Fatal Strike (McClouds & Friends #10)(98)

She pressed her hand against the knot in her belly. The shower had relaxed her a little, but she still saw those hanging bodies and distorted faces, blood dripping. Keiko and Franz, too. Her vision of Miles, a pool of blood behind his head. Greaves’ crushing stranglehold. If she’d had any digestive enzymes in her system, they were long gone by now.

cant she replied.

He looked at her. An icy look that unexpectedly stabbed into her head like a needle. The cracker shattered in her hand and the table rattled as she lurched to her feet, hands to her throbbing temples.

“Oh, ouch. Jesus, Miles,” she gasped. “That hurts.”

“Oh, f*ck.” Miles shoved the dishes out of the way and sagged forward, knocking his forehead against the table. “Fuck, f*ck, f*ck!”

She tried to breathe. The sharp pain was slowly beginning to recede. “Miles,” she said, somewhat shakily. “You cannot do that to me.”

“I know.” His voice was muffled.

She waited for him to get a hold of himself. After a few seconds, he sat up, shoved his snarled hair back, and met her eyes.

“We’re running for our lives,” he said. “You’ve been starving for months already. What am I supposed to do if you collapse? Where do I take you, Lara? What do I tell them? Help me out, here!”

“I’m not going to collapse,” she said. “I’m strong.”

He gave her a grim look, red eyed and exhausted. “I noticed, but you’ll be stronger if you eat. Just try. Do it for me. Please.”

She swallowed back the protests. This was not worth a fight, with all the other things they had to fight about.

ok fine

She spooned some broth into her mouth, made her throat relax enough to swallow it. Miles watched the first few bites travel from bowl to mouth, and got up, rummaging in the small utility closet beside the stove while she slowly finished the soup.

He came out with a dustpan and broom, and a plastic bag, and headed into the front room. She heard the clink of broken glass as he cleaned up the mess he’d made earlier. He paraded through the kitchen with his bag full of shards, still sweaty from his exertions with the ax. So gorgeous, even with his face a taut mask of misery and tension.

“I’ll build a fire,” he said.

“No, don’t,” she said hastily. “I’ll do it.”

He frowned. “I’m not a pyro, if that’s what you’re thinking. The gas tube had a block. I just gave it a tap with my mind, and I overdid it. That’s all that happened.”

“Even so, I’ll handle the fire,” she assured him. “Take a shower.”

“So you think whatever I am is at least as weird as pyrokine-sis?”

“Actually, I’m not worried about it,” she said. “I’ve got so many things to worry about it, your new psychic stuff doesn’t even register. I’m more concerned about your attitude. And your manners.”

His grin flashed, which emboldened her to give him a playful push. “Go on, take a shower,” she urged. “The water should be hot again by now, and you are filthy. I can’t even bear to look at you. Are there any clothes here that fit you?”

He looked wry. “Not really. The guy who leaves clothes here is a foot shorter than me, and a lot bigger in the gut. But the sweatpants have a drawstring. They’ll cover my junk.”

When he was in the bathroom, she finally let air into her lungs. So much of her time with him was spent in that rapt, breathless state, it was amazing she could oxygenate her brain enough to stay conscious.

He’d brought in lots of wood, so she got busy with the fire. The glow of little dancing flames soothed her. A fresh, cleansing image to wipe the others away. Flames were good for that. She needed the warmth, dressed only in the oversized men’s T-shirt he’d found for her.

Too many images, floating around inside her mind. Her ability to visualize had saved her sanity in the rat hole, particularly when they turned off the lights. She could close her eyes and go to places she’d been, actually seeing images in the space in front of her closed eyes like a movie projector. Maybe that put her a few notches closer to crazy, but it was a fair trade—and a double-edged sword, too. Because she had no way of forgetting bad images. They did not fade with time.

But she stared at the crackling flames and let herself be soothed.

Reality was better than stored images, even when it was scary. Just like Miles was better in the flesh than as the Lord of the Citadel. Prickly, sarcastic, and bossy though he was, he was the goddamned star in her darkness. She would trot around after him for as long as he would tolerate it.

His comment about her human-sacrifice schtick made her cringe. Wafting around, looking wounded and ethereal. Ouch.

Not that she’d had other choice today. But still. It made her feel ashamed. It wasn’t how she wanted him to see her. She wanted to be strong for him. To protect him as he protected her.

He emerged from the back bedroom, his arms full of blankets and pillows. He folded the blanket he’d wrapped her in earlier, and laid it on the couch. He was naked to the waist, jaw shadowed with stubble. Hanging low on his hips was a pair of hugely baggy sweatpants that did not reach his ankles, or even come close. He crouched down, laid a sleeping bag on the ground in front of the couch.

The implications of that gesture were not good.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.