Page 90 of Bared

But not just for her psyche and spirit.

It was time to blast out Brickham too. But no way would the man ignite his own fuse. She would have to do it for him—despite not knowing the first thing how.

Creator help me.

But unless the Almighty had that strength all grilled and ready to go, this fortitude was going to be her own responsibility.

She had to dig deep. She had to summon the inner dictator that Samsyn ordered her to find when they sparred in self-defense drills. This time, she had to take that chieftess seriously. She had to honor her. Empower her.

The explosions must begin.

“Brickham.”

It was a damn good start. Her timbre was nearly as low as his. She delivered it from gritted teeth, clenching them to the point of pain.

“Fuck. You.”

But he gave back as good as she had given. Fortunately, she was ready.

“Fuck you, degan diktu bhutan!”

In the half second he took to try to translate her slur, she seized opportunity by its stubborn horns—and succeeded. She yanked him another three steps before his senses came back online. It was far enough to pull the portcullis closed.

But as she finished the act, regret crashed in. It mimicked the mental airstrike that obviously bombarded Brickham now. The bombs that sparked a rasping litany to his lips. The assault that made him grab his skull with tremoring hands.

“Brickham?” she prompted, as loudly as she dared. “Maximillian?” She could not justify the switch to his proper name, except the unignorable feeling that he needed it. Not that he acknowledged it or even seemed to be aware of her anymore. He continued his incoherent whispers, their incessant haze getting thicker as he paced to a corner of the crypt and slid to the ground there.

What the hell did she do now?

With sadistic timing, icicles congealed across Jayd’s mental explosives. Of all the ways she anticipated this going, there was never a plan for her force of nature turning into a defeated ball in the dirt.

No. Not defeated.

She knew that once she boosted herself into motion, dropping to her knees in front of him. He had his own legs bent up, with his elbows meeting his kneecaps. His hands still straddled his head. His gaze was angled straight out. Even as she leaned in, he did not see her. Mentally, he was gone. Lost to her. Lost to himself.

“Brick…ham?” She deliberately broke it up while trying to get closer to him. But when she reached for one of his hands, he startled like she was made of fire. He flailed with the same violence, but she caught his wrist before he could backhand her face. “Hey. Hey. It is me. Only me.”

The soothing seemed to penetrate his fog, so she repeated it. Then again. Then at least a hundred more times, letting him roll over her fingers so he clutched them in return. She did not give up on her consolation, even as he lifted his stare over the tight hills of their locked hands. Like before, he did not see her. He was still someplace far away and dark. Intimidating and frightening.

Saints and stars.

The words tumbled off her lips before a horde in dark uniforms and shiny helmets tromped by. But the searchers were not the reason she fell into gut-wrenching silence. Her insides were overcome by anguish of another ilk. Distress at a different level.

His level.

She saw it now. She felt it.

And while she absolutely did not believe it, she forced her mind to accept it.

Brickham was…terrified.

That fear was strong enough to kidnap his mind. It had whisked him off to a totally different place. A separate nightmare.

“Rahmie Creacu,” she spilled on a sparse breath, tenderly kissing each of his knuckles. No more flinches from him at that, which gave her some hope—until he started to heave in harsh breaths between rocking himself back and forth.

Jayd wrapped her hands tighter around his, praying she could let him ride out the terrible journey until coming back to her, but their pursuers were not going to be so cooperative. Another mob of them tromped over, sickeningly close to the “locked” gate at the front of the Aiders’ resting place. The steel that had meant salvation for Brickham and her.

If that steel decided to talk with so much as a creak or whine, they would be finished. Brickham would be off to jail, and she would be—