Page 65 of Heartache Duet

I swallow, my eyelids heavy, the painkillers forcing their way through my bloodline. “I haven’t slept.”

“All night?” he asks, eyebrows raised in disbelief.

“Mmm.”

He settles his hand on my hip. “Sleep, baby girl. I’ll stay up and take care of things, okay?”

I nod, my entire body too heavy to move. Eyes closed, I feel the bed dip, then his warm lips settle on my temple. “I’ll take care of you, Ava. Always.”

* * *

I’m in and out of sleep all day, but always in a daze. Even when I feel alert enough to get up, I stay in bed. Peter checks in on me often, and I keep my eyes closed, not wanting to hear what he has to say.

When the world is at its darkest, that’s when the magic appears.

It’s not magic that enters my room when the stillness of the night creates a silence around us. It’s Peter. My eyes squint at the stream of light filtering in from the hallway, and Peter notices because he walks in and switches on my lamp. He settles on the edge of my bed again, his hand on my leg. “Your mom’s asleep, the crisis workers are going to take shifts overnight, and they’ll be here all of tomorrow.”

“Okay,” I whisper, not looking at him.

“Have you reapplied your cream?”

I force my body to half sit up. “No, I forgot.”

“Well, we better do that. We don’t want that flawless skin of yours scarring.” He grabs the cream the paramedics left for me and gets more comfortable on the bed. Then he reaches up, pulls the covers down until they’re resting at my waist. He removes the dressing, slowly, carefully, and starts applying the cream where needed. Starting at my neck, he moves to my shoulders, taking his time, and then lower, lower, to my chest revealed by the tank top I’ve been wearing all day. He spends the most time there, just above my breasts. His touch is soft, heated, nurturing.

I can take care of you, Ava. But it’s our little secret.

“Your mom’s getting worse, Ava,” he murmurs.

“Stop it.”

“I know you don’t want to hear this, but she needs help.”

“I just need to get through this year. For Trevor. And then… then…”

He sighs. “Then what?”

I don’t know. My shoulders fall with the first sob that consumes me. I keep my cries quiet, but he’s there to hold me. To wipe the tears from my eyes. To assure me that everything will be okay, even when he doesn’t believe it himself.

He finishes tending to my physical wounds, then gets under the covers with me. “Come here,” he whispers, helping me to lie back down. I rest my head on his chest while his fingers stroke my arm. His chest rises and falls with his steady breaths, his heartbeat forming a steady rhythm blasting in my eardrums.

Thump, thump.

Thump, thump.

I close my eyes and listen; try to find what I’m looking for.

But it’s not there.

Because he’s not The One.

The Holder of Hope.

The Creator of Magic.

He’s not Connor.

THIRTY

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