Page 78 of The Devil in Her Bed
With her heart.
Don’t hate me, she silently pleaded, dashing away another tear before pressing her ear to his heart. Remembering with every bit of her soul the day she’d first heard it beat in the chimney as the world had burned down around her.
Don’t hurt me, Declan Chandler. I’m not as strong as they all think.
CHAPTERNINETEEN
Chandler woke to darkness sometime after fourAM, choking on the same bloody nightmare he’d always done. His limbs didn’t thrash, as some did when they dreamed of death. Nor did he talk or scream or carry on.
No, his nightmare was a paralyzing one. It captured him like a demon and locked him inside his darkest places, making sleep a prison and his body his jailer.
Sleep was an unavoidable torment, and he always dreaded the night.
It was why he never slept with a woman, because he never trusted one enough not to use his paralysis against him.
Just as soon as awareness slammed into him, he’d learned that if he focused on five sensations in his body, it brought his mind around. He did that now. The covers were warm, but not heavy like his. And the room glowed with moonlight.
This struck him as odd. He usually slept in absolute darkness. Absolute silence. So that no one could sneak up on him.
Someone was breathing very close by.
His eyes flew open and the paralysis dissipated instantly as every muscle tensed with combat-readiness just in time to see a siren stretch in the moonlight.
Francesca’s arm lifted behind her head in a mermaid pose as the coverlet pooled only over the lower half of her.
Christ, he’d meant to wait for her to fall asleep and then be about his business. He couldn’t believe he’d allowed himself to be lulled by the feel of her small body curled into his.
Had she even slept yet? It’d only been a few hours.
Lying on her side, she ballasted her head on her palm as she buried a yawn against her knuckles.
His cock had been at morning attention before he’d become conscious, and now it demanded to be satisfied.
She gazed down at him with direct and open affection that sent curls of ludicrous warmth to the coldest parts of him. “You look like him when you’re sleeping,” she noted shyly.
His mood darkened, the warmth immediately quelled by a cold stab of panic. “Like whom?”
“Declan. Who else?” Her hand moved to rest idly on his biceps before making a curious path of discovery up toward his shoulder. “Innocent and mischievous all at once, you were, with a healthy dose of melancholy. I remember always thinking I wanted to make you laugh, but I couldn’t because you didn’t know how.”
She waited for him to reply, and when he couldn’tthink of anything to say to that, she remarked, “You were dreaming, I think. Just now. You were breathing so hard, I wanted to wake you.”
He ignored her casual observation, not wanting to discuss nightmares when he’d woken to a fantasy. “I never should have become Declan. I regret everything that came from my existence at Mont Claire.”
Her caress stalled, and she jerked her hand away as if he’d burned her. “Everything?”
“Everything but you.” He recaptured her hand and set it back where it was before, encouraging her to finish. No one ever stroked him, not in this way. Without lust or guile. Just… because she so obviously enjoyed the feel of his skin.
She resumed, but a troubled crease remained between her brows.
A foreign guilt lanced him, and he turned to face her, adopting her posture by propping his head on his knuckles. “You should have told me your secret.”
Her eyes grew round, and her fingers stilled once again. “Which secret?”
He wondered at this. How many were there?
He’d deal with this one first. “Had I known you were a virgin, I could have prepared you. I was such an animal—” Shame clogged his throat, cutting off his words.
To his utter astonishment, a smile lifted her wide mouth and he’d the sense she was relieved. “If I’d told you, you’d probably not have done it at all.”
