Dead After Dark (Companion #6.5)(50)

“I’m sorry, my love—”

“Don’t ‘my love’ me!” She was going to keep the tirade going when it occurred to her that the butler might only be temporarily incapacitated. She had no idea what had been in that syringe—and the bastard had that odd strength of his.

Claire hugged Michael tightly and forced herself to calm down. “Okay . . . all right . . . look, we’re going to fight about this later. Right now, you’re coming with me.”

Although how was she going to get him out of the house? Hell, how was she going to get herself up and moving? The headache was gone but she felt dizzy—

Holy shit. She really was pregnant.

Claire looked at Michael. “I love you.”

His face transformed, the stress leaving it, a love so deep and strong flooding into his handsome features that the angelic sight of him burned her eyes. “I am not worthy, but so grateful—”

“With all love and affection, shut up with that ‘you’re not worthy’ crap. Now help me off this bed.” She swayed a little as they stood up; then she looked at the shackle on his ankle. “We’ve got to get that thing off of you.”

Michael stepped back and shook his head. “I can’t go. I can’t leave. They won’t let me. Fletcher and Mother—”

“Your mother is dead,” she said as gently as she could—considering she wanted to dig up that woman and kill her all over again.

Michael paled. Blinked a number of times.

“And Fletcher is out cold in the hall on the floor.” When he didn’t say anything, she took his hands in hers. “Michael, I want to help you with what you’re feeling right now, but we don’t have the time. We need to get you out of here. I need you to focus.”

“I . . . where will I go?”

“You’re coming to live with me. If you want. And even if you don’t want that, you’ll be free. To do what you wish.”

His eyes bounced around the room, clinging to the bed and the books.

He was going to fight to stay, she thought. Which was a product of his decades of isolation and abuse. She needed to shake him up somehow—

She took his palm and placed it on her belly. “Michael, while I was with you, we created something together. A baby. It’s in me. Your child is in me. I need you to come with me. With . . . us.”

He went dead pale. And then . . .

Well, the change in him would have been scary if she hadn’t trusted him implicitly not to hurt her. He seemed to grow bigger even though his body stayed the same, his eyes narrowing, his face becoming a mask of male authority . . . and rank aggression.

“My baby? My child?”

She nodded even though she was worried now whether telling him was the right thing—

He grabbed on to her and pulled her in so tight her bones bent. As he buried his head in her hair, his voice dropped to a growl.

“Mine,” he said. “You are mine. Always.”

Claire laughed a little. So much for her worrying about him wanting to experience life without her. “Good. I guess we’re engaged. Now move it. We need to get out of here.”

“Are you well? First, tell me if you are well?”

“Fine as far as I know. I just found out.”

“Are you sure?”

“I can do anything I want. I’m young and healthy.” She put her hand on his face. “We need to go. We really need to go.”

Michael nodded and released her. Walking calmly, he went over to where the chain around his ankle was anchored to the wall and pulled the goddamn thing out with a vicious yank. A whole hunk of masonry came with it, something about the size of a head, and Michael swung the ball into the wall, shattering it free.

Then he came back to her like it was all nothing doing.

“Jesus Christ! Why didn’t you do that before?”

“I had nowhere to go. No better place to be.” He looked at his books one last time; then he picked up the chain, coiled it around his arm, and gallantly put his arm around her. “Let us go.”

They stepped through the door together. Fletcher was still down on the stone floor, but his eyes were open and blinking slowly.

“Shit,” she said as Michael looked at the butler. After running a quick analysis in her head, she muttered, “Let’s just leave him here.”

After all, considering the man had abducted about fifty women and had unlawfully imprisoned his employer’s son for half a century, it was unlikely he was going to try to come after them legally. And asking Michael to kill the guy was too horrific to contemplate. Probably because Michael would do that if she asked him to.

She tugged on her man’s arm. “Come on. Let’s go . . .” The wake upstairs was a complication. “Shit, there are about a hundred people in the house. How can we—”

Michael snapped to attention. “I know a way out. From when I was a boy. We go this way.”

They’d gone about ten yards when she spun around. The needle. Her fingerprints were on the hypodermic needle. In the highly unlikely event Fletcher decided to come after her, it would be harder without that kind of evidence. And her shoe. She had to get her shoe.

Best to cover all tracks.

“Wait!” She ran back. Searched for the thing. Found it still sticking out of the man’s arm. He looked up at her as she yanked it out and put it into her shoulder bag. His mouth was moving. Gaping, like a fish’s.