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“Why?”
He sounded incredulous when he repeated, “Why?”
“Do you think Portia and possibly Daniel don’t have anything planned anymore?”
“No, I think I raced through my own damned house in the middle of the bloody night to get to you, only to find you in bed with blood all over your face, looking like you’d stared evil right in the eye. And all this shit is just shit, but it keeps happening. To you.”
“Tonight wasn’t fun—”
He interrupted me to mostly repeat after me again, and continued to do it incredulously, except a lot more incredulously, “It wasn’t fun?”
“But it’s been explained.”
He stood, and scowling down at me, asked, “Are you out of your mind?”
“I’m tired. And my head hurts a little. And I fell on my hip, and that doesn’t feel great either. Maybe we can talk in the morning?”
“It is morning.”
I looked to his tablet.
It was nearly five.
A chill slid over my skin because I wondered when all this started. It had to have been a couple hours ago.
At around three.
“Daphne,” he clipped.
I looked up at him. “Okay, then later. Can we talk about it later?”
He appeared frustrated, then he stalked to his bathroom, came back with a glass of water and a clenched fist.
“Hand,” he ordered.
I held out my hand.
He dropped some pills into it. “Ibuprofen.”
“Perfect,” I whispered.
I took the pills while he walked around turning off lights.
He came to me, divested me of the glass, then I scooted into his bed while he kicked off his slippers, pulled off the long sleeve T-shirt he’d donned somewhere along the way and entered the bed with me.
He turned out the lamp on the nightstand and turned me into his arms.
I guessed he was giving in, and we were going to talk about it later.
I settled against him.
“If we stay, you’re moving in here,” he declared into the dark.
“You’re fresh,” I teased.
“I’m not joking. This isn’t sexy teasing texting. I’m being very serious.”
He sounded very serious.
