J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [143]
“I don’t want you to go,” she whispered, tears in the achy pitch of her voice.
He put his bare hand to her cheek and felt the softness and warmth of her face. He knew that when he pulled out of here, he was leaving his stupid fucking heart with her. Sure, something would beat behind his ribs and keep his blood moving around, but it would just be a mechanical function from now on.
Oh, wait. It had been like that before. She’d just given the thing flesh and life for a short time.
He pulled her into his arms and rested his chin on the top of her head. Holy hell, he was never again going to smell chocolate and not think of her, not pine for her.
Just as he closed his eyes a tingle ran up his spine, trembling along the back of his neck and shooting to the anchor of his jaw. The sun was coming up, and that was his body telling him the time to go was no longer a future thing, but a now thing…an urgent now thing.
He pulled back and pressed his lips to hers. “I love you. And I’m going to keep loving you even after you don’t know I exist.”
Her lashes flickered, catching her tears until there were too many to hold. He brushed his thumbs over her face.
“V…I…”
He waited for a heartbeat. When she didn’t finish, he took her chin in his palm and looked into her eyes.
“Oh, God, you’re going to do it,” she said. “You’re going to—”
Chapter Thirty-one
Jane blinked and looked down at the hot chocolate she was holding. Something was dripping into it.
Jesus… Tears were pouring down her face, falling into the mug, getting her button-down shirt wet. Her whole body was shaking, her knees weak, her chest screaming in pain. For some crazy reason she wanted to fall to the floor and wail.
Wiping her cheeks off, she glanced around her kitchen. There was milk and cocoa mix and a spoon on the counter. The pan on the stove still had a little steam rising up from it. The cabinet to the left wasn’t shut all the way. She couldn’t remember taking the stuff out or making what was in her mug, but then, that was often the case with repetitive, habitual actions. You space-shotted them—
What the hell? Through the windows on the other side of the breakfast nook, she saw someone standing in front of her condo. A man. A huge man. He was just outside the glowing pool of a street lamp, so she couldn’t see his face, but she knew he was staring at her.
For no evident reason her tears ran harder and faster. And the outpouring got worse as the stranger turned away and walked off down the street.
Jane all but threw the mug onto the counter and bolted out of her kitchen. She had to catch him. She had to stop him.
Just as she came to her front door, a vicious headache took her down to the floor sure as if she’d been tripped off her feet. She sprawled out on the foyer’s cold white tile, then twisted onto her side, grinding her fingers into her temples and gasping.
She lay there for God only knew how long, just breathing and praying for the pain to back off. When it finally did she eased her upper body off the floor and leaned against her front door. She wondered if she’d had a stroke, but there had been no cognitive interruptions or visual disturbances. Just one hell of a quick-onset headache.
Must be remnants of the flu she’d had all weekend. That virus that had been around the hospital for weeks had taken her out like a dead rosebush. Which made sense. She hadn’t been sick in a long time, so she’d been overdue.
Speaking of overdue…Shit, had she even called to reschedule her interview at Columbia? She had no clue…which meant she probably hadn’t. Hell, she didn’t even remember leaving the hospital on Thursday night.
She wasn’t sure how long she made like