“Sssh, Xandra, you’re safe,” he murmurs. “You’re with me.”
“I know.” My sister’s death comes back to me, followed by images of Declan on fire, the explosion, the house collapsing around us. I sit up quickly, then wish I hadn’t as the dizziness I’ve been fighting off since the explosion tugs at me once again.
It doesn’t stop me from trying to get out of bed, though. Pushing down the last of the covers, I swing my legs off the bed and plant my feet firmly on the floor. Before I can stand, however, Declan wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me back against his torso.
For long seconds, neither of us speaks. I lean into him, then stiffen as I remember his burns, try to pull away. But he doesn’t let me go. Instead, his arm tightens around me, encouraging me to rest against him. And I do. Even knowing I’m probably hurting him, I can’t bring myself to move away. Right now I need him. I need the strength he wears so effortlessly and the comfort he offers so selflessly.
When I can’t take the silence any longer, I ask, “How long have you been up?” My voice comes out sounding distinctly froglike and I wonder how long I’ve been out. Is it lack of use, exposure to all that smoke or just sadness that’s making me sound so hoarse?
“I got enough sleep earlier.” He gestures to the laptop beside him on the nightstand. “I’ve been working.”
“Did you find anything?”
“I don’t know yet. I’m tugging on a few strings, waiting to see how they unravel.” His hand strokes gently up and down my back as we talk. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I plummeted twenty feet through a wall to the floor below.”
“Then you’re right on track.” He lowers his forehead to mine in a gesture I’m coming to love. “I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.” I reach for the lamp on the nightstand, flick it on. Then turn to look at Declan. His skin is still red and blistered in spots—particularly on his hands and arms—but he looks better than he has any right to, especially considering that he nearly self-immolated not very long ago. “And you? How are you?”
“Better now that you’re safe.” He sits up, presses soft kisses to my right shoulder and the side of my neck. “You frightened me.”
He pushes the last words out from between gritted teeth and I know it took a lot for him to get them out at all. For a warlock like Declan—so strong, so powerful—admitting fear is akin to slicing off one of his limbs and then dousing the wound in alcohol. Only about a million times more painful. But he’s done it. For me.
I can do no less. But there are many ways to be strong and the last thing he needs right now is to catch a glimpse of my utter vulnerability. Not when he has to concentrate on recovering. And not when I’m so screwed up inside that I can barely tell which side is up.
“How are you feeling?” he asks after the silence stretches too long between us. This time, I know he doesn’t mean the physical stuff.
“I’m okay.”
He twists so those crazy onyx eyes of his are looking straight into mine. “Yeah?”
No, not even close. But he doesn’t need to hear. Nobody does right now, not when we’re all drowning in our own shades of grief. “I’ll be better once I find out who’s doing this to my family.”
“We’ll find out. I promise.” He eases me back down onto the bed. “Rachael stopped by while you were sleeping. She says you need to get as much rest as possible. She worked on your concussion for a while, made sure there wasn’t any dangerous brain swelling or bleeding, but she says you need a lot of rest for the healing to take effect.”
“I don’t think I can sleep any more.”
“Try.” He pets my hair, my cheek, silently urging me to relax.
“How are we going to find the people responsible for this mess?” I ask after a long pause. “If it’s not the ACW, if it’s someone playing us off against each other, how are we going to find them? There are hundreds of thousands of witches out there. Any one of them could be trying to mastermind a coup.”
He strokes a hand over my hair. “Why don’t you get some more sleep and we’ll talk about this in a few hours?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “That sounds remarkably like ‘Don’t worry your pretty little head about this, little lady. The big boys will take care of it.’”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll worry you’re pretty little head no matter what I say.”
I gape at him. “Good answer,” I tell him sarcastically.
He leans down, brushes his warm lips against my own. “Xandra, much as I’d like to take care of this for you, I am well aware that you should be involved. That you need to be involved.”
And just that easily my annoyance abates. In its place is the sorrow I’ve been holding at bay through sheer force of will. Declan sees, and the impartial mask he’s been wearing for the last few minutes melts away. “Oh, baby, it’s okay,” he tells me as tears seep silently down my cheeks. “It’s okay.”
“It doesn’t feel okay.”
“I know.” He presses soft kisses against my forehead, my eyes, my cheeks.
“I loved her so much.”
He shifts so I’m cuddled up against him, his entire body wrapped around mine in his effort to shield me from my pain.
Somehow his care only makes the agony more acute. I start to cry in earnest now, huge, wracking sobs that feel like they’re going to tear me apart from the inside out. I can’t believe Hannah’s gone, can’t believe I’ll never get to hear another one of her lame jokes or listen to her recount some ridiculous thing that happened to her when she went to the bank or the supermarket or the zoo. Hannah had a gift of seeing the absurd in everyday situations, and more often than not, she used that gift to keep the rest of us in the family from taking ourselves too seriously.
I can’t imagine what we’re going to do without her. Don’t want to imagine it.
Just the thought has me crying harder, until I’m all but gagging under the onslaught of pain. Declan tenses against me and there’s a hitch in the soothing sounds he’s making as he tenderly rubs my back. I know I’m worrying him, just as I know that my agony is also causing him pain. I regret it, but there’s nothing I can do to stop the tears.
It just hurts too damn much to keep them in.
I’m not sure how long I lie there in his arms, weeping. Long enough for my eyes to swell under the onslaught and for my head to start pounding with renewed vigor.
But somewhere in the middle of all that bawling, I become aware of a warmth spreading through me. It starts in my back, in the exact spots where Declan’s burned and battered hands are resting. Continues up to my shoulders, across my chest before running down my arms to my own hands. From there it spreads to my stomach, my legs, until every part of my body is filled with the comforting heat.
It’s Declan’s magic; I know it is. Instead of arrowing it into me like he usually does, he’s taking his time, letting it seep in and slowly, slowly, comfort me. My own magic rises up without my bidding, tangles with the shimmering strands of his until the warmth turns to flame.
Instinctively, I shy away—I’ve had enough experience with fire to last a lifetime—but Declan won’t let me go. He wraps his power all around me until I can’t feel anything but safe, anything but loved. Then he uses those feelings to coax my own power back out from behind the hasty barrier I’d slammed into place.