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Fiery ire shot down her spine. They both knew she couldn’t physically escape him. All she wanted was a damn cup of tea. And now he was keeping her from that very simple need.
His top lip twitched as he stared down at her. Close—too close. His breath stealing all the air around her. His skin, the fine dusting of dark hair across his chest close to tickling her cheek. He knew exactly what he was doing—manhandling her—but he didn’t opt to let her escape his grasp.
“Truce.” He shook his head, his voice dipping into something she didn’t recognize. Not anger. Not bitterness. “Truce, Laney, for the five minutes it will take to get your throat soothed.”
She didn’t think it possible, but her tongue withered, going drier.
Sucking in a sigh, knowing the idiocy of it, she lifted her shoulders and motioned to his room. She couldn’t manage any words past her parched throat.
He released her, but kept his hand high, ready to snatch her again if needed.
Did he think she was twelve and going to attempt to dash away from him?
Not that she hadn’t considered it for a moment. But she was too exhausted to continue the argument. Every word, every moment of time she spent in his presence drained her. Sucked the life out of her until her legs were shaking.
Wes opened his door for her and she stepped into his room. Quickly spying the port and glasses on the rectangular table across the wall from the bed, she went over to it, setting the pot in her hand down and pouring herself a glass of the crimson liquid.
She’d poured the second glass full before she realized what she was doing. Damn old habits.
A head shake of admonishment to herself, and she set the decanter down and picked up one of the glasses.
One long sip. Relief.
Another one, and her tongue felt almost normal again.
She shuffled to the side of the table and sat at one of the chairs, warily eyeing Wes. He’d stopped by the door and was watching her movements, not moving further into the room.
She took another sip, attempting to ignore his hawk eyes on her.
Setting the glass on the table, her fingers stayed wrapped around the fine cut crystal, playing with the deep etches of the glass. “I don’t know if glaring at me from afar constitutes a truce, Wes.”
He stepped across the room in three strides and picked up the other glass of port, his eyes not veering from her. “You’re sweaty.”
Her head snapped back. “What?”
His forefinger flipped out from the crystal glass to point at the top of her head. “Or you were sweaty. Your hair is matted along your brow.”
She looked away from him, her fingers going into her hair, breaking up the matted strands as she shook her head, shook the image of the nightmare she’d just had out of her mind. “I was dreaming.”
“A good dream or bad?” He moved to the other chair at the table, pulling it out and turning it in her direction. He sat, pulling his bare right ankle up to rest on his knee.
For his size, he’d always been limber. Not something he’d lost in the last seven years.
He took a sip of port, his dark eyes intent on her.
“Bad.”
“Morton?”
She should nod. It would be easy enough. But she’d never been good at lying to him. Never really even tried.
“No. When I dream of him, I only dream of the good times. Of how he could make me laugh. Of how adored I felt when he was with me. Everything that ever was good in Morty is with me in my dreams. It’s when I’m awake that I miss him.”
Wes’s mouth pulled tight. “I am sorry, Laney. Sorry that he died. Sorry that I didn’t do more.”
“Do more? What do you mean? I was told he was attacked by the docks in London.”
Wes shrugged, taking a long swallow from his glass. “Do more to save him from himself. But he was always uncontrollable.”
