The Night Everything Fell Apart (The Nephilim Book 1)(7)

He couldn’t bear to look at what he’d done to her. He gathered her into his lap and cradled her head against his chest. She shivered. His ran his hands up and down her arms, generating friction. If he could have brought her right inside him and given her all his heat, he would have done it.

A sick feeling settled in his chest. He’d remembered Mab, that bloody bitch, but somehow, he’d forgotten Cybele. How the hell could she have left his mind, even for an instant? She meant everything to him.

“Don’t you dare die,” he muttered. “Don’t you dare.”

He didn’t know how to heal with his magic. He tried anyway, pouring all the life energy he could muster into her body. His effort seemed to help. Her shuddering abated. The blue tinge of her lips yielded to a pale pink.

Her next inhale was less of a gasp and more of a wheeze. Her lips parted.

“Not...dying.” Her eyelids fluttered open. Their gazes locked. “Not even...close.”

He swallowed. “Are you sure?”

“Harder...to kill...than tha—” Another coughing fit took her.

“Bollocks,” he muttered. “Not again.” He urged her to sit up and lean forward, his hand on her nape.

She held up one finger. “Just...give me...a sec.”

The coughing abated. Her hand fluttered downward, as if it weighed too much for her arm to support.

“Take your time,” he said. “Take all the time you need.”

She nodded. Several long moments passed. Finally, she raised her head. “Better,” she said. “I think.”

He examined her more closely. When his gaze fell on her neck, he tasted bile. He might have killed her with his blind strike. If he had proper control of his magic, she wouldn’t have stood a chance. His mind started to run with the scenario. Ruthlessly, he choked it off.

She’s not dead, he told himself. Not. Dead. Not dead, not dead, not dead. Color had flooded her cheeks. Her breathing was still uneven, though. He grabbed her wrist and pressed the pulse point. Weak. He frowned at her eyes. The pupils were dilated.

She blinked up at him. “Dang it, Arthur. Quit looking at me like that.”

His chest eased a fraction. If she had enough energy to tell him off, she wasn’t dying quite yet.

“Don’t look at you like what? Like you’re bloody lucky to be alive? Sweet Lucifer, Cybele, what were you doing, sneaking down those steps? You scared the piss out of me.”

“I scared you? What about me? Next time try looking before you attack.”

“Rubbish. You should’ve let me know it was you.”

Her green eyes flashed. “Give me some credit. I’d have to be dumber’n a bag of rocks to call out before I knew...” She sucked in a breath. “...before I knew—it was y—” She dissolved into another round of coughing.

“Fuck. I’m sorry. You’re right. It’s my fault.” When she started to reply, he shook his head. “Quiet. Don’t talk. Just breathe.”

She pressed a fist to her chest and nodded. When the coughing finally stopped, she looked up and offered a wry smile. “I think that’s the first time you ever apologized to me.”

He snorted. “Don’t accustom yourself.”

“No chance of that.”

Her complexion appeared almost normal now. He searched for something mundane to say. He settled on, “I’ve never seen your hair like that.”

Her long blond hair was ruthlessly braided and wrapped tightly around her head. She usually wore it loose, the curls hopelessly tangled.

“I didn’t want it getting in the way.” When his gaze dropped again to her neck, she grabbed his face and guided it to her mouth for a quick kiss. “Don’t look. It’s nothing.”

He tore his lips from hers and set her back at arm’s length. “It’s not nothing.”

“The sting’s already going.”

She probably wasn’t lying. The welts had faded somewhat. Still. “I could’ve killed you.”

“You didn’t. I’ll be fine.” She pressed her forehead against his chest and inhaled. “You smell nice, Arthur.”

Her accent, a low-pitched Texas twang, soothed him. “I couldn’t possibly,” he said. “I’m filthy.”

“I don’t care. It’s you.” Her arms tightened and he felt dampness on his chest. His heart lurched. Cybele, crying? That was a sight he’d never seen, not once in the seven years he’d known her.

“I was so scared, Arthur. I thought...I thought you might not have survived it.”

He smoothed a hand down her back. “You won’t get rid of me that easily.”

He felt her smile. “Thank the ancestors.”

“But—” His mind, having pulled back from the edge of panic, was beginning to work again. “How did you follow me here?”

“I didn’t.” She slid out of his lap, gently disentangling herself from his grasp as she rose. She swayed a bit on her feet. He jumped up and reached for her, but she waved him off and sank into a chair. She rested one forearm on the table. He rose and claimed the chair beside her.

“I got here before you did,” she said. “But I was exhausted. I fell asleep upstairs. I didn’t hear you until—” She looked around the room. “Until you started cleaning up, I guess.” He saw the moment when she realized what else had changed. Her eyes widened and snapped to his. “What happened to all the blood?”