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I wake up to the chirping of birds outside. It’s a sound that’s familiar. There’s a nest of finches on one of the trees by my window and I love hearing them first thing in the morning.
Although I’m neither in my room nor am I in my bed. I know from the light even through closed eyes. I know from the smell. And when I remember where I am, I bolt upright with a gasp and instantly regret it.
“Ah. Fuck!” I touch the back of my head gingerly, hissing when my fingers brush against the tender bump.
“Headache?”
My gaze snaps to him. Jericho St. James. He’s standing against the wall, leaning his full weight on it, one hand in his pocket, mug of coffee I can smell from here in the other. He’s wearing a suit, black like his soul, dark hair still wet from a shower, watching me. Just watching me.
And I remember last night.
I remember him walking into my bedroom at God knows what hour of night. Taking me to that chapel, the cemetery to show me my ancestor’s forgotten grave. Tell me the ugly history of the Bishops and the St. James’s. And to play that stupid game to find the well where Nellie’s body had most likely been thrown after she’d been murdered. I remember the dark of the woods, the cold of the rain. And then falling.
“You fucking bastard.”
He nods as if in agreement and sips his coffee. “Aspirin is there. With water. Also not poisoned.”
I feel the bump at the back of my head. “I need a doctor. I could have a concussion.”
“You don’t have a concussion. It’s barely a bump.”
“You jerk, I could have died!”
“Died is a bit much, Isabelle.” He finishes his coffee and pushes off the wall to come toward me. “Let me see.” He sits on the edge of the bed. I have a vague and strange memory like this has happened before except that last time he was naked from the waist up and my hands were on him. Feeling the swell of muscle beneath his warm skin.
I close my eyes and force the image of him half-naked with that dragon tattoo curling around his arms and shoulders away.
“Don’t touch me,” I snap, slapping at his arm and jerking away but that jerking costs me. “It hurts. Shit.”
“Here.” He holds up the aspirin and the glass of water.
I look at them, then at him.
“The bottle is right there. They’re just aspirin.”
I glance to the nightstand where I see the bottle. I reach out and take them from him, pop them in my mouth and swallow them with one gulp of water.
“Drink it all. It’s good for you.”
“You almost killed me last night. You now want me to believe you care what’s good for me?”
“I didn’t almost kill you. You’re fine.”
I drink the water but not because he tells me to. I’m just very thirsty. When I’m finished, he takes the glass and sets it aside, then cups my jaw. His touch isn’t hard like the last time he did it. He’s being careful. Is that guilt?
He turns my head and I feel his fingers near the spot that’s currently throbbing but he’s gentle when he touches it.
“Swelling hasn’t gotten worse, but I’d leave it alone if I were you.”
“I didn’t know you were a doctor.” I say when he straightens.
“Just a concerned citizen.”
“Fuck you.”
“Careful. Remember the commandments. I’ll let you go on it considering you just hit your head but watch your mouth.”
“Really? Considering I just hit my head? You’re so fucking kind. Fuck. You.”
