An Eye For Danger (book 1)

Chapter 19

Chapter 19

“We should be planning or preparing or doing something.” I stood in the center of the candlelit living room, wrapped in Mrs. Buckley’s cream silk robe, unsure whether to avoid the door or the window or the kitchen or the living room.

“We need to recover our energy and sit tight.” Sam had reclined in a broad leather armchair in front of the fire, facing the doorway like a sentry, his Glock on the armrest. He wore clean blue jeans, which stretched tight as his legs kicked out, and his chest displayed fresh black marks where Troy’s fist nearly drove a hole through his right lung.

A glance at me, then he continued leaning on his wrapped fist, steeped in thought. A warrior’s body. A thinking man’s pose.

Max reared his head, yawned, and dropped back into sleep on his bed, not a care in the world.

"I can't just wait around for the next attack, Sam." I sidled up to Sam’s chair. He’d washed Troy’s blood off my skin but couldn’t scrub the thorns from my nerves.

Stretching his long arms, Sam cupped the back of my thighs and drew me into his lap. His touch released the taut chords holding me up, and I curled against his warm chest, careful of his bruises, grateful for his tenderness. From the back of the chair he pulled a fuzzy throw and tucked it around my torso.

"Who needs a blanket when you're a furnace," I said. "We should plug you into the grid."

"We handle stress differently. I burn it off." He raked back my wet hair with his fingers and smiled despite what I knew where a patchwork of bruises down the side of my face. "Looks like you're feeling better."

"Painkillers worked wonders on my head. Can't say the same for the bruising." I closed my eyes, but Sam jarred me.

"Need to stay awake, baby. Until I'm positive you don't have a concussion." Stretching his long arm, he grabbed one of two mugs off the coffee table. "Drink. Slowly."

"Better be rotgut." Cautious, I sipped the milky, lukewarm coffee, which went down smoother than I'd expected considering my raw throat.

Max arched onto his back on his dog bed, legs splayed and snoring like a foghorn, exhausted after an night of hunting wild beast. Sam had hand-fed him a hamburger dinner as a reward, while I finished my shower, washed my linens, and got my head together. Playing house seemed a strange way to be on the run, but the normalcy helped bring me closer to earth. Each moment of repose in Sam’s arms, my breathing slowed a second more, my muscles twisted a millimeter less, my body warmed a degree more.

"You clean up good for a thug." I fingered the line of Sam's clean-shaved jaw.

"Getting to be a habit around you."

My fingers spread over Sam's collar bone and slid down his pec, outlining the scalloped muscles that had fought for me.

With a sharp intake of breath, he stopped my hand from sliding further. "Keep that up, and we won't be sleeping at all tonight."