My spine stiffens at his tone. “You don’t have to be obnoxious about it. You’re covered in blood. We just came from a murder scene where the victim was bled out—a victim who you have to admit is on a list of people you have every reason to hate. It’s not so far-fetched for me to imagine that you might have killed him.”
“Not so far-fetched? After everything we talked about yesterday, it’s not so far-fetched?” he repeats as he scrubs himself. The blood is gone. All that’s left of it is the pink-tinged water that is even now circling the drain. Well, that and this conversation. A conversation I wish I’d picked any other day, any other time, to have. It’s not like I’m at my most lucid right now, and, exhausted or not, Declan’s proving to be a lot more adept at arguing than I am.
“Let me get this straight,” he says a couple of minutes later into the silence that yawns between us. He’s shut off the shower, grabbed a towel, and is now in the process of drying himself off. He’s gorgeous like this—all damp and dark and pissed beyond belief. My magic rises within me, responds to him even when my human side is frustrated, furious. Suspicious.
“You’ve been through hell tonight. You’ve had ridiculously awful nightmares that you awake from bruised and battered, you’ve had a seizure—after prolonged agony—in the middle of your kitchen floor, and then you ended up chasing after a dead guy in the middle of the night and reliving his murder, complete with pain and side effects.
“It’s been hell for you to suffer and hell for Lily and me to watch you suffer. And yet you’re going to stand there and accuse me of deliberately doing that to you. Of caring so little about you that I’d let you endure that and not even bother to be here to make sure you were okay.”
“I didn’t say that.”
He prowls toward me and I’ve never been more aware of the spatial limitations of this room more than I am right at this second. Because Declan is all wounded, enraged male animal and I’m the one who caused it. Not to mention the only one currently in his sights. “You said exactly that.”
“No. I didn’t.”
He’s in my face now and I shove against his chest. He doesn’t budge, doesn’t back up, so I have to. Even as tired and messed up as I am right now, I still can’t think when he’s that close to me. “I asked a very legitimate question. I didn’t accuse, I didn’t condemn. I simply asked.”
“If I had killed Alride. If I had disregarded everything I know about you and what being in the general vicinity of murder does to you and just went for it.”
“Not everything’s about me, Declan.”
“Yes, goddamnit, Xandra, it is. In my life, it is all about you. How could you not know that?” He brings a hand up, rests his palm on my shoulder while his fingers gently stroke the line of my neck. It’s a possessive hold at the best of times. Right now, with his onyx eyes blazing into mine, it’s a claiming of the most intimate kind, a declaration of intent that manages to be both comforting and sexy as hell. It’s taking every ounce of strength I have not to give in. Not to just melt against him and say to hell with my suspicions. To hell with anyone or anything that isn’t right here, right now.
“You walked away from me once.”
“You were a child.”
“I was nineteen.”
“You were a child. You didn’t see yourself in that forest. You were terrified, traumatized. What else was I supposed to do?”
“Tell me the truth.”
“Really? I’m telling you the truth now and you don’t believe a word I’m saying.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t believe you.”
“No, but it’s written all over your face.” He puts his hands on my shoulders, pulls me close until his face is only inches from mine. “I didn’t kill those guards. I didn’t kill Alride. And I sure as shit didn’t bleed him dry. I have spent nearly your entire existence trying to protect you. And now that you’re mine, there’s no way I would ever do anything to hurt you like that.”
He steps back and for just a second, his guard drops. I see past the anger to the hurt my accusation has caused him. Remorse fills me, but it’s too late. He’s stepping back, clothing himself with a wave of his hand.
“Get some sleep,” he tells me. “I’ll call you later today.”
Then he’s gone, walking out—walking away from me—without a backward glance. And stupid me, I just stand there and watch him go.
Fourteen
I’m exhausted, but I can’t sleep, can’t do anything but toss and turn as I try to get comfortable despite the bruises. And try to figure out why I was stupid enough to just stand there as Declan walked away.