The Duke with the Dragon Tattoo (Victorian Rebels, #6)(72)

“We used to take shifts sleeping. He, Argent, and I. One of us would stay awake, take watch against the older men who would…” Blackwell’s hand slid to the latch. “He always fought them off the best. But we none of us won the battles all the time. Not until we were older. Stronger.”

Lorelai’s gaze collided with Farah’s, and the confirmation she read there finished turning her heart into a puddle of pain. She’d not have been able to conceive of such things as a girl. She’d not known the real demons he fought in the night when she’d woken him all those years ago.

It made sense now. His aversion to the doctor’s touch as a boy, his distrust of other men.

The chaos in his room reached an agonizing crescendo, like a ghost being dragged through hellfire. A soul bereft of hope. A helpless child screaming through the chest of the man who’d forgotten him.

Blackwell turned to her. “Before I go in there, I wanted to ask if you were aware if your husband sleeps with weapons.” He quirked a sad smile at her. “Most of us do, and I’m not after being shot by a brother returned from the dead. Even I don’t enjoy irony that much.”

“I’ll go,” Lorelai breathed before she was truly aware that she’d made the decision.

“Darling, do you think that’s wise?” Farah worried. “He’s in such a state.”

“I’ve done it before, when we were young,” Lorelai said. “He had these same nightmares. I used to think it better he not remember the past, if those are the demons he has to fight in the dark.”

“You’re not wrong about that, my lady.” Blackwell’s mismatched gaze was warm on her. Approving. “But my wife is right to worry. It may not be safe for you in there.”

Lorelai put her hand on Blackwell’s arm, nudging it away from the latch. “I fear it is not safe for anyone but me in there.”

He considered her with the thoroughness of a chemist, as though mentally dissecting all her parts and then putting them back together. “Very well,” he finally said. “But I will stand guard should you need help, until I’m certain you’re out of any danger.”

“Thank you.” She took the candle he offered, filled her lungs with air and her heart with courage, and opened the door.

Her candle flickered and danced as she entered. He’d left his window open to let in the storm, and heavy drapes flapped in the wind like unsecured sails.

As she drifted closer to the bed, the low light revealed his distress in heartbreaking increments. The bedclothes tangled about his long legs as he thrashed against them like a prisoner would against his chains. The heavy muscles of his bare torso arched and strained as though some invisible force pinned him.

Lorelai couldn’t imagine a man alive who could pit his strength against all the raw, sinewy power stretched taut over his heavy bones.

But when he was a boy, he’d been leaner. Smaller.

She set her candle on the edge of the nightstand, out of his reach, the sounds of his hissing breaths and grinding teeth wore down her resolve.

He was so dazzlingly large. He tore whole crews apart with his bare hands, he’d only just said so.

What could he do to her, here in the dark? What if he mistook her for one of his demons?

He whimpered, and suddenly none of that mattered.

Bracing herself, she slowly lowered to perch on the edge of the cavernous, canopied bed.

That was all it took.

His shoulders sprang from the mattress, and his fingers wrapped around her neck before she had the chance to make a sound. He stared at her with fathomless, unfocused eyes long enough for panic to set in as she fought to draw air through her throat. Unable to use her voice, Lorelai did the only thing she could think of. The only thing that had worked before.

She reached out her left hand, and pressed it over his heart.

His gaze cleared in an instant, and he released his grasp with a low groan that might have been her name.

Both his hands flew from her neck to cover the one she held against his chest, as though to trap it there.

Each of them breathed too violently to form words, and so they sat like that for several moments, focused on the feel of his heartbeat. It threw itself at her palm, looking for a way to escape the prison of bone and blood if only to be held in her hand.

He was a colorful kaleidoscope of muscle, bathed in golden light. His body a profusion of swells and divots, of brawn and bone. They were both of the same species, but how could they possibly be? His chest expanded in hard disks, while her breasts were softer and more teardropped with every passing year. His ribs scaled down a broad, flat torso, narrowing to obdurate mounds of stomach muscles disappearing beneath the bedclothes. Hers. Well … her ribs could sometimes be seen, but not in a way anyone would consider remarkable.

He shook his head, his raven eyes both accusing and appealing to her. The silent messages hurled at her in the wan light of the lone candle were both as loud and undeniable as if he screamed them.

You shouldn’t have come.

Don’t leave me.

Her replies were equally as tangible and unmistakable.

I know.

And I won’t.

His skin blanched pale beneath his tan. Sweat gathered at his temples, cooling in the stormy breeze let in through the window.

A hesitant knock sounded on the door, and Farah’s voice called softly, “Is everything all right?”