Honey lifted her head from his shoulder, tried to peer through the downpour.
“Is this okay? Being here? Being home,” he asked.
She turned her damaged face to him. His breath hiccupped in his throat. Even though he’d seen it, stared at it, willed it away, he couldn’t cover his reaction to the heinous injury done to her. Her eye, part of her cheek, and her temple were stained a vile shade somewhere between burgundy and purple. The entire mass of color was puffy and distorted her features. She will heal. He’d make certain of it. Even if the injury changed her features forever, he loved her for so much more than how she looked. He loved her soul. That part of her that no one could see, but that he recognized as the other piece of himself.
Tenderly, oh so tenderly, he cupped her injury. He expected her skin to be inflamed, to feel the anger that had fueled the injury, but her skin was cool and smooth and received his touch like a dry field absorbs rain. It was that sensation of absorption that he recognized. Healing. Some of his strength, his light was flowing into her. Not nearly as strong as when she touched his tattoo, but it was something. As she leaned into his touch, a tear escaped her beautiful bleak eyes, splashed again his thumb, and ruptured his heart.
He had no words. No phrases to make it all better. All he could do was this. Hold her damaged face in his hand and tell her with his eyes how much he loved her. How much he wished for her healing and wholeness and happiness, wished none of the bad stuff had happened.
“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be than here. With you.” She kissed his palm, then repositioned his hand on her cheek.
For a long, crazy moment, everything in the world fell away except for him and her and the rain slashing the windshield.
Finally, the rain tapered to a drizzle, revealing his house and all the memories hiding inside. He withdrew his hand from her cheek. The bruise was still there, but had faded to a less-intense, less-dense shade of burgundy.
He reached for his door handle at the same time she reached for hers. He got out and walked over to her side before she’d even swung her legs out of the car. Exhaustion weighted down each of her movements. He pulled her up next to him and wrapped his arm around her back, holding her close. Together they would fight the memories.
Just before he opened the front door, he angled his body to block her view of the kitchen and hopefully block her from having any flashbacks. He led her upstairs to the bathroom.
“You’re going to get a shower, then I’m going to make you a peanut butter and raspberry sandwich, and then you’re going to get good night’s sleep.” The words gushed out his mouth. “And then, tomorrow, everything will be better.”
He hoped. For her sake. She needed a good day. Since he’d known her, there had been too many bad ones. The last five being chart-toppers.
“Your brother will probably want to see you. He stopped by earlier with Dr. Stone, Xander, and Isleen.” Lathan watched her face fall, smelled the tinge of garlic in the air. “They were concerned for you. And me.” He almost couldn’t believe the truth in his own words. “It was Isleen who told me you were alive and gave me hope. She dreamed about you and the Strat—James.” To Evanee, the guy had a name, not a killer’s moniker. “And Xander told me how to find you.” He was babbling.
She was too quiet. Just like that first day out on the road with Junior. Except this was worse. So much worse.
He helped her sit on the closed toilet lid.
She bowed her head, her hair a shroud blocking her from his view. The scent of salted honey found him. Again. More tears.
He knelt in front of her, the rest of his meaningless words dying before they could be born. He parted the veil of her hair, tucked it over her shoulder, and then tipped her chin up, forcing her to look at him.
Tears welled and spilled, sluicing down her cheeks.
She settled her palm against the tattoo. Something electric, magnetic, something more powerful than either of them alone, passed between them and bound them together. Sweet spring coolness rushed into him from her hand and spread through him until it reached his arm—her name carved into his flesh. The skin tingled, itched. He recognized the sensation. Healing.
Part of himself passed into her. The bruise on her face lost its puffiness and lightened.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice wobbled, but the sound of it was sweet to his ears. “I know it’s stupid. I know I’m stupid for wanting this, but I need…”
“Tell me. Whatever you need, it’s yours.” He’d figure out how to pluck the damned stars from the sky if that would put the sparkle back in her eyes.
“I need… I need to go to James’s funeral.”
He heard her, but denial forced him to replay the way her lips formed the words in his mind. The meaning was the same either way. Damn. Shit. Fuck. That wasn’t at all what he’d expected her to say. His face got hot and his brain boiled, cooking him from the inside out.
“I know he was bad. He was…” Her tone wavered. “He was the Strategist. But he treated me with kindness.”
“No. He. Didn’t.” He’d been inside the Strategist’s memories. Seen how the asshole touched her, manipulated her, preyed on her grief, mind-fucked her. “He stole you from me. Lied to you. Told you I was dead.” Granted the guy hadn’t known Lathan survived the gunshot, but that was no excuse for what he’d done. “Tried to kill me. In front of you. Would’ve if we weren’t special when we’re together.”
He left out the part about what the Strategist had done to her in the bathtub. Some things were too appalling to speak aloud.
“I know.” She sounded small and defeated, and Lathan hated himself for ever speaking. “But he told me about himself. Told me some things I know are true. It’s that part of him—that hurt, desperate boy that needed a friend—that I need to say good-bye to.”