Crossfire by Niki Savage Page B

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    “Marcelle, what’s wrong? Let me help you.” He tried a few more times before he seemed to make an impression on her. She looked up at him, and he drew a sharp breath at the suffering etched on her features. Her pupils were huge, obliterating the color of her eyes, looking like black holes descending into hell. Her mouth was wide open, sucking in shallow breaths that seemed insubstantial. Though she had clearly come to him for help, she had collapsed before she could wake him.
    He tried again to pull her onto the bed. “Please Marcelle, you have to help me. I can’t lift you.”
    She shook her head. “Can’t move...ice...too heavy...too cold.”
    What that meant he couldn’t even imagine. He tried to tempt her. “I’m warm. I can melt the ice. If you can get to me, you can be warm too.”
    Some of that seemed to get through to her. The hopeful look on her face made him feel wretched. She pulled her hand from his, and used both hands to try to push herself to her feet. After a few failed attempts, she made it to her knees. He lifted the covers invitingly. Moving like an old woman, she managed to crawl onto the bed, and curl up next to him. He covered her with the blankets, using his good arm to pull her closer to him, so that she was nearly on top of him, fully in contact with his warm body.
    The sensation was unpleasant, because her skin was ice-cold, and the violent tremors that shook her body caused him great discomfort. He pressed her head against his chest, trying to soothe her. “Shhh. You’ll be warm soon. Try to take deeper breaths. Breathe a little slower.” He could sense her trying to comply, but she didn’t have enough control yet. “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”
    She tried to speak, but between the rapid breathing and chattering teeth, she had no chance, and gave up, instead pressing her body closer to his, as if she wanted to get beneath his skin.
    Stefan realized her affliction would have to run its course before he would get anything out of her. He stroked her hair while whispering soothing words, trying to ignore the twin points of her nipples pressing against his chest.
    She calmed down in stages. The shaking became less and finally stopped, as did the chattering teeth. The tension started leaving her, though he noticed that every few minutes she would flinch, and cry out against his chest, as if some sharp pain tormented her. But eventually her breathing slowed and became more substantial as she relaxed against him. A glance at the bedside clock told him that the entire process had taken nearly an hour. Her skin was warmer, but still she squirmed against him, trying to get closer to his heat. He didn’t mind, though his wounds protested against the movement and friction.
    He jumped in surprise when her knee pushed in between his thighs, so that her bare thigh pressed against his penis. Blood immediately rushed to the site, and apparently, she enjoyed the heat, because she rubbed her thigh harder against it, the movement sending pleasurable sensations through his groin. While he wondered what to do about it, her breathing deepened as she fell asleep.
    Stefan relaxed his grip and allowed her to slide off his body, settling her next to him with her head in the crook of his arm. He lay awake for a long time, thinking. Though he would never tell her so, he had seen enough television interviews of Marcelle to remember the woman she used to be. He had always thought her attractive, though not classically beautiful. Her beauty came from the peculiar gray eyes that reflected her every emotion, and the rosy lips that could curve in an easy smile.
    Now that he had met her, he sensed that she had changed in a few subtle ways. While the smile was still there, it couldn’t erase the sadness in her eyes. He remembered the massive television coverage of the funeral. Marcelle had collapsed at the graveside, and an ambulance had rushed her to hospital. She had remained there for a week. Still,