Black Ice - Anne Stuart [78]
18
A few feet separated them, a few feet of blood and snow. She didn’t even think about it, she went to him, into his arms, pressing her face against his shoulder, clinging to him, shaking so hard she thought her bones would shatter, shaking to keep from screaming.
His arms came around her, strong, safe arms, holding her tight against him. He was powerful, warm, and the faint tremor in his body had to be her imagination.
He put a hand against her head, gently stroking her hair. “Breathe,” he whispered in her ear, like a lover. “Just breathe, slowly. Calm, deep breaths.”
She hadn’t even realized she’d been holding her breath. His hand was cupping her chin, his thumb gently stroking her throat, almost massaging her into breathing once more, and she took a deep, shuddering gasp, and then another, and then another.
“We need to get out of here,” he whispered, and she wanted to laugh, somewhere near hysteria. There was no one there to hear her—Maureen was dead, the world was a whirling mass of blood and snow, and if she screamed no one would hear….
But she wouldn’t scream. She could absorb his heat, his strength, his breath into her bones. She stayed that way, clinging to him, and he made no effort to make her move, giving her the time she needed.
She raised her head finally. He looked the same, but then, he always did. She’d seen him kill twice, and he betrayed no reaction at all. He was a monster, not even human.
But he was her monster, keeping her safe, and she was past the point of caring. “I’m ready,” she said.
He nodded, releasing her, keeping hold of her hand. She was icy cold, wet from the snow, and she clutched his hand so tightly it hurt her fingers, but she wouldn’t let go. He led her away from the old house, pausing long enough to kick some snow over the trail of blood that spilled down the last few stairs. The sky was growing darker now, though she wasn’t sure whether it was the storm or the hour. Or maybe her own willfulness, closing down a life that was becoming unbearable. She might be calling the darkness in around her, so that it would eventually close over her like a dark blanket, shutting out everything, the light, the horror, the pain….
He was being very gentle with her, she thought absently, as he opened the door of a shiny car she didn’t recognize, settling her into the front seat, fastening the seat belt. She’d left his coat behind, and suddenly it seemed terribly important, as if she’d left her only security back in the house.
“Your coat…” she said, taking in a shuddering gasp of breath.
“Fuck the coat. I don’t need it.”
“I do.”
He didn’t move, standing there in the open door, looking down at her, blotting out the sky. Wondering if she’d lost her mind, Chloe thought. The answer was yes.
After a moment he nodded. “Don’t move,” he said, closing the door of the small car.
She wanted to laugh. She couldn’t move. He’d fastened the seat belt, and her fingers wouldn’t work to unfasten it, her legs wouldn’t work to support her. It was taking all her strength to keep breathing as he’d told her to do, slow, deep breaths, and she concentrated on that.
It seemed as if he’d only been gone a moment. He opened her door and tucked the coat around her shoulders, then looked down into her face. “Are you all right?”
“Of course,” she said.
Wrong answer, she presumed, because a frown crossed his face for a moment. But he simply nodded. “Just hold on.”
What else did he think she would do, she thought, letting her head fall back against the seat and the bunched up coat. Run for it? Her running was over.
She closed her eyes as he drove fast, into the heart of Paris, listening to his calm voice with only a small part of her brain. The rest of her was drifting with the snow, snuggled inside his coat. “The airport is open again, but you’re going to have to wait.