Chapter 15 Dark Conversations #2
It was moments or hours that wrapped around Theo Landry holding Tilly Nguyen under the canopy that night when summer pressed unlikely hands against winter's.
She had something big going on inside of her. A touch of magic she couldn't explain and couldn't quite fathom.
The look Astra had given her was the last thing that flashed through her mind. Fear.
Exhaustion swept over her without warning, her knees giving out and suddenly Tilly was cradled in strong arms and he looked down at her slack and peaceful face in worry.
And then in awe. The trees and the summer creatures watched as vampire watched her breathe peacefully.
He simply stood there. And most that did not have time on their side would not understand, but the trees did and the stars did as they looked down and watched him stand so still with her draped over his arms, gathering time around them, tucking it into his pockets as he was holding this moment just as closely as he was holding her.
The stars twinkled, though he would not see, as they watched him lightly trace a finger over the apple of her cheek. And the curious owl looked on in understanding as he whispered ancient words of peace over her sleeping form.
The forest knew how to give space to time, to hold itself still for those who would seek out refuge and peace.
These trees knew what it was to start out young and thin, to hope for their roots to take in an earth that wasn't always so kind.
And once they became stout and filled out their years with rings that would tell of their age, the forest knew how to protect those who wandered in.
Tilly slept soundly in his arms, even as he started walking. He hiked with her gently for over a mile until he was through his door and carrying her up old sweeping stairs down a long hallway into a dark room where she was laid gently on a bed.
But you aren't the kind of person to change the direction of fate.
Settle in and be quiet. Your voice isn't the one. You're not the one to stand up.
There are too many 'what ifs?'.
The voice spoke in gentle strokes over her mind. It was familiar, this voice, and it held a kind of lullaby that she knew as she lay in the dark with its soothing tones and let the words sink in.
High-pitched whistling, pop, then a release sounded in the distance. Both eyes barely opened, lambent light pressed into her vision. It wasn't loud or intrusive and she slowly opened them further until she was blinking up at a ceiling she couldn't place.
A slow tilt of her head took in a crackling fireplace lit to her right, the heat was minimal but it was welcome. Her body felt like it had won a battle with illness, sore and worn. The ivory sheets were smooth and her hand moved slowly over a dark bed cover that was soft and heavy.
The room was large but cozy with high-reaching windows dressed in draped curtains of olive green velvet that pressed against ivory walls and kissed warm wood flooring.
Across from the large four-poster bed stood a wall made of bookshelves, stuffed with books as though the owner couldn't fill the shelves quickly enough.
This wasn't a bookshelf meant to be pleasing to a visitor.
It was a tribute to learning and consuming words without apology.
She found herself sliding her feet to the thick cream rug taking a moment to notice her feet were bare, the red nail polish nearly disappearing into the warm and soft weave of the rug.
Her clothes, however, were still on. Mud was smeared on the side of her thigh and when she stood and turned she frowned at the streaks of mud left in clean ivory sheets.
She smelled like earth and sweat and she didn't want to look in the mirror.
The chief had found her on the floor of the forest after...
She frowned trying to think about what exactly had happened there. She remembered every moment, but she couldn't say what had happened.
Her mind had felt like it was bursting. She remembered feeling out of control like she couldn't quite understand or grasp the tail end of any of the thoughts or feelings that had descended on her.
It felt like an attack on her mental capability to navigate clearly.
She lifted a hand to her head, touching her temple where there had been intense throbbing before. Now, all was still. No racing thoughts at war with each other.
She took in a deep breath and held it for a few seconds before releasing it and then walked across the room to the inviting bookshelf.
It was a remarkable display of a love of books.
From the floor, all the way to the floral-carved crown molding, books of various sizes, both paperback and hardback, squeezed against each other trying to fit.
She couldn't imagine one more book fitting.
Her fingertips trailed along a row, the feeling of paperbacks having been loved dearly against the pads of her fingers until they stopped.
She bit her lip in a smile when she shimmied two books out of their crowded home.
A sound in the doorway drew her attention sharply up and she was looking at Chief Landry standing in the doorway, one shoulder leaning against the frame, hands tucked into his pockets, eyes on her.
He wasn't wearing shoes. The domesticity of it was striking.
The room didn't feel so large at that moment, with his dark eyes holding her the way that they did. It felt physical, the way he looked at her.
She might have felt bad for touching his things, but books were meant to be plucked from wherever they sat and mooned over. She believed they craved the turning of their pages and the flip from front cover to back; a full assessment of what treasures they contained.
"Western romances?" she asked, lifting them.
His eyes didn't leave hers when he answered without hesitation, "I have many romances. Is that surprising?"
A laugh as she shook her head made him tilt his. "Yeah. I guess. I don't know that I've ever met a man with a library that held romance books."
He pushed off of the doorframe and walked toward her, sliding a large hand out of his pocket and taking one of the books from her. "This one is good. You can borrow it if you would like."
She stood there in this mysterious man's room, covered in mud and forest ground, certain she looked like she'd lost a fight with a wild animal, and as he looked down at her she felt like one of these books.
Like he wanted nothing more than to pick her up, find somewhere comfortable, flip through her pages; read every word and get to know what made her her.
"You saved me," she said softly.
He gently took the other book from her and placed them both back into their cramped homes before he shook his head and said, "No. You didn't need saving. But I was glad to give you a place to rest."
She opened her mouth to ask him if he saw what happened, hoping he could shed light on the situation but he gestured with his head toward the doorway.
"I have something for you to eat. Come downstairs with me."
She was about to tell him she wasn't hungry but at the mention of food, she found that she was ravenous.
He turned to walk out of the room and paused when his eyes caught on the bed.
"I'm sorry," she said automatically. She felt a rush of shame that she wasn't so sure was hers to own, but too taken aback to dig into that. "I was covered in mud I guess, and well," her voice trailed off.
His shoulders were stiff and she could only see his granite profile but she saw his jaw clench before he started walking toward the door again, his movements less fluid and more intense.
In fact, as she scrambled to follow him, she felt intensity rolling off of him in deep waves. It was sudden and strong.
That questionable shame turned solid, larger; because that's what shame does-feeds off of the reactions of others.
The thought of offering to clean the sheets ran through her mind as she followed him out of the room into the hallway, but as they walked and her mind smoothed out, she stopped those thoughts.
It wasn't her fault. Shame was unwelcome in this moment.
A corner smile lifted her mouth at the thought of Dr. Sarah Almey tapping her index finger on the chair's arm as she recited when shame was. not. welcome.
He led her down the long hallway and she counted four doors, taking in the dark blue walls lit by gold sconces and the dimmed but beautiful chandeliers that dotted the ceiling.
This house, she had known from coming here before, was large.
But walking through it was incredible. Then she looked back at the stiffness of his broad shoulders in front of her and she felt a wave of intensity and anger.
"Hey, if you're mad that I got your bed dirty, then you should turn that mad around and look at yourself in the mirror. If you can even see yourself in the mirror," she quipped. "You're the one who put me in it."
He turned so abruptly that she nearly collided with him and then she was pressed up against one of those navy walls, the molding digging into her right shoulder blade.
She sucked in a breath and looked up at him.
There was a sconce right above where he had her pressed illuminating his angry-looking face, one of his hands on her waist, the other on the wall next to her head.
She was surprised, but she wasn't frightened.
She should be frightened.
But that intensity that had been coming off of him gave off something else. Something she couldn't, or wouldn't, name.
His eyes took their time mapping her face until he murmured, "Your friend may have been right."
"What?" she barely got out, but he didn't answer her.
"You think I'm angry that I put you in my bed and you left behind a little dirt?" His voice was dangerously low. She decided not answering was the wisest move. And she wasn't sure that she could have, the way that her lungs felt frozen while her heart was running wild.