"I won’t answer the door. Understood."
"Good." The front two legs of the chair left the ground as I leaned back, watching, studying her for a sign that she didn’t really understand the severity of the situation. "I’d hate to have to kill someone because you thought I was kidding. Our boss is always complaining about breaking in new crews. And I very much would like to stay on her good side as much as possible."
One did not cross Lilly St. Clair if they could avoid it.
"Now, you can crash on the couch. It’s big, so I’ll just sit at the end and watch TV while you sleep or something, okay?"
She eyed the leather monstrosity of a sectional with wary apprehension, her whole body going rigid as I marched into my room and pilfered my duvet and a spare pillow from the bed.
"Are you giving me your blankets? Nash, I can’t?—"
"Relax, Harper. I don’t sleep much, anyway." My temple made a hollow sound as I tapped on it playfully. "Insomnia being what it is, and all that."
Her face softened, like I’d just told her I was beaten as a child.Of course, she already knew that, so . . .
"Don’t go soft on me, now, dammit. I’m still half-tempted to take a knife to something, and if you make things uncomfortable for me, it might just be you who gets the sharp end."
She winced and moved to the sectional, fluffing out the blanket and pillow I’d tossed there for her. She stalled as long as she could, and finally, after what felt like forever and a day, she settled in on the far end of the couch. My favorite side, too.
Go figure.
SIXTEEN
ROWAN
Wakingup to a woman in the throes of a night terror was not on my bingo card this week, but apparently, life seemed determined to fuck me in the ass at any opportunity.
It took me three seconds to wake up enough to recognize the sound, and another half a second to place the familiar pitch of it.
Harper.
Like a flash, I was out of bed and racing across the room, wearing nothing but boxers, frantic in a way I hadn’t been since Nash’s mental breakdown.
I should have expected it after her little episode of shock earlier.
I was the last one in the room; even Angel had beat me to her. She was currently backed into a corner in the entryway, a knife in her hands with a pretty nasty serrated edge.
Nash’s personal toy. How ironic.
Nash stood nearby, a tortured look on his face, his hip resting against the counter as he crossed his arms and watched her from a safe distance.
"What happened?" I moved toward him, but the look in his eyes was of a man broken. I wondered if he’d tried to help her and been hurt for his efforts. "Are you injured?"
"Not physically," he retorted, his voice hollow. "She woke up in a panic, and I tried to help her, but she won’t let me get close. I guess I nodded off a little, because that knife was in my fucking hand when I passed out. Now, she’s got it, and I’m not pleased. That thing can do damage if you get stuck in the wrong place."
I knew very well what kind of damage that knife could inflict. I’d seen him use it on many a target before. But I couldn’t leave her with it in hand and hope she’d come back to herself in time to make it unnecessary for me to bull rush her and take it away.
Angel was currently standing a few feet away from her, his hands out, palms up, frozen in place in his fucking sweats and nothing else. "Hey now, Harper, it’d be really cool if youcould, like, you know, hand me the knife and let me go back to bed. I’m not here to hurt you?—"
"How am I supposed to trust any of you?" she spat, her eyes wild and wide open, but unseeing. "You’re just another ghost from the past, here to fucking take care of this loose end. You want to kill me."
Angel didn’t seem to realize she was sleepwalking. Or if he did, he didn’t seem to care. And he certainly didn’t notice how close she had gotten to that fucking door, either. Before I could stop either of them, she had her hand on that doorknob, and with a shout of triumph, she slipped out into the asylum.
Alone.
Armed.
And now, a very enticing target.