Wild Fire (Book II)

Breaking The Veil

     Black....and her clothes were being roughly changed. Black.... she was being carried through a hallway. Black.... the feeling of being lifted, a strong animal beneath her. Black.... familiar arms wrapped around her. Holding her close...lips whispering in her ear "I'm sorry little doll..." Black....and time had passed, trees surrounding the movements of the world. Voices, anger...Lilah?.....someone else's arms. Black......the sweet smell of cigars and whiskey, mint and horses...so big the tall shadow behind her. Black.... the new arms holding her so gently. Far away a deep baritone voice rumbling "We're gonna take care of you honey. You hang on for me little miss." The warm touch of a covering palm against her face. The ground coming up, being covered....so very cold. Black...she embraces it...

     Aware again.... Unable to speak....so hungry...unable to eat. Someone is trying, trying to feed her, she shifts away. No concept of time. Sleep, wake, sleep...shivering. She hurts. She hurts inside, but it's healing and nobody knows. They speak but she can't hear them. Sleep, wake, sleep...Someone is there. No! The blanket, please don't take it, don't let them see! She is not broken, she is ruined. Don't touch her, don't touch! Don't touch! Don't touch! ...Something warm soft. She is swaddled in it, cologne, that smell of mint and cigars and whiskey. Arms? No. But something. Something from those arms. The blanket is returned, tucked snug around her. That hand touching her face. Please don't touch.... Please don't go....Please.....save me.... Sleep...wake...sleep.... wake. Lilah? Alive? She can't reach her. Crying...she's crying.... please don't cry Lilah. You're safe. But...Is she...safe? She's gone. Sleep... wake... sleep... wake.... So ...hungry. Her throat burns. She's moving again. Being lifted. Carried. Cuddled? That smell...there's that smell. The soft brush of .... fingers? Lips? Warm hands so tender...coaxing her... she's shivering again. But she can't come out. HE is there. He is somewhere....and the thought of him makes her ache and curl tighter. Never come out. Never.... She'll stay here. Stay where it's safe. Sleep inside herself till her chest just doesn't go back up again. Till her empty stomach drains all it needs from her muscles and just stops. Embrace the black... embrace the empty...run from those new arms that reach for her. She doesn't deserve them. HE has destroyed her from the inside out. This savior that comes to her now, hands brushing her chilled cheek...She is not worthy. HE...the bearded one has left her a shambled husk. This savior should turn away. But his voice...the low bass cloak of his voice....it does not leave her.

***

     Dutch stood outside of his tent humbly staring over the members of his flock with adoration. John and Lilah were safe, and the whole gang had welcomed them into his old cabin with so much love, so much purity, so much....loyalty, that it made the man's heart swell with pride. Colm was dead. His transgressions against the young girl Lilah almost forgiven...almost. Well enough as it seemed. Lilah was now safe with John, but she left behind broken pieces that Dutch now took upon himself to mend.

     Much time had passed. It had grown cool the past few days and he had taken to slip his coat back over his shoulders against the nipping wind. It was then as he lipped the thick cigar between his teeth, that he noticed the scent that laced the soft fur of his collar just at his cheek. A cross between rose petal and clean cotton. Like starched sheets and honeysuckles. He turned looking into the tent to the little waif of a girl lying on the cot drawn into a ball. It was her. She was what he smelled on the collar. Sweet and clean, despite her damaged state, like someone had bottled the sun and trickled it across the fabric.

     Dutch walked into the tent, closing the loose flap behind him, and securing it shut. The room itself was littered with soft furs, his books on the small desk near his gramophone, and a few various odds and ends. A plate of food sat on the table atop the desk, he had nearly forgotten he asked Pearson to fetch it for him before seeing John and Lilah away. He almost feared Lilah would go, her big green eyes still so full of fear for her resting friend inside.

     Dutch was never one to really tip toe, but he did his best to be as quiet as he could as he took the tin plate in his hand and pulled the old wooden chair by Emma's face to sit. "Emma? Emma dear. Can you hear me?" He reached out a warm hand and pulled the loose curls back from her pale forehead. She didn't move. His hand stretched down and delicately took the ball of her shoulder under his palm, shaking it cautiously. "Emma darlin, you need to eat. You don't eat you're gonna get real real sick. We don't want that now do we? Wake up for me." He studied her face. Her eyes remained closed.

     With a sigh, he sat up straight and looked at the food choices he had in his hand to pick from. On the side of the tin lay a savory plump wedge of rosy watermelon. Its sweet syrup had gathered in tiny pink puddles at its corners, enough so that the juices dampened his fingers as he lifted it. He sat the plate down holding one hand beneath it to catch the sprinkling flavor and held the fruit against Emma's parched lips.

     There was a pause as he went in with the sweetness. His dark eyes fluttered over the dark split on her bottom lip, now partially healed. He rubbed the rough pad of his thumb across its raised ridge, instant fury filling him right up to his shoulders. Dutch frowned deeply, shaking his head at the thoughts of the bastard and his treatment of the girl, then went in again with the melon touching it to her mouth.

     He let the sugary liquid spill over her lips watching as her mouth opened reflexively to taste what was placed against it. Her eyes were still closed, but she took the wedge against her tongue suckling it as she slept. A satisfied smirk tugged at the corner of the leader's mouth as he watched her. It was like feeding a kitten, eyes still closed, still so very helpless, save for the touch of its master offering it nourishment. "There's a sweet girl." He cooed softly, feeding a little of it at a time to her as she nibbled. Until finally she had reached his holding fingers. Dutch froze.

     Her pretty mouth now latched around the end of his finger sucking, searching for more. He felt himself go ridged, a sudden fire striking across his waist with untamed intrusion. He watched her, his mouth opening slowly in silent awe as the draw of her lips pulled the arousal within him to an unexpected surface. He felt himself nearly snatch his fingers out of the girl's mouth. Her pout fed for the air, searching. Dutch cursed himself, standing and taking the plate with him walking quickly from the tent to Pearson.

     "Mr. Pearson, "he barked before he ever reached the man. "I need more watermelon. As much as you can give me." The balding man looked at him with a curious expression. "Today Mr. Pearson. If. You. Please." Pearson did as commanded, and Dutch returned to the tent sitting down beside her again. He could only hope she would still respond as he wasted no time scooping up another savory slice of melon and holding it slowly to her lips.

     Again she suckled the piece of fruit as he held it there, his hands trembling slightly. He nearly chirped with the excitement of success. "Slowwlly girl. I ain't going nowhere. It's Dutch. Dutch darlin. I want you to remember my name." He leaned against the shell of her ear as he fed her, the arousal still building under the fine black dress pants. "Dutch Van der linde. You remember because you will know it. Sweet girl, you'll be saying it.....a lot"