Page 58 of Protected from Malice
Before either of them can respond, I give three quick knocks, then call out softly, “Eden. How are you doing in there?”
A few seconds pass with no response.
My gut twists.
Worry bands around my chest, tightening by the second.
What if I waited too long?
What if she’s in worse shape than I thought?
What if she’s in the middle of a full-blown panic attack and she can’t answer the door?
And when did I become this paranoid person, catastrophizing everything?
Strike that.
Noteverything. Just when it comes to Eden.
But thank fuck, the door opens before I start inspecting the lock to figure out which lock-picking tools I need to get in.
“Rafe.” Eden looks up at me, her eyes dry but definitely pink around the edges. I can see the faint tracks of dried tears on her cheeks, and she looks so sad and vulnerable it’s all I can do not to pull her into my arms right now.
She was crying.
And I wasn’t there to comfort her.
Fuck.
I step inside the room and pull the door shut behind me. “I thought you might want some time alone. But?—”
What? I was too impatient? Too worried? Too wrapped up in my thoughts of Eden to concentrate on anything else?
She lifts her chin. “I guess I needed a little time to myself. To… I don’t know. Let it all sink in.”
“Do you want me to leave?” My voice comes out gruffer than I wanted.
“Doyouwant to leave?” A beat later, her lips curve into a small, sheepish smile. “That was a stupid question. Why would you have knocked, otherwise? Unless you felt obligated?—”
“Shit, Eden. How could you think—” I brush my thumb across her cheek. “I wouldneverfeel obligated. I’ve been sitting out there, worrying, hoping you’re okay…”
Her eyes meet mine, brightening with something that looks an awful lot like hope. “You were worried about me?”
“Of course I was.” I know I should pull my hand away from her face, but I can’t seem to make myself do it. Instead, I keep stroking her satiny soft skin. Memorizing the feel of it. Wondering if the rest of her body feels as soft.
Part of my brain—the irritating, logical part—tells me to stop what I’m doing.
Stop touching her.
Stop thinking about anything besides friendship.
Then Eden moves closer to me. Her hand comes to my arm. She’s so close I can smell the lemony fragrance of her hair and that special sweetness that’s only hers. Her pulse jumps at her throat. In a soft, hesitant tone, she asks, “Is it bad that I’m glad you worry about me?”
My heart jumps.
“No.” It’s rough. Strained. “It’s not bad.”
As we stare at each other, time seems to stand still.
