Page 52 of Edge of Darkness (Night Prowler 4)
He was on his knees at the bedside and she was curled into his chest, her face in her hands, shaking. She tried to swallow around the fist in her throat, but couldn’t, and her breath caught.
“I can’t…I can’t…”
He pushed her weak protests aside, lifted her in his arms, and deposited them both back onto the bed. He pulled her up against his body and buried his face into her neck. “Ten minutes. Ember. Just ten minutes.”
His voice now was barely audible, but she didn’t miss the pleading tone. It was dizzying, his switch from deadly predator to sweet suitor, and maddening, too.
How on earth was she supposed to deal with this? With him?
“Don’t get mad,” he warned. Which, naturally, made her mad.
“I can’t help being upset! Put yourself in my shoes for a second!”
His arms tightened around her back. “I’m only saying that so I won’t get sliced to ribbons by a knife-wielding drag queen—” when she stiffened, he quickly amended that to, “Gay ex-Marine. If he hears you getting mad, I’ll be neutered, remember?”
Ember pressed her lips together to stifle the hysterical laugh that threatened to bubble up from her throat. The thought of Asher getting the drop on Christian was impossibly funny. She figured he’d just turn to a raincloud or a wisp of smoke to avoid Asher’s lunge.
Because she wasn’t in a rational state of mind, Ember relented. “Fine,” she whispered. “Ten minutes.”
He pressed a fleeting kiss to her throat, warm and soft, and before she could protest he’d sat up, bringing her along with him. “Good answer. Now, let’s get you out of these wet clothes. Where do you keep your nightgowns?”
Ember wrinkled her nose. “What am I, ninety? I don’t own nightgowns.”
“Okay, then. What do you wear to bed?”
She pressed her lips together, but he’d already guessed. His lips curved to a smile.
“Really? In the buff? What an enticing thought.” His smile grew larger as her face reddened.
“Can we not make this any harder for me? Please?” She stood and marched over to her dresser, pulled out a pair of cotton pajamas Asher had bought her for Christmas two years ago, crossed the room to the attached bathroom, and shut the door. Christian watched her every move as if expecting her to bolt at any moment.
Safe behind the closed bathroom door, Ember sagged against the sink. She looked at herself in the mirror—damp and bedraggled, wild-eyed as a cornered animal—and dragged her hands over her face.
All animals are created equal, she thought. Remembering how Christian’s eyes had changed, how he’d appeared from thin air, she added, Yeah, but some are more equal than others.
Once dried and dressed, her hair combed, her face washed, her teeth brushed, she re-emerged from the bathroom and stood looking at him. Even though she was clothed, she felt naked, almost unbearably shy. And yet, she couldn’t look away from him.
He was propped up against the pillows on the bed, one leg stretched out, one bent at the knee, barefoot and bare-chested, looking tense and so beautiful she wished she had the talent of drawing. He lifted a hand and held it out in a silent invitation, and because her body was a traitor where he was concerned, her feet automatically moved her to him as if summoned by a spell.
He didn’t give her a decision about where she was going; he pulled her gently down onto the bed with him, curled one arm around her chest, slid one beneath her head, then nestled himself against her back so they were spooned together with his legs drawn up behind hers and their heads resting on a shared pillow.
“Your sense of humor is questionable, little firecracker,” Christian murmured into her hair.
The pajamas Asher had given her were decorated with tiny pictures of cats chasing dogs. On the front of the shirt was a big picture of a terrified Chihuahua standing frozen while a nasty-looking black cat with slitted eyes slunk up on it from behind. The caption read, “It’s behind me…isn’t it?”
She closed her eyes and muttered, “It seemed apropo
s.”
They lay like that in silence for several moments, until the tension in her body relaxed and it began to feel a little more natural having him there. So close she smelled the heady, exotic musk of his skin, felt the heat of his body warming hers. Naturally he sensed her easing tension, and a sigh of what might have been relief slipped from his lips.
“I hate it that you’re afraid of me,” he whispered.
“I’m not…at the moment. But you have to admit, Christian, it’s a lot to take in.”
“I know. Believe me, I know.” He paused, thinking, then said, “Thank you for letting me be here.”
That struck her as incredibly sweet. “You’re welcome.”
