Instinctively, Jude flinched back at the touch before he looked up. Maeve was inches from him, eyes wide, lips parted. ‘Breathe,’ she whispered. ‘Slowly. Push my hand out. Just like that.’
Black spots danced at the edge of his vision. ‘What – what happened?’
‘I think you had a nightmare. I tried to wake you, several times, in fact… but, but, Jude. It’s evening already. You’ve been asleep almost a day.’
He tried to focus past the pounding in his skull, the pressure cinched around his heart. ‘What?’
She nodded. He was coherent enough to recognize the fear in her eyes. ‘I don’t know how—’
‘The icon,’ Jude cut in. He tipped his head back to stare up at the ceiling, focusing on her hands on him and not the residual panic from the nightmare. They’d returned home from Oakmoor at around three in the morning, agreeing to reconvene just after dawn for Jude to pray to his icon. Somehow, he’d slept for over twelve hours without waking. ‘It’s the icon. It’s affecting me. Headaches, nausea. A strange…pulling, under my skin. The sleeping, too. The nightmares.’
Maeve eased back, guilt clear on her face. ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured. ‘Hopefully, once you pray, it’ll get better. You’ll be yourself again.’
Himself– he hardly knew who that man was anymore.
Her fingers touched his wrist, skating up bare skin. Jude flinched. His long sleeves were pushed back to his elbows, every tattoo visible. Each clumsy stroke he’d marred his flesh with; lines and symbols, crude scratches that he’d never allowed to fully heal.
Maeve stared. Wide-eyed. Saying nothing.
‘Don’t,’ he whispered.
‘Jude.’
‘It was a long time ago.’ He kept his eyes on her face, not wanting to join her in looking at his marked skin. He knew what he looked like.
Her fingers shook slightly as she slid her hand beneath the collar of his shirt. She laid her palm over the symbol forSAINT, transferring her warmth into his frigid skin. A hard press, as though to fuse them. A wish to take the memory of his pain away.
‘You can talk about it,’ she whispered, surprising him. ‘To me. If you ever want to.’
Jude’s throat felt thick. He nodded. It wasn’t the reaction he’d been expecting. Yet again, Maeve set him completely off-balance. A voice in the back of his mind, sounding suspiciously like Bethan, whispered –She cares for you.
He was starting to believe it.
She continued to touch him. A skim of her fingertips across the other tattoos under his collarbones, the lines on his forearm. His skin was sensitive from how often he’d gone over the ink. His heightened awareness of her proximity made it worse. Almost too much to bear. As she brushed her fingertips over the crook of his elbow, he hissed an unsteady breath.
Maeve pulled back. Her throat clicked. ‘I’m sorry.’
He caught her hand before she could withdraw entirely. Pressed it back to his skin. When he looked up, he found her staring back with eyes so dark he couldn’t make out the pupil. Her lips were parted, and she was breathing shallowly. There was a fogginess to her face he wasn’t used to seeing.
Unable to bear the weight of her attention, Jude looked away. He dropped her hand in a pathetic attempt to steady himself. Useless. Like he could be anything but unmoored around her.
His gaze caught on a rectangular shape by the door.Fuck. He’d nearly forgotten. ‘I should probably get to it. No point putting off the inevitable.’
Maeve followed his gaze. ‘Are you sure? I would suggest waiting, but…’
‘We don’t really have the time,’ Jude finished.
‘Not if we want you awake, that is.’
‘And somewhat coherent,’ he muttered as he reluctantly pushed himself out of bed. He brushed her shoulder as he moved past her towards the icon. Thin layers of paint feathered the edges of the canvas, the colours deepening as they closed in around his face. For a moment, the vivid gold haloing his head reflected in his painted eyes.
Jude blinked, and it was gone.
Before he could decide how to begin, Maeve dropped to her knees in front of the canvas, pulling him down with her. He bit back a shiver at the casual touch, wondering if he would ever get used to the feeling of his skin on hers. Somehow, he doubted it.
His icon stared back, just as defiant as the first time he beheld it. Just as exposing. It took his breath away. Maeve’s talent, her passion and care for her work, shone through every brushstroke. He didn’t think he’d ever seen something so beautifully wrought.
‘When I pray,’ Maeve said, ‘I focus on specifically what I want. Peace, absolution, forgiveness, or something more tangible. An event or item, for instance.’
