Right now, neither of those things seems possible.
He settles me on the couch, tucks a blanket around me before heading into the kitchen. He’s back in under a minute, a half-full tumbler of whiskey in his hand. “Drink this,” he tells me, crouching down next to me.
I do, while one of his hands strokes my cheek and the other rubs up and down my back. “It’s okay, baby,” he murmurs to me over and over again.
I know he wants to know where I’ve been, what I’ve found—waves of impatience and anxiety are all but rolling off him. He doesn’t say anything, though, doesn’t ask any questions at all. Instead, he waits for me to finish the drink and then he scoops me up, despite his wounded shoulder and my protests, and carries me to my bedroom. Then he settles down in bed with me curled up in his lap.
We sit there for a long time, not doing or saying anything. Declan’s hand tangles in my shorn hair, his fingers brushing against the ragged edges. It’s barely chin length now and terribly uneven—but what can I expect considering I’d hacked it off with an ancient athame in a desperate bid to get away from those assholes this afternoon. Tomorrow I’m going to have to get it cut properly, but I don’t want to think about that now. Not when I feel so completely numb.
Eventually Declan’s patience wears down and he whispers, “Tell me.” His lips brush over my temple and down my cheek as he makes the demand. Though he’s tender, and obviously trying not to push me, I know it’s a request, so I do what he asks, spilling out everything that has happened tonight in a half-mad purging that is almost impossible to follow.
Somehow Declan manages, though, and when I’m done, he presses soft kisses to my cheeks and lips. I’m exhausted, physically and mentally wrung dry, and yet I feel myself responding to him like I always do. Because this is Declan and I’m so attuned to him that I can’t not respond when he touches me.
He gentles me with soft words and softer caresses, until we’re stretched out on the bed, every part of my body touching a corresponding part of his. “I already knew about Shelby,” he admits to me after I rest my cheek against his chest.
“How?” I’m too tired to be suspicious. And too terrified.
“I went looking for her.”
“How did you know where to look?”
“There’re only so many magical signatures in this town—especially the dark ones that come with this kind of magic. I’ve been poking around ever since you told me about her, trying to find something that dark to trace. But it wasn’t until yesterday at ACW headquarters that I found anything promising.”
“That’s where you were when I woke up last night? Looking for Shelby?”
“I didn’t want to raise your hopes until I had something solid.”
“But how did you know the room you found was where Shelby had been kept? I mean, Nate knew because of her sweatshirt, but you weren’t privy to that information. You might have traced the killer back there, but they could have kept anyone in that room.”
“Not really.” He smooths a hand down my hair, presses more soft kisses to my shoulder and neck. “Shelby has Hekan blood. Her signature is light, very light, but it’s there. Young, innocent, female. It wasn’t a stretch, knowing what I did, to assume that the room I’d found had been used to hold her.”
“Do you think—” My voice breaks and I have to start again. “Do you think she’s dead?”
“I don’t, actually. Or if she is, she didn’t die in that room.”
This time I don’t need an explanation. Death, especially magical death, leaves its own mark, its own stench—something I’ve come to understand in the last few weeks.
“But whose blood was on you?” The question slips out before I can stop it. I want to trust him, want to believe in him completely, but I’m not stupid. I know Declan will always push the boundaries, because the line that is so obvious to me is too often blurry for him.
His gaze holds mine. “Shelby’s. They bled her in that room.”
My heart aches at the thought, but it’s nothing I don’t already know. “That’s it? Just Shelby’s?”
“There was someone else there. Whoever is holding Shelby left him behind to clean up the mess.”
“That still doesn’t explain how—” I break off as he looks away. Because suddenly how he ended up streaked with blood becomes crystal clear. I don’t bother to ask what he did—I’m not sure I want to know. Besides, it’s hard to have sympathy for someone who would participate in the kidnapping and torture of a little girl.