Page 22 of Shadowing You

Something had turned his strong, confident wife into this frightened creature, and he wanted to know every bit of the story. And then find the person who’d done it and take out his frustrations on him.

He lay on the opposite side of the bed, levered up on his elbow, and watched her sleep. A lock of her hair fell across her face, and he brushed it back. “I love you, Mei Lin.” His words were barely a whisper. “Nothing has changed that. Nothing ever will.”

Outside the windows, the city hummed.

Lord, thank You for bringing her back to me. Now, help me love her through this. Show me what to do.

He didn’t know what would come next, but she was here, and she was breathing. He’d figure out steps two and three and…and on and on. One at a time until they were home.

Nothing seemed right. But also, nothing seemed wrong. Mei Lin couldn’t make her eyes open to check her surroundings. She couldn’t pull herself all the way to wakefulness.

And then Ethan was there, whispering. “I love you, sweetheart. I’ve always loved you.”

She lost herself in the dream.

When she woke again, she felt him there, her husband telling her to Sleep, beautiful. Sleep. You’re safe here.

She wanted to stay with him, but then she was drifting again.

Terrible images came. Lu Feng was there, dragging her back.

Ethan was there, pulling her close.

She didn’t know what was real and what was imagined, what was dream and what was nightmare. Behind her eyes the light turned dark, then light again, but she couldn’t wake up.

She didn’t want to.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Ethan had slept with his wife for the first time in six years, though he hadn’t touched her except to comfort her when she seemed unsettled. She’d barely been aware of him.

He’d awakened often, sure it had all been a dream. But she remained beside him. In fact, she’d slept for sixteen hours, and counting.

Her breathing wasn’t shallow or irregular, nor was she using her neck or intercostals to aid in getting air, so she wasn’t in respiratory distress. She was taking about fifteen breaths per minute—normal range.

Yes, he’d counted. What else did he have to do?

Her breath didn’t smell sweet, so no diabetic ketoacidosis. Which made sense, considering that, as far as he knew, she didn’t have diabetes.

He’d checked her pulse the old-fashioned way more than once—fingers to veins in the wrist.

It was normal, as was her temperature, so no fever. Probably no infection.

Her lips were chapped. Combined with the pallor of her skin, that told him she was dehydrated. She was far too thin, clearly malnourished, probably anemic, which would also account for her pallor. And her exhaustion.

She wasn’t sick, she wasn’t dying. Nothing plagued her that a few good meals, plenty of water, and lots of sleep wouldn’t heal.

But the longer she slept, the harder his diagnosis was to believe.

He stood at the window, eating and barely tasting one of the pastries he’d had delivered the afternoon before. Outside, Changsha was waking up. An old woman walked a dog no bigger than a loaf of bread. A scooter threaded the gap between a sedan and a delivery truck. Across the street, people waited at a bus stop, staring at their phones. That particular habit seemed to cross every culture.

Thin clouds blocked the blue sky. Considering that the people on the street were bundled in coats, it must be chilly outside. Which made sense—it was November, after all.

Though light filled the room, Mei Lin hadn’t stirred.

He settled into the chair he’d carried in from the kitchen after his quick shower. It wasn’t comfortable, but he didn’t want to leave her side. Aside from the shower and occasional trips to the kitchen for food and drink, he’d stayed with her, wanting to be there when she woke up.

She’d mumbled in her sleep more than once. He’d heard his own name once, uttered in distress, and something that sounded like ay-ee, which, if he remembered his Mandarin lessons, meant auntie.