“Where is he now?” Donovan growls.
“Dead. We found his body two hours ago, about three miles out of Ipswitch. We’re running down his bank account, known associates, anything that might tell us why he planted the charges and who he was working with. By morning, we should have a well-fleshed-out profile on him.”
“Excellent work,” my mother tells him. “Thank you.”
“I wish it were more. We all cared deeply for Princess Hannah.”
My mother nods, but she doesn’t say anything. Probably because she’s too choked up at the reference to sweet, laughing Hannah. I know I am.
Leandra shows the detectives out, and after a quick strategy session that doesn’t yield any results, we all watch as Tsura leads my mother off to bed. My sisters soon follow, and then even Donovan heads up, though the look on his face tells me he won’t be getting much sleep tonight. He’ll be too busy doing his own research on the only suspect we have.
I recognize the look because I plan on doing exactly the same thing.
* * *
After too many hours of research and discussion, Declan lures me to bed with kisses . . . and a few, well-placed threats. To be honest, it feels good to be beside him, especially when it was less than twenty-four hours ago that I thought I’d never be able to hold him again.
I’m exhausted, physically, mentally and emotionally, and yet I can’t fall asleep. Every time I close my eyes, images of my sister, my father, Declan, fill my mind until I can’t breathe, can’t think. Can’t do anything but feel the horror swamp me over and over again. Declan holds me through it all, stroking and petting me—loving me—in a way I never imagined he had in him.
And when that doesn’t work, he strips off my old sweats and tank top and licks me to orgasm again and again and again. Then, when my muscles are like butter and my brain like mush—and I can’t even think about fighting him—he returns the favor I did him earlier in the day. Only instead of slipping me a tranquilizer, he murmurs a rest spell that sends me into a soft, dreamless sleep.
I wake up a few hours later to daylight streaming in the edges of the blackout curtains. But it isn’t the light that wakes me; it’s the temperature. It’s hot. Stifling, really, and it takes me only a minute to figure out that I’m buried under what feels like fifty pounds of blankets. I kick them off, fight my way to the surface, only to find out that it’s not the covers making me so hot. It’s Declan. He’s lying beside me, his body radiating enough heat to light up the whole room.
“Sssh, Xandra, you’re safe,” he murmurs. “You’re with me.”
“I know.” My sister’s death comes back to me, followed by images of Declan on fire, the explosion, the house collapsing around us. I sit up quickly, then wish I hadn’t as the dizziness I’ve been fighting off since the explosion tugs at me once again.
It doesn’t stop me from trying to get out of bed, though. Pushing down the last of the covers, I swing my legs off the bed and plant my feet firmly on the floor. Before I can stand, however, Declan wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me back against his torso.
For long seconds, neither of us speaks. I lean into him, then stiffen as I remember his burns, try to pull away. But he doesn’t let me go. Instead, his arm tightens around me, encouraging me to rest against him. And I do. Even knowing I’m probably hurting him, I can’t bring myself to move away. Right now I need him. I need the strength he wears so effortlessly and the comfort he offers so selflessly.
When I can’t take the silence any longer, I ask, “How long have you been up?” My voice comes out sounding distinctly froglike and I wonder how long I’ve been out. Is it lack of use, exposure to all that smoke or just sadness that’s making me sound so hoarse?
“I got enough sleep earlier.” He gestures to the laptop beside him on the nightstand. “I’ve been working.”
“Did you find anything?”
“I don’t know yet. I’m tugging on a few strings, waiting to see how they unravel.” His hand strokes gently up and down my back as we talk. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I plummeted twenty feet through a wall to the floor below.”
“Then you’re right on track.” He lowers his forehead to mine in a gesture I’m coming to love. “I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.” I reach for the lamp on the nightstand, flick it on. Then turn to look at Declan. His skin is still red and blistered in spots—particularly on his hands and arms—but he looks better than he has any right to, especially considering that he nearly self-immolated not very long ago. “And you? How are you?”