“I’m sorry.” For the first time since she’d met him, his voice sounded discordant and harsh. He drew her upright. “It’s late. I couldn’t find you, and I got worried.”
“All right.” It seemed to be the most natural thing in the world for her to turn in his arms and lean against him. Some of the day had been good, but the bad bits had been downright rotten, and maybe if she had thought it through, she wouldn’t have chosen to do what she did. But she didn’t think; she never thought things through the way she should. She just put an arm around his long, lean waist and buried her face against the wide, steady support of his chest.
Mmm. He seemed bigger in the dark.
He stood quietly, holding her, one massive hand cupping the back of her neck. Something rested on the top of her head. His cheek.
“I sense blood,” he said. His voice had turned dangerous. “You are injured?”
She shook her head, her mind racing. “It’s just a shallow cut on my arm.”
“What happened?”
What should she tell him? She couldn’t think straight. She hadn’t had time to process Freaky Bitch’s visit for herself, let alone consider how he might react. She said, “Later. I’m cold and tired, and I really want to get out of here.”
His reply was to swing her into his arms and stride up the tunnel. His energy still remained edged and unsettled, but always with that addictive undercurrent that was powerfully male, uniquely him.
A small part of her couldn’t help but notice his long, smooth effortless stride. She could usually control that part, but it was harder to do when she grew tired and emotionally out of balance. She wished she could flip a switch and turn it off, because it was small-minded and whiny. It didn’t care that he was inhuman and there could be no meaningful comparison between the two of them and their abilities. It only took note of how strongly and evenly he moved and whispered poisonously to her, I could do that once.
She turned truculent. “I didn’t mean for you to carry me.”
“There is no reason for you to struggle when I can transport you with ease,” he said shortly.
“Whether I struggle or not is beside the point,” she said, just as shortly. She kept stiff in his arms. “The fact that I can and will do it is the point.”
“Do not be stupidly prideful,” he told her. “We both know you can do it. There is no reason for you to wreck yourself proving it.”
Was that what she was doing? She fought with her conflicting instincts. He must have moved more quickly than she had thought, for suddenly he strode out the tunnel doorway into the warm night.
The warmth was a welcome relief from the cavern. The western part of the sky was still tinged with color, although the sun had set. After sunset, the land got very dark without streetlamps or neighboring houses to illuminate the night. In another half hour or so, it would be too dark to walk without a flashlight. Khalil’s ivory face looked edged in the shadows.
“Stop,” she said. Then, more sharply as he ignored her, “Khalil, stop!”
He shot her a sparkling look, his jaw tight, but he stopped. “What do you require?”
“I have to put this away,” she said, indicating the mask in its wrapping. “And shut and lock the door.”
After hesitating a moment, he carried her back to the cavern entrance and eased her to her feet. He waited with his arms crossed as she tucked the mask back into a Rubbermaid cabinet, locked the door and put the key in its usual place in the coffee can on the lintel.
When she turned around, he reached to pick her up. She slapped a hand onto his chest and stiffened her arm. He grabbed her wrist, so inhumanly fast, she jumped. But he did not pull her hand away. He just held her forearm in a gentle, unbreakable hold. She felt his Power probe along her skin.
“Where are you bleeding?” he asked.
His face was tight. Staring up at him, she held out her other arm. He stroked his fingers lightly along the cut. She felt a slight flare in his Power, and the trickle of blood stopped. The annoying nag of pain vanished too. She tilted her arm up, squinting in the last of the light. It looked like the cut had scabbed over. “Thank you.”
“I’m not a healer,” he said. “That’s the extent of what I know to do.”
“What you did is great.”
“Sorry,” he had said. And “worried.” She would never have imagined a week ago that he would admit to such things, let alone that he would say them to her. The wild agitation in his energy was calming down. She stroked his hand that still held her other wrist. His hold loosened, and as she turned to walk back to the house, he fell into step beside her.