Page 60 of Dark Night of the Soul

Kincade pressed his cheek against the top of my head as he held me against him. I closed my eyes, inhaled his scent and pulled myself once again back to reality.

His touch was grounding me in more ways than one.

I reminded myself this was reality.

I knew he had questions. He didn’t know what happened to me in that hospital room and I hadn’t told him. I couldn’t. Because it would bring the horror back full force.

He hadn’t told me what happened to him with the Brotherhood. Had they let him go? Did he escape? Were they hunting for us even now?

And here we both were. Refusing to tell each other the truth.

Silence settled between us. The only sound was my ragged breathing. The steady beat of his heart beneath my ear.

I’d had nightmares before, sure. But those were Azriel-infested dreams. Dreams that came when I let my guard down. When the Fallen high lord could walk into them and torture me that way.

But these were different. These belonged to me. And I wasn’t sure banishing them would ever be possible.

The pain in my cheek throbbed. He was right. It needed to be dressed.

I pushed away from him and realized I was still in the grubby hospital gown. The moment I no longer wore it, I’d burn it.

“I need—” I halted, trying to figure out what I needed. “Are there clothes?”

He moved from the bed to the one chair in the room and picked up a folded pile of material. Like he’d been waiting, expecting. It was still dark in the room. I couldn’t make out his expression. I didn’t want to. Because if there was pity behind his eyes, I’d want to claw my way out of my own skin.

The last thing I needed was pity.

“Not your style,” he said, “but better than nothing.”

“Thanks.” I took the material from him.

Our hands brushed. It felt like the old days. Before we acknowledged there was anything other than heat and want.

He moved to an open doorway. Flipped on a switch. Light flooded a small bathroom. Then he stepped out, closing the bedroom door behind him.

I hated this… whatever this was that settled between us. But I didn’t know how to get past it.

Maybe I could figure it out under the spray of a hot shower.

After I dressed in the borrowed clothes—an oversized t-shirt and baggy sweatpants—I emerged from the room. Stood in the doorway and looked at the place we were calling home for the moment.

It was a small place. Living room with a worn sofa. Coffee table with the first aid kit still there. One chair. Shag carpet that had seen better days. A kitchen off to one side. Nothing fancy. Functional.

Faint light pressed through the crease in the blackout curtains of the windows. Was it dawn? Afternoon? I didn’t know. I’d lost all track of time.

He occupied the one chair. Eyeing me. Waiting. Patient. Ever vigilant.

Because that’s what he was. Vigilance wrapped in an ancient, immortal body. Wound tight and held in check.

“My cheek,” I said, finding my voice. “You were right.”

“I can clean it,” he said. Even. Clear. Calm.

Always so damn calm.

Then he added, “If you’ll let me.”

I nodded. I returned to the worn sofa where I sat before. He returned to the coffee table where he sat before.