Chapter 20 #2
He returned to the land of the living slowly and piecemeal, surfacing with a feeling he hadn’t had in a long time—safety and warmth. Rowan’s head weighed down his left arm, and he was sweating in the almost-uncomfortable heat from sleeping in his clothes and under blankets.
Rowan stirred.
She yawned and stretched, her head bumping his chin. He moved automatically, easing his aching left arm from under her head. Then he tightened his right arm around her, pulling her back against him, waking up completely with the fuzzy feeling of having slept more than eighteen hours at a shot.
For a few moments she rested against him. Del kept his eyes tightly shut, breathing in the smell of her hair, feeling the electricity of her talent against his skin once more.
Here in this room, in his arms, she was finally safe. The relief was indescribable. He kept breathing, waves of something he was almost afraid to call happiness swamping him every few moments. The touch of her tangled hair was almost too sweet to be real.
Finally, she edged away; he reluctantly let her go.
She pushed herself up, shaking her head, and slid free of the bed, then made her way on unsteady feet to the bathroom.
He opened one eye just enough to watch; she was moving all right.
Long pale hair fell over her shoulders, tangled and beautiful. She shut the bathroom door.
Del stretched, joints popping and muscles twinging in various places. He felt better than he had any right to. Even his shoulder didn’t hurt anymore, and his ribs seemed to be fine. He curled cautiously up to sit, grateful when Zed withdrawal didn’t immediately begin pounding inside his skull.
It still lurked in his bones, a deep half-healed ache, but his skin prickled like a bad sunburn instead of carnivorous ants. He seemed to be… well, if not cured, then at least halfway there.
Sunlight still fell through the same crack in the navy curtains, and the feeling of dampers was blessed relief.
He sensed other minds inside the building, familiar presences going about their business.
This room, carpeted in sky-blue, housed a severe mission-style bed and dresser in matching pale unfinished wood.
The closet door lingered half open, showing a few dangling hangers and nothing else.
The space was bare and almost soulless except for their suitcases, duffels, and kitbags in a messy heap.
His rig lay tangled on the floor; he extracted the knife from under his pillow, sliding the blade back into its sheath.
When Rowan reemerged, she went straight for the pile of luggage on the floor, digging until she extracted a toothbrush and toothpaste. She granted him a single inquiring glance, eyes suddenly very green, their depths shadowed.
He tasted morning in his mouth, nodded. She dug out his toothbrush, too, and tossed it to him. He reached up to catch, found himself smiling. Actually smiling. It hadn’t taken very long to relearn that trick after all.
She smiled back, the expression lighting her eyes.
His chest tightened. The feeling jolting through him was the same deep emotion he’d gotten from her before.
Was it her or something else? He still couldn’t figure it out, could not name something so huge it made his throat close and a hot weight prickle behind his eyes.
“Good morning.” Her voice was husky. She slowly straightened, pushing her hair back with one hand. His mouth went dry.
“Morning yourself. How do you feel?” There aren’t a lot of people who can say they survived Carson. We were damn lucky to get out of that room alive.
“Sore. Headache. Like I got hit with a train.” Her smile widened. “But we must be at Headquarters. I knew we’d make it.”
He shrugged, deciding that he did want to get out of bed. The carpet was warm under sock feet. He wasn’t unsteady, but he did walk gingerly, testing his legs for any sign of weakness. None seemed apparent. “Give me a couple minutes, can you?”
“Sure.” She tossed him the toothpaste and bent back down, probably rummaging for a comb. He shut the bathroom door quietly, more out of habit than any real need to be silent. Alive. We’re both alive, and she seems almost happy to have me around. First things first, though.
It was still a luxury to visit the bathroom by himself, especially one tiled in blue and white with a claw-footed bathtub. No shower, but that was all right.
And Rowan was outside the door. The little things about being a free man, he supposed. All worthy of gratitude
Ten minutes later they were brushing their teeth together over the gleaming porcelain sink, a strangely domestic chore.
It was unexpectedly intimate, especially since the entire time passed in silence, their gazes meeting in the mirror more than once.
She rinsed her mouth twice, maybe getting rid of a sour taste that wasn’t quite physical.
Then she carried a comb back to the bed and sat down, sighing.
Sitting tailor-fashion, the slim paleness of her ankle catching his eye for a moment. Even her ankles were pretty.
“I feel like I have a hangover.” She began to work on the tangles in her hair, pulling with a little more force than Del would have. “My head hurts.”
He settled next to her. Watched her profile. This familiarity was so sudden and delicate, he couldn’t risk breaking it.
“I’m sorry,” he offered. “I didn’t know he would hit you that hard. I thought he’d concentrate on taking me out.”
I was sure he’d figure me the bigger threat. Why didn’t he? Of course, I was busy with his damn bodyguard.
Did she wince ever so slightly, yanking at her hair? Maybe there was a particularly bad tangle. “It’s my fault,” she said finally. “All of it.”
Say what?
She met his gaze, squarely. “If I wasn’t such…
an anomaly, Sigma wouldn’t want me. My father would still be alive, Hilary would still be alive, Headquarters would still be standing and all those people would still be alive.
And Sigma would never have caught you. I’m sorry.
” Her mouth turned down at the corners, a bitter but beautiful expression like a knife between his ribs.
Del’s hand blurred out and tore the comb out of her fingers. “Stop it. Stop it.” The words tore, deep and husky, in his chest. The comb bounced on the carpet, and she flinched; that small, fearful movement physically hurt him.
Christ. Good one, Del. Now she’s just as scared of you as everyone else.
But the rage boiling in his veins, the utter injustice that she would feel responsible for the fucking jackals of Sigma, demanded he do something.
Get up and pace, throw something, put his fist through the wall, find someone to fight.
Her eyes were luminous, and full of tears. “Justin,” she whispered, her lips shaping the name of a dead man.
A dead man she’d resurrected. It had been Delgado for as long as he could remember, until she’d shown up.
His hands shook. He reached out carefully, control clamped tight, and touched her cheek, cupped her chin in his hand. His calluses scraped against her soft skin.
Christ, be careful. She deserves someone who can be gentle with her. Give her something, Del. Use that psychological pressure you’re so good at and help her.
“Being a psion isn’t a crime, Ro.” He had to clear his throat before forcing the words through the fury constricting his windpipe.
“You were born with a gift. You used it to help people. Then Sigma came in with guns blazing because they think of you as a commodity. A thing. It’s not your fault.
Goddammit, you’re the only good thing that’s ever happened to me in my entire goddamn life. Don’t do this to yourself.”
Well, not the most eloquent speech in the world.
Why can’t I talk to her? He wanted to tell her so much more.
That she was good, far better than he would ever be.
The only thing that had kept him sane in the hell that was Sigma was the memory of the empty room she’d made in him.
Space to breathe in, maybe, or just a part of what he felt for her that he couldn’t bring himself to forget.
He wanted to tell her what it felt like to see her and ache all the way to the bottom of his chest, a sharp pain rendered somehow sweet because even if she could never love a damaged ex-Sigma killer, he would still hang around her, breathing in the same air she breathed, and that was enough.
He wanted to say he loved her, but he buried the thought almost as quickly as it rose.
One of her threatening tears spilled, left a trail of dampness on her cheek. “You might be right,” she whispered, soft skin moving against his fingertips. “But I still feel responsible.”
“Don’t,” he whispered back. “Please.” Then he was leaning in, and knew he was going to kiss her. He couldn’t have stopped it any more than he could stop a bullet once the trigger’s squeezed.
Their mouths met. She shook with silent weeping as he kissed her slowly, taking his time, fingers sliding through the tangled silk of her hair. He was ready to push her back onto the bed and try to get through her clothes to find bare skin, get closer and closer to her.
He settled for tasting her, and barely letting her breathe before he kissed her again.
Slowly, slowly, the barriers melted, his mind sliding into hers, giving comfort, taking solace.
When her mouth slid away, he kissed her cheek, her forehead, and the corner of her tear-wet eye, tasting salt.
He printed another gentle kiss on her cheek before she leaned into him, pushing him over.
He ended up lying across the bed with Rowan in his arms, her head on his shoulder and his arms safely around her.
He felt her heartbeat and cherished the small, uneven sigh as she sank even further into him, the borders of their minds blurring.
“God,” she whispered. “I missed you.”