Page 47 of Night in a Waste Land

They stayed on the first floor, but wound up in a small back sitting room with tall, arched windows where the rain pattered steadily. There was a low couch, not too ruined from the damp yet, and Lance laid her down on it like she was a swooning princess.

She sat up the moment he stepped back, and got a stern finger shoved in her face.

“Donotget up.”

She offered him her most mulish look, still quailing inside at the sight of his fury. “I’m not an invalid. I only blacked out for a second.”

“He almost snapped your neck!” he roared.

The shout echoed off the walls, the floor; boomed back from the high, moldy ceilings.

Mrs. Avery muttered a quiet curse and slipped out, closing the door on them.

Lance bared his teeth in a silent snarl, and then started pacing. Pushing his hands roughly through his hair, tugging at it where it was longer on top.

Rose took a breath.

“No, shut up,” he snapped, and continued to pace. “You don’t – You can’t–” He halted, and stood a moment, hands linked together over the top of his head, chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath. Not from exertion, but from emotion. From anger. He was so furious with her…

But then he turned his head, and their gazes locked, and it wasn’t fury she saw burning in his dark eyes. Not anymore.

The weight of his helplessness, his worry, his desperation pressed her back against the sofa back. Her head hit the wooden border with a dull thump, and she winced.

His hands fell to his sides, and he took a step forward, close enough to touch her if he wanted to – but he held still, breathing, staring at her with a baffling degree of anguish. It stirred something warm and mostly-dormant in her belly, rekindled that sharp spear of want she’d felt earlier, when they were dressing, before they left.

She could resist general kindness, and a big-brotherly sort of attention. But true caring – the kind he’d been showing all along, more and more, less carefully…that she couldn’t fight. That was a black hole she wanted to fling herself into, if only to forget for a little while.

He took a deep breath, and his jaw firmed. He seemed to settle; she saw his raw expression begin to close off. “I’ve known the whole time that you have a death wish. I’ve watched you do really stupid, dangerous things – take risks none of the rest of us would. You’re good, I’ll give you that. You might be better than all of us. But tonight was the last fucking time you move without orders.”

Her whole body felt like a bruise, sensitive, her pulse throbbing through every inch.

“Is that understood?” he asked – demanded.

She swallowed. “Yes. Sir.”

He nodded, not pleased, far from satisfied, but glad of her acquiescence. He cleared his throat, and his voice came out too gruff. “Let’s look at the damage.” He pointed to his own throat. “Take that off.”

She complied without argument, unable to hide a wince as even the process of undoing the buckle tugged at her bruised neck.

He swayed a half-step closer – and then knelt down at her feet when she pulled the choker away. His eyes went to the damage, and she could only guess, based on his gaze, how bad it must already look.

“How is it?” she asked.

He wet his lips, and cleared his throat again. “There’s blood.”

“It’s his.”

“Still. It needs cleaning up. Stay here.” He stood, and looked down at her sternly. “I mean it.”

“I’ll stay.”

He lingered at the door a moment, before he finally went, and was back right away with a bowl of steaming water, and a towel.

“No showers in this dump?” she tried to tease. It would have been easier and less – intimate – than having him wash her neck.

That was what he seemed intent on doing, though, as he knelt again, easing her knees apart with a quick, non-suggestive touch of one hand so he could move in closer. He set the bowl on the sofa at her hip, and dampened the towel; wrung it out; lifted it toward her neck.

Just before the warm, damp cloth touched her skin, he reached to steady her head. He took her jaw delicately between thumb and fingertips.

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