Warmth wrapped around her chilled limbs as she rushed into the entrance hall, and she had just reached the bottom step of the broad, carpeted staircase that led to the upper levels as Darien was clearing the first landing.
“Darien!” she called, already out of breath as she followed him up the stairs. She was vaguely aware of the others entering the house behind her, vaguely aware of Dallas attempting to deter her, demanding to know when she’d become suicidal. She paid her no mind and kept following the dark-haired Devil. “Darien, wait—”
He whirled on a heel to face her, and she almost fell backward down the stairs when she saw how black his eyes were.
But…he wasn’t tracking anything.
So why were his eyes black?
When she spoke, her voice was small, and she had to grip the handrail for support. “Are you okay?”
“What do you want?” he bit out. His hands were curling and uncurling at his sides, as if he was trying not to hit something. His nostrils were flared, and his jaw was clenched so tight, it looked like it was causing him pain.
“I wanted to apologize,” she whispered. “For following you into Stone’s End. I know it was stupid and reckless and—”
“Itwasstupid and reckless,” he cut in. He turned and began clearing the stairs, two at a time. “Just forget about it.” He waved a hand in dismissal and disappeared down the hall. A moment later, his door slammed shut hard enough for the chandelier hanging above the entrance hall to tremble, the crystals spitting white fire onto the spotless walls.
It took Loren a long moment to calm down, to convince herself that what she and Dallas had done reallywasstupid and reckless and Darien had every right to be angry with her.
By the time she’d gathered her thoughts and began ascending the last of the stairs, Darien’s door swung open again. He emerged wearing torn and faded blue jeans, a gray long-sleeved henley, and combat boots that were caked in what could only be old blood. A duffel bag was slung over his shoulder, and his eyes were still black as onyx. He was so tense, the tendons in his neck were showing, his broad chest rising and falling with each rapid breath as he hurried down the hallway toward her.
Squashing down the voice of reason that demanded she leave him alone, she tried to step in his path…but her efforts were futile, as the hallway was wide enough for him to merely breeze past her like she was invisible, which was exactly what he did.
She knew she really shouldn’t follow him, should give him some space. But, as usual, she didn’t heed her own advice.
“Would you tell me what’s going on?” she called, hurrying down the stairs. “Did something happen in Cain’s house?” Cripes, he moved fast. He was already at the glass table, where he paused to retrieve a couple ancient coins from the curved wooden bowl. He stuffed them into the front pocket of his jeans and made for the door. “You can’t possibly be that angry with me—”
But he was already out of the house, the door shutting behind him on a phantom wind Loren suspected was courtesy of the Hob.
For a long time, Loren stood there. Staring at the closed door. Listening to Darien’s car engine rumble to life. There was the click of the emergency break being lowered, the accompanying groan suggesting he’d nearly ripped it clean off. And then the car was snarling as he accelerated backward, spun it around, and sped off into the night, tires squealing loudly enough to wake the whole neighbourhood.
The silence that followed was somehow worse than the noise. Heavy and suffocating, pressing on her eardrums as if her head was underwater.
Loren kept standing there, staring at the door. Trembling, despite the warmth of the house. Despite the food she’d eaten.
“When Darien needs his space, hereallyneeds his space.” Max’s voice made her jump.
She whirled to face him, and it took her a second to realize why his face was so blurry.
She was… Was shecrying?
When had she started crying? She couldn’t remember, could barely breathe.
Someone was stepping on her lungs.
“I didn’t mean to piss him off that badly,” Loren choked out. Her face heated with an awful mixture of anger and shame and embarrassment. “I said I was sorry.” It sounded like someone was strangling her. It felt like it, too. “Is he really that incapable of accepting an apology?”
“His anger is not meant for you, Loren,” Max said softly. “But he’s not in the right mindset to explain that to you tonight.”
Her lungs just kept getting smaller, but she managed to squeeze out, “What’s the matter with him?”
“It isn’t my place to answer that question.”
“Is there something I should know? Did something happen in Cain’s house that he’s not wanting to tell me?”
“It isn’t my place to answer that question either.” He kicked off his boots, opened the closet door, and hung up his jacket. Loren had a feeling he was performing every action slower than what was necessary, evidently giving her a chance to compose herself. He closed the closet door and studied her for a moment, and then motioned toward the staircase. “Get some sleep. It’s late.”
She wiped fiercely at the corners of her eyes but made for the staircase, exhaustion settling over her like a heavy morning fog. Her whole body ached, and her teeth were suddenly chattering. She felt like she might never be warm again.
