Flamebound A Lone Star Witch No(53)

Deciding to give the lion a few minutes to chill out before I beard him in his den, I return to the counter and take drink orders from the small line that formed there while I was talking to Nate. Once the line is down to a trickle and Declan still hasn’t moved from the spot against the wall where he’s carelessly lounging, I start to get annoyed. Since he went to all the effort of showing up here, the least he could do is make it to the front counter to talk to me. Especially since I can feel his eyes on me even when my back is turned to him.

More customers come in and I wait on them, too, getting more and more irritated the longer this absurd standoff between us goes on. I’ve just about resolved to ignore him completely—that’s the least that he deserves—when it occurs to me that this whole situation might very well be my fault. He came to see me, and yes, he hasn’t actually made it to the counter, but I’ve been busy filling orders pretty much the whole time he’s been standing there. If it was anyone else, any of my other friends, I would have done for them what I did for Nate—made up their favorite sandwich, grabbed their favorite drink. . . . How ridiculous am I that I’m too proud to do the same for the man I care about more than any other? The man I want to call my own.

Screw it. I head back to the kitchen where Marta and Lisa are just finishing cleaning up from the lunch rush. Both batches of my muffins are cooling on the counter and—after sending them out to work the register—I snag a strawberry one, put it on a plate. I add some of the pasta salad Declan likes so much and dish up a big bowl of chicken noodle soup to go with it.

After carrying the dishes back to my office, I go in search of Declan. He hasn’t moved from where I left him, but his head is bowed, his eyes closed, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s trying to relieve a headache.

Sorrow pours from him and it’s such a change from the usual vitality and rage that it hits me right in the gut. Makes me feel a million times worse about letting him leave last night than I already do. I needed time to come to grips with everything that has happened, but when I accused him of murder, I obviously hurt him and that’s the last thing I ever wanted to do.

Heart bruised with love for him, I start across the room. I’m still several feet from him when Declan senses me, looks up. Our eyes meet, hold, clash, and somehow I know that it’s taking every ounce of self-control he has not to bound across the restaurant to me. Not to sweep me up in his arms and take over the way he’s so damn good at. But he doesn’t do it. Instead, he waits for me to approach him. He gives me that control even though it’s totally out of character for him.

Looks like that game of wills I thought we were playing really was all in my head.

I step closer and want nothing more than to pull him into my arms, to hold him and comfort him the way he’s done for me so many times before. But not here, not in front of all these people with their prying eyes and inability to understand everything that Declan and I have gone through.

So I reach for his hand instead. He clasps it like a lifeline, and for the first time it hits me that he needs me as much as I need him. I don’t know why it’s such a revelation—we are soulbound, after all—but this is so much more than that. This is Declan needing me, Xandra, not just the Anathema at work.

I lead him back to my office, close the door. And wrap my arms around him.

He buries his face in the curve of my neck, shudders. And takes the comfort I so desperately need to give.

When he finally lifts his head, those dark eyes of his find mine, hold. He’s looking for something in my gaze. I don’t know what, but I’m determined to give him whatever he needs.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I should have asked you to stay last night.”

“I’m the one who’s sorry. You’d just had the worst day imaginable and all I did was add to it.”

He reaches up, strokes his fingers down my cheek. I turn so that my mouth lines up with his palm and press a soft kiss right in the middle of his hand.

“I made you something to eat.”

“Thank you.” He settles on my visitor’s chair. “Will you eat with me?”

“I’m not—” I break off at his long, steady look. He might have been shaken earlier, but Declan is still Declan. “Okay. The strawberry muffins are my favorite.”

I lean against the desk, but Declan whips his hand out and grabs my wrist. Then he tugs until I’m sitting, curled up, on his lap. “How are you supposed to eat soup like this?” I demand.

“I’ll manage.” He breaks off a piece of the strawberry muffin, feeds it to me. I let him, because I can sense that he needs this. He needs to take care of me, comfort me in a way I wouldn’t let him early this morning.