Fatal Strike (McClouds & Friends #10)(90)

He thumbed it closed, slipped the thing into his pocket. “Davy has an aneurism,” he told her. “They’re operating now.”

Her eyes closed. “Oh, God,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah,” he muttered.

Appalled silence spread. She stared up from beneath the shadowy cowl of the blanket, shivering and blue-lipped. Clutching it beneath her chin with a scratchy, muddy hand. Her dark, fathomless eyes seemed to stare straight into his brain.

Anger flared inside him. She shrank back.

“What?” he snarled. “What’s with the look?”

Her gaze flicked down. She shook her head, mutely.

“You look like you think I’m going to hit you,” he said.

She wouldn’t look up. “That’s how angry you seem.”

Stating it out loud seemed to roll a rock off it. It roared up, inflamed and huge and horrible.

“Yeah, I’m f*cking angry.” His voice cut through the darkness. “What you did? Jesus, Lara. Throwing yourself in front of him like that? What the f*ck were you thinking?”

“That too many people have already died trying to protect me,” she said. “My parents, Matilda, Keiko, and Franz. I didn’t want Nina and all your friends to die, too. And you. You, more than anyone! You were supposed to leave me and run, Miles!”

“Right. Like I’m going to do that, in this lifetime. In this universe.”

She pulled her knees up and wiggled her arms out of the green wool to hug them to her chest. “Cold,” she whispered.

He leaned to turn on the lamp next to the couch. To his surprise, it flicked on, a sickly, flickering, yellow glow. “I’ll try and get some heat going in here.”

“No. I mean you,” she said. “Inside, outside. Even in the Citadel. It’s never been like that in there before. It scares me.”

His teeth ground. “Yeah, well. Slaughtering people does a real number on the warm fuzzy vibes. So does having my girlfriend offer herself up like a sacrificial goat to a psycho maniac. Real mood-killer.”

“Don’t be sarcastic!”

He snorted. “That’s like asking me not to breathe.”

“Then hold your breath!” she said flatly.

He stared at her, fighting for control. Teeth grinding. “If you don’t like me this way, avoid forcing me into situations where I have to kill large numbers of people to protect you.”

“Stop it!” She covered her face with her hands. “I can’t stand it!”

“I am what I am. If it sucks, take some goddamn responsibility for what you’ve made with your own hands.”

“Me? You think I’m responsible?” Her eyes widened, outraged.

“Yes, you! This passive human sacrifice schtick pisses me off! It’s not enough to just waft around looking wounded and ethereal! Fight, goddamnit! For your life, your future! Strike a blow, get off your ass!”

The blanket fell as she jolted up. “That’s not fair. I am grateful that you protected me, but you are being a dickhead!”

“Can you promise not to do that again? Or will you just rip my guts out again, anytime you like, no warning?” he yelled back. “How can I trust you? What can we have together under those conditions?”

“I don’t know,” she retorted. “Probably not much.”

A glass-framed poster on the opposite wall suddenly fell to the floor. The crash of broken glass jarred them both.

“So that’s your position,” he spat out. “You’ll just throw yourself in front of a bus, no warning for me, no collaboration, no working together to find a solution—”

“There was no time! You know I’m right. You’re just throwing a childish tantrum! You can’t fault me for what I did.”

“Yeah? Watch me, Lara. Memorize it. This is me, faulting you.”

The lightbulb in the lamp popped, bulb exploding in a high pitched, tinkling shower all over the lamp stand, the floor.

“What the f*ck is going on?” Miles growled.

Lara put her hands over her ears. “Ouch,” she hissed. “Stop that.”

He was bewildered. “Stop what?”

“That thing you did, in my head.”

“I didn’t do anything except yell at you. And I was justified.”

She gave him a long, level look. “Uh uh. It hurt. I’ve been yelled at plenty, and it didn’t ever feel like that, even when Anabel did it. That’s coercion, Miles. Like Greaves. Don’t do it to me again. Ever.”

“So now I’m like Greaves? That is such bullshit!”

Crack. The long mirror that hung on the door that led to the kitchen cracked down the middle. A triangle of mirror glass tumbled out of the frame, fell to the floor, shattering into four smaller pieces.

“Oh, for God’s sake. Would you please stop it?” she snapped. “It’s immature, and it’s stressing me out.”

“What the f*ck are you talking about?” he roared. “I didn’t!”

She gestured at the lamp, the picture, the mirror. “Bad enough that we’re breaking and entering. Do you have to trash the place, too?”

“But I didn’t . . . that wasn’t . . .” His voice trailed off. He stared at the remaining shards of mirror. He was reflected in it, distorted, broken, jagged. “I can’t do that stuff,” he said. “Any of it. You’re wrong.”