Lenina scratched the back of her hand. Brutally clipped fingernails scored fine white lines on her skin, flaking away crusts of blood lingering between her trembling fingers.
She stared at the cardboard cup of tea on the table, noting that the little curls of steam had ceased to rise. The sugary scent of the black fluid stung her nostrils.
‘Miss Miller, is there anybody you would like me to call?’ Detective Inspector Brad Thorne leaned against the wall, watching her. His expression, much like the first time they met, resembled the look of a man chewing something he disliked the taste of. This time, however, a hint of sympathy lingered in his eyes. At his side, Tristen looked everywhere but at her face, his fingers fussing with a button near the collar of his black and red overshirt. Dark waves of chestnut brown hair frothed around his face and neck. Bloodied handprints dotted his sleeves. In a distant way Lenina recalled that she had put them there. He had found her in the back of the police van outside her house.
Surrounded by whirling blue lights, curious onlookers and dozens of law enforcement professionals, she sat on the low step and huddled in a black, scratchy blanket provided by a kindly police officer wearing too much make-up.
When Lenina saw Tristen, her handbag slipped from her fingers and she jumped up to meet him.
In that moment she wanted nothing more than his arms around her. His green eyes on hers. His peppermint breath across her cheek. It made no sense. She hated it. Yet his very presence soothed her. He held tight enough to make her gasp and didn’t let go even when Inspector Thorne arrived behind him.
‘Are you okay?’ Tristen’s voice quivered. He pulled her close and stroked her hair. He seemed not to notice when his hands came away bloody. ‘Your face — what did he do to you?’ He held her all the way to the hospital then watched while a team of doctors cleaned and stitched her face.
Hours later, in a cold white room at the back of the hospital, Lenina longed to feel his arms around her again. But he refused to meet her gaze.
‘Miss Miller?’ Thorne stepped away from the wall and placed his hand on the table. ‘Can you hear me?’
‘Hey,’ snapped Tristen. His eyes narrowed to thin slits. ‘Give her a minute.’
Though grateful for his intervention, Lenina knew she had to answer. ‘I’m listening, Detective.’
‘Would you like me to call anyone? There must be someone you want to talk to. Friend? Family?’
‘No.’
‘Somewhere to stay? You can’t go back to your house tonight. Do you have somewhere to go?’
‘No. Yes.’
‘Which is it, Miss Miller?’
Tristen slapped the flat of his hand against wall. ‘Brad, take it easy.’
‘No, you do your job.’ Thorne gritted his teeth, took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. ‘We need to get her somewhere safe.’
She ran a finger around the rim of her coffee cup. ‘I have a friend nearby. I’ll stay with her.’
His voice softened. ‘Would you like me to call her?’
‘No.’
From the corner of her eye she saw him gazing down at the top of her head. Then Tristen shuffled his chair closer and wedged himself between them. His gaze brushed hers, melancholic and desperate. It slid away again just as fast, a guilty action quickly suppressed.
Thorne’s fingers twitched on the table then slipped away. ‘I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Miller.’
The door opened a crack. Through it came a young sandy-haired nurse. ‘Are you officers nearly done? I have some paperwork for you.’
The bigger man huffed a heavy breath. He glanced at Tristen, then waved away the nurse. ‘I’m coming. Miss Miller?’
She looked up.
‘Detective Blake will look after you now.’ His voice became heavy. ‘I know it’s easier said than done, but try to get some rest.’ He stepped out. Stuffy silence filled the space left by his body. The smell of cigarettes and takeaway burgers lingered in his wake.
‘Lenina—’ Tristen began.
She raised a hand towards him. ‘Don’t. Please.’
More silence.
Eventually he reached across the table. He touched her fingers and the contact was electric. A shiver rippled through her body. Her mouth became dry. Very slowly, Lenina pulled her hand away.
Tristen bit his lip and moved his hands to his lap. ‘Talk to me.’ His voice was low. Hushed. Desperate.
‘And say what?’
‘Anything. Whatever you need to say. I want to help you, but—’
‘You can’t help me.’ She wiped her face, catching the edge of the soft dressing covering the horrific slash on her left cheek. The stitches ached and pulled on her skin, delivering a stab of pain each time she spoke. Requesting more painkillers was pointless; she’d already had. The doctors insisted that she wait at least three hours before her next dose. Joys of a vampire metabolism.
‘Let me try. I can’t imagine what you’re going through but please, let me try.’ His hand snaked out again, palm up. Small wrinkles formed at the corners of his eyes. ‘Please?’
Lenina reached across the table and placed her hand in his. He closed his fingers around hers and squeezed, as if he could force his own strength into her. A tiny smile touched his lips. ‘I’ll do whatever you need, Lenina. Anything.’
Like when they first met, the words seemed loaded with additional meaning. Though she tried to shake it away, the weight of his gaze and the touch of his hand made her palms moisten. Her lips parted.
A door slammed open somewhere outside the room. Loud shouts and curses accompanied the tramp of many footsteps and the squeal of gurney wheels. Another door crashed shut. The spell between them splintered and died.
Lenina looked away and worked to steady her breathing, abruptly aware that she’d been holding her breath. She freed her fingers.
Tristen leaned back in his chair and returned to fiddling with the buttons on his shirt. ‘We’ll process the clippings from your hair and fingernails as soon as possible. We should have some information by the start of next week. Brad already called Gwendolin, you won’t need to do that.’
Mention of Nick’s mother threatened to shatter the carefully erected wall Lenina had built around her emotions. She swallowed. ‘Thanks.’
‘You won’t get your clothes back, but you can keep those trousers. And that shirt.’
Lenina glanced at the rolled up sleeves of the borrowed sweatshirt. Stripped even of her underwear, the foreign clothing rasped against her skin with unforgiving coarseness.
‘Thanks.’
Through the silence Lenina heard the bustle of the rest of the hospital. The clack of keyboard keys and the occasional raised voice. The air smelled of stale coffee, antibacterial gel and sickness.
‘Let’s go. I’ll take you to your friend’s house.’ He held out his hand. When she took it, a faint tingle across her palm echoed the first time they touched. His fingers tightened on hers.