Origin in Death (In Death #21)(93)

"You of all people should know." His words stopped her as she turned for the stairs. "You know what it is to be a child, trapped in a box, made to perform. You know what it is to be driven to strike back."

Her hand tightened on the newel post. She looked back at him. "You think that's all this is? As vicious and ugly as that is, it doesn't even scratch it. Yeah, I know how to do my job. And I know murder doesn't stop the vicious and the ugly. It just keeps re-forming, and coming back at you."

"Then what stops it? A badge?"

"The badge slows it down. Nothing stops it. Not a damn thing."

She turned away, drifted up the stairs feeling as insubstantial as a ghost.

The light in the bedroom was on dim. It was that simple thing that broke her enough to have tired tears sliding down her cheeks.

She shrugged off her weapon, took out her badge, and laid both on her dresser. Roarke had once called them her symbols. He was right, yes, he was right, but those symbols had helped save her. Helped make her real, given her purpose.

They slowed it down, she thought again. That was all that could be done. It was never quite enough.

She undressed, climbed the platform, and slid into bed beside him.

She wrapped herself around him, and because she could, with him, let the tears fall on his shoulder.

"You're so tired," he murmured. "Baby, you're so tired."

"I'm afraid to sleep. The dreams are right there."

"I'm here. I'll be right here."

"Not close enough." She lifted her head, found his mouth with hers. "I need you closer. I need to feel who I am."

"Eve." He said her name quietly, repeatedly, while he touched her in the dark.

Gentle, he thought, gentle now that she was fragile and needed him to remind her of all that she was. Needed him to show her she was loved, for all that she was.

Warm, he thought, warm because he knew how cold she could get inside. Her tears were damp on her cheeks, her eyes still gleaming with them.

He'd known she would suffer, and still her pain, wrapped so tight in courage, tore at his heart.

"I love you," he told her. "I love everything you are."

She sighed under him. Yes, this was what she needed. His weight on her, his scent, his flesh. His knowledge of her, mind and body and heart.

No one knew her as he did. No one loved her as he did. For all of her life before him, there'd been no one who could touch her, not all the way down to the tormented child who still lived in her.

When he slid inside her, all those shadows were pushed back. She had light in the dark.

When morning was blooming through the night, she could close her eyes. She could rest her mind. His arm came around her, and anchored her home.

The light was still dim when she woke. It confused her, as she felt reasonably rested. A little hung-over from overworking her brain and body, but better than she should have with just a snatch of predawn sleep.

Obviously, she'd underrated the restorative powers of sex.

It made her feel sentimental, and grateful. But when she slid her hand across the sheet, just to touch him, she found him gone.

She started to sulk, then called for time.

The time is nine thirty-six A.M.

That news had her bolting straight up in bed. He'd darkened the windows, and the skylight.

"Disengage sleep mode, all windows. Shit!" She had to slap her hands over her eyes as the sudden blast of sun blinded her.

She cursed and squinted her way out of bed and into the shower.

Five minutes later, she let out a muffled scream when she blinked water out of her eyes and saw Roarke. He stood, wearing a casual white shirt and dark jeans-and held an oversized mug in his hand.

"Bet you'd like this."

She peered avariciously at the coffee. "You can't set the bedroom on sleep mode without telling me."

"We were sleeping."

"We never set it on sleep mode."

"Seemed like the perfect time to change our habits."

She shoved her wet hair back, and walked, dripping, to the drying tube. She glared at him while warm air swirled around her.

"I've got stuff to do, people to see."

"Just a suggestion, but you'll probably want to dress first."

"Why aren't you?"

"Aren't I?"

"Why aren't you wearing one of your six million suits?"

"I'm sure I have no more than five million, three hundred suits. And I'm not wearing one of them because it seemed overly formal considering we have people arriving today."

"You're not working." She stepped out, grabbed the coffee. "Has the stock market obliterated overnight?"

"On the contrary, it's up. I can afford to buy another suit. Here you are." He handed her a robe. "You can wear that while you have some breakfast. I'll have another cup of coffee myself."

"I have to contact Feeney, the commander, and check in with the droids on Avril. I have to write a report, check the forensics on Samuels."

"Busy, busy, busy." He strolled out and toward the AutoChef. An; back, he thought with some relief. The exhausted woman had regenerated into the cop. "What you want's a nice bowl of oatmeal."

"No sane person wants a bowl of oatmeal."