The Girl in the Clockwork Collar (Steampunk Chronicles #2)(44)

She wanted to blame him for this. Wanted to pound his fine-boned face until it split beneath her fists, but she didn’t. She hadn’t been there, where she should have been, to help Griffin. She’d been off scrapping in a dirty lane with Jasper to help a girl who didn’t even like her.

She hadn’t been where she belonged. Look what happened to him when she wasn’t there. Something always happened to him when she wasn’t around.

“The device shouldn’t have worked,” Tesla informed her. His accent was strange to her ears. “I do not know how this happened.”

The genuine regret in his accented voice diminished much of the turmoil inside Finley’s chest. He wasn’t to blame any more than she was or Emily and Sam. Griffin was like a white knight, rushing in to save the day with little thought for his own safety—the gorgeous idiot.

“I treated his wounds.” This came from Emily, who now stood with Sam. He had his arm around her shoulders. For the first time, Finley noticed the blood on her sleeves and vest. Griffin’s blood. “The Organites will do their job. All we can do is wait.”

Wait and see if the Organites worked fast enough, she meant. If they would heal him before he died.

“Would the three of you give me a moment with him?” Finley asked, glancing around the room.

No one said a word; they simply filed out the door and closed it behind them.

Finley didn’t bother to sit on the chair Sam had used. She sat on the edge of the bed instead, careful not to disturb Griffin for fear of hurting him.

She couldn’t even take his hand, so she wrapped her fingers around his naked biceps—where his arm wasn’t cut. His flesh was cool beneath hers and hard with muscle.

“Why is it I only get to see you with your shirt off when you’re hurt?” she asked in a desperate attempt at humor. A sob caught in her throat. “Don’t you dare die. You have to live so I can curse you up and down for scaring me like this.”

He didn’t respond. She reached up and smoothed his hair back from his face. A tiny cut on his forehead was already healing thanks to the Organites and their magic. To think just a short while ago she was angry because she had to suffer through her natural healing, and now here was Griffin, fighting just to survive.

“Don’t leave me,” she whispered, blinking furiously against the tears that dripped down her face to plop onto his skin. And then, because she didn’t know if she’d ever get another opportunity, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. She kissed his forehead, as well, before finally raising her hands to her eyes to wipe away the wetness there.

“Finley?” His voice was weak, but there was no mistaking it.

“Griffin?” Joy skipped in her chest. “You’re awake.”

His forehead wrinkled, and his eyelashes fluttered. “Are you crying? My face is wet.”

“Of course not,” she lied. “Sam was here before me. It must have been him.” Gently, she used her thumb to brush the drops from his cheeks.

One corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “Liar.” Then his eyes opened a fraction. When the stormy blue of his gaze locked with her own, it was as though her heart fell over.

“You are crying,” he whispered. “You didn’t think I’d actually die and leave you without anyone to boss you around?”

A huff of laughter escaped her like a hiccup, her throat was so tight. “That wouldn’t do, would it?”

His smile faded. “I think I need to sleep for a bit.”

“You do that,” she replied, but he was already gone. Frantically, she placed her fingers to his neck, searching for a pulse. She didn’t breathe until she found it—weak but steady. He was still alive.

Finley dropped her head, squeezed her eyes shut and began to silently do what some might call praying. She called it begging.

*

It was dark when Griffin opened his eyes. It had to be late at night, because there was hardly a sound from the streets outside. He didn’t know how he’d gotten back to the hotel, but he assumed that Sam and Emily had brought him after he passed out.

His head ached, and it felt like needles piercing his chest when he drew a deep breath, but other than that, he felt whole and healthy. Not bad, considering he’d been certain Death had finally come to collect him a few hours earlier.

He shifted between the sheets, tugging them up over his chest. It wasn’t until his efforts met with resistance that he realized there was someone else on the bed with him. He only had to draw breath—not so painful this time—to know that it was Finley. She smelled like freshly baked cookies.

He turned toward her as his eyes adjusted to the moonlight. She lay on top of the quilt, her boots still on. There was a bloodstain on her white shirt. Hers? Or someone else’s? And her hair had slipped from its usual perch on the back of her head and now lay over her shoulder.

When they first arrived in New York, he had made a comment about where else she could sleep. She should have slapped him for being such an arse, but she hadn’t. And now here she was, asleep beside him.

He reached out to touch her, but his hand was bandaged. He remembered burning it on the machine and how the black tendrils had cut into his skin. What was that thing? What was it doing in the Aether? These questions ran unanswered through his mind as he slowly peeled the gauze away. His hand was tender, but already, it was well on its way to healed. By morning, he would be back to normal. If not for the Organites, which his grandfather had discovered years ago along with the Ganite, he’d most likely be dead.