouth, pounding in her tongue, a taste.
She had not expected him to phase so quickly, or to be so damn potent. She'd gotten looks as she ran down the hallway; she'd wondered if the freshly-healed wound had split open because she could smell blood.
Only then, standing in the threshold of the bathroom where he lay, did she realize it was his blood she smelled. And not a drop of it spilled. He was just that heady a scent.
He was bait.
She swallowed back the saliva filling her mouth and dug through the bags hanging from her arm, fished out the saline pills first, downing two which barely made a dent in her urgency, and then the Gatorade. She broke the seal, twisted off the top with a crack, and drank.
She went to her knees in relief, thirst abating just enough that she could—she hoped—get him half-conscious and awake, but not shred his veins.
She had to be in control.
Because they had to leave here.
She took another gulp of the Gatorade and swiped the back of her hand across her mouth, swaying on her knees. She had to do this.
Kate dumped the bags into the duffle, all of the gear, zipping it tightly as it bulged. She had wanted to pack the car first, get things situated just right for him, and for her too, before they embarked on what she was coming to think would be a long and torturous drive, but that wasn't in the cards for them.
He was too potent. She always had said his charm would get him in trouble one day.
She stepped back over the threshold of the bathroom, set the Gatorade bottle on the counter, the duffle on the tile floor, and took a shallow breath.
She wanted to eat him alive.
Instead, she crouched slowly at his side and forced her hand to be gentle against his forehead, soft. His hair was flopping in his eyes with his sweat, and she combed it back, caressing his cheek. Already the contour of his face had changed, and she had a moment's grief for all the ways he would not be the Rick Castle she had fallen in love with: soft, tender-hearted, goofy.
Not all of it would go, of course, but the shadows on his jaw and under his cheekbones wouldn't be the only ones.
Transition was not easy, and the phases were brutal. She couldn't know how much that kind of trauma would affect him.
She skimmed the backs of her fingers at his cheek. Already he'd lost the heft in his face, the happy weight of a man who was content in his place in life and his love, that post-marriage ten pounds everyone had warned her about. Now dissolved, fuel to his fire, and thinning even as she touched him.
She swallowed roughly and leaned in, lips sheathing her teeth as she kissed his lips. Reminded herself of his gentleness, of what he'd done for her, how he'd waited, and waited again, because she had asked for time. And now she couldn't even give him that—time.
She closed her eyes, bent her forehead to his cheek, tears burning behind her eyelids. "Rick," she breathed, and that exhale of his name forced an inhale that sent his allure spiraling through her, heady and fast and rich.
She took a nip from under his jaw a second before she knew she was doing it, and he jolted, gasped as she made her claiming mark.
A rough noise in the back of his throat as he saw or felt her there.
She licked slowly.
He cried out.
Her teeth sank in.
His ragged cry forced her back. Tearing herself away was an extreme act of will power, and to not tear him as she did was almost more than she could control. But then she was skittering back hard, forcing the distance, shoving herself away.
Until her back slammed painfully into the door frame and made her eyes fly open.
He was moaning, turned on his side as if to curl into a protective ball. The blood trickled from under his jaw, like he'd cut himself shaving. She'd seen it a million times and only a handful wanted to taste. She'd kissed those spots with brief brushes of lips and yet she had never wanted it so damn badly.
She smacked her hand against the counter seeking the Gatorade, tore it open, and swallowed convulsively.
Back of her hand against her mouth, Gatorade half gone, she stared at him as he stared back at her. The one who'd hurt him, the one who'd started all this.
She was shaking, but she could do this. She had to. She got to her knees and crept forward; some animal part of him knew her as pain and jolted back—but she grasped his wrist and used her superior force to keep him still (for now, a voice taunted, threatened, soon he'll be out of your control).
"Castle," she said clearly, calmly. "Castle, look at me."
His eyes jerked to her face, eyes that were still that ghostly grey.
"Stand up," she commanded. If she'd done it right, he'd obey. Docile, wanting not to be in pain again. Too much, she knew from experience, would only make him run. "You. Come with me."
And because she had done it to him—she had claimed and marked him the way she'd sworn she wouldn't do, the way Royce had tried to do, over and over until she was screaming—Castle stood.
She scrambled up after him, battling the urge, the instinct, to lick the blood from his chin. "Good, that's good, Rick. You'll need to lean on me, you won't make it to the car."
His eyes were already glassy, fevered, snowy-grey. She'd woken him with pain, but not even pain and the lure of her claim could keep him on his feet the whole way down.
Kate braced herself and slid her arm around his waist, pressing in close. She had to bite her own tongue in the effort it took not to nuzzle into his neck and lick at him, but she managed it, she had it under control.
He leaned into her, and for a moment he swayed, and she thought he might go down and she was terrified she'd have to bite him again, but instead—he inhaled. Deeply.
She stiffened.
His nose skimmed her temple. An aroused rumble in his chest that made her body hum in response.
No. Not right now, maybe not ever again if she had done this badly.
She would not take without consent.
"Come with me," she said sharply, and tugged him towards the door.
She slung the duffle bag over her other shoulder, but she didn't have a hand for the Gatorade bottle. It was fine. She had five more bottles in the duffle, a host of supplements, and she could survive.
She would survive, both of them.
It wasn't just that he was her responsibility now, as fresh meat, or even that this was her husband she was carrying out to the car. This was her partner. In every way, in all things. She had his back.
She angled Castle out of the door and towards the stairs.
Let the horde come. He was hers.
—-xxx—-