The ache grew worse. “I have to, though.” The words slipped past my self-imposed wall of silence. “I have to know if—”
I cut myself off sharply.
“You have to know whether he intended to help you or betray you,” Rans finished for me.
I thought of all the hurtful words my father had hurled at me over the years. All of the distance. The neglect. The emotional abuse.
You’re going to come to a bad end, Zorah—just like your mother.
I never wanted a child like you, Zorah. Why did you have to be like this?
On the cusp of adulthood, I often found myself wondering why no one had intervened on my behalf as a child. Where was everyone else in the family? Where were my teachers and school counselors? But the answer was pretty obvious. My family members were dead, distant, or mentally unwell. My teachers were overworked, a bit freaked out by my strangeness, and quite possibly taken in by my long-perfected act of everything being okay.
And it hurt. It hurt that no one had cared enough to see the truth of things. It hurt that no one had thought to check in on a grieving widower with a six-year-old daughter, and make sure they were coping all right.
Because we hadn’t been coping. Not even close.
How much of that was the fault of a man who’d just seen his wife shot to death in front of his eyes? A man who—if I was to believe what I’d learned in the past few days—might well have been damaged in unseen ways by the years spent with my mother?
I had no idea.
“He’s all I have left,” I choked, and... shit. My cheeks were wet. I was drunk-crying now, complete with tears and snot and puffy eyes and clogged sinuses.
“I know,” Rans said softly, the arm around me tightening.
That arm didn’t let go until much later, after I’d drunk-cried my stupid, drunk ass to sleep.
* * *
Hours later, the pounding throb of my headache woke me. I wasn’t sure exactly how much time had passed, but it was dark outside the bedroom window. I’d expected to be alone, abandoned to my pathos the instant Rans thought he could get away from me without triggering more waterworks.
Instead, I was wrapped around him, drooling on his shirt, the ever-expanding circle of dampness cool against my cheek. My eyes felt like sandpaper. When I raised my aching head, my hair tugged against my scalp where his fingers had become tangled in the matted spirals.
“How do you feel?” he asked, and even his low voice was enough to drive a spike through my left temple.
“Like I’ve been roofied on faerie juice and then made a complete fool of myself,” I mumbled, the sound of my reply driving in a few more spikes for good measure. “Ow.”
Those long fingers kneaded my nape. “Shower. More water. More aspirin,” he said, focusing on the practical. “Then come back to bed. It’s the middle of the night. There’s nothing that needs doing until morning.”
I bit my lip and nodded, afraid that if I made any further mention of my drunken breakdown, it would give the whole thing more power, somehow. As it was, I could pretend it had all... I don’t know. Been a dream or something.
“Okay. Uh... sorry about your shirt.” I rolled upright, gesturing vaguely at the drool-stain.
“I’ve survived worse, believe me,” he said.
An image of bloodstains and cratered flesh flashed in front of my eyes, making me shiver.
“Yeah,” I said. “I know you have.”
I gingerly eased off of the bed, glad beyond measure that Glynda and Tom had demonstrated the thoughtfulness to put a nightlight in the guest bathroom. That saved me from having to turn on an overhead light, which I suspect would have been excruciating.
The bathroom was well stocked, but I dragged my overnight bag in with me anyway so I could rummage for my hair-pick and conditioner. The mirror revealed what I hadn’t quite realized before—Albigard’s glamour had worn off while I slept. I stared at my reflection as though seeing it for the first time. Red, puffy eyes stared back at me.
The cup by the sink looked clean, so I filled it with cool water and followed Rans’ advice with the painkillers. I showered in the near-dark, letting the hot water and steam clear out my head as much as anything could right now.
There was something to be said for being clean and moisturized, even under circumstances as sucktastic as these. I decided that my best strategy for now was definitely going to be denial.
Drunken breakdown? What drunken breakdown?
I have no memory of this drunken breakdown of which you speak.
Rans was born in the Middle Ages. People were big on chivalry back then. I felt reasonably confident he wouldn’t rub my nose in it if I decided to play dumb about the whole thing. I slipped on my black silk nightie and headed back to the bedroom on tiptoe, praying that Rans had fallen asleep in my absence.
Rans... had not fallen asleep in my absence.
Instead, Rans was lying naked on the bed, his upper body resting against a pile of pillows. I actually felt his sexual energy flowing across the room to me before I registered his hand sliding slowly up and down his cock in the faint light of the moon streaming through the window.
My heart fluttered before settling into a strong, steady rhythm, my blood humming beneath my skin. The dull throbbing behind my eyes eased, as though someone had placed a cool cloth over my forehead.
Dear god above, this man was beautiful when he was naked. Hell, he was beautiful when he wasn’t naked, but that didn’t mean I was going to squander this opportunity to stare at all those sleek muscles layered under skin that glowed silver in the moonlight. I hardly registered the slow
