baby.'
There, it was out. She had actually said it, and relief made her sag a little.
But Max didn't sag. Clea had to watch the mask of cold condescension slide away from him, watch those blue eyes narrow into angry slits, watch that lazy body pass through the stages of coiling up in reaction. His hands went stiff, then clenched into fists, his spine arching convulsively and his face rife with furious colour before paling to a stage beyond anger.
Real fear made her put out a shaky hand towards him in appeal. 'Let me explain ...'
'You bitch!' he whispered, and Clea fell back a few steps as, on a low animal growl, Max launched himself out of the chair, hard hands snaking out to clutch at her quivering shoulders before she had a chance to move out of his way.
'It was an accident, Max—'
He wasn't listening, his fingers crushing the fine bones beneath them, eyes like silver points of violence between their frightening slits. 'I trusted you!' he bit out roughly, and shook her hard.
It was like looking on the face of a stranger; anger contorted his face, held his jaw clenched and his lips pulled back from glinting white teeth. She whimpered, jerking up her hands to clutch at his wrists, in an attempt to make him let go of her, but he only increased the pressure.
'I trusted you!' he repeated, his voice so thick that he was barely understandable. 'You were going to take care of it!' he grated in a rough, whining voice meant to mock her own assurances all those months ago. 'And all the time you were planning this!'
'No!'
'Yes! You bitch!' He shook her again, the whirl of blue-black hair a mad tumble around her paste-white face. 'I trusted you—I trusted you!'
Then another thread of his control snapped, and Clea had to watch in horror as his arm went back, hand hovering above her while his blanched face told her what he meant to do.
'Don't—' she tremored. Fear sent her own arm up to protect her face, and she cowered in his grip. Then the heat began, surging with incredible swiftness up and along her body until it reached her ears where it roared, blocking out everything else.
Max, the arcing hand and his biting grip on her upper arm all became insignificant as she began trembling violently, quivering from head to toe. The pressure inside her head increased, balls of brightly coloured lights propelled themselves against the back of her eyes and exploded into a million excruciating fragments, and she whimpered again, a pathetically weak sound, just before she felt herself go heavy.
Then there was nothing, absolutely nothing. Blackness assailed her, and thankfully gave her an escape route.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Maxwatched in a kind of horrified fascination as Clea crumpled to the floor in a deep faint. The angry hold he'd had on her was insufficient to halt her fall, so that all he could manage to do was control it a little, numbly watching the way her arm, once released, fell heavily against her limp body.
The utter silence in the room buzzed in his ears; the actuality of what he had almost done still damning him, for his right arm was still raised in readiness to strike. The shock of it wiped his face clear of everything but appalled horror at himself.
He stared down at the inert heap of electric-blue wool and flailing black hair, swallowed tensely, then fell to his knees beside her, gently turning her over and away from the arm that still protected her face from his pending blow. Everything about her looked blue, her clothes, her hair—and even the frightening pallor of her skin.
'Clea—' he breathed hoarsely, shocked by his own actions, by the way he had caused this to happen.
Then he was sucking in a deep breath of air and pulling himself together, scooping her limp frame into his arms and carrying her to the sofa. She was heavy in faint, boneless. He had never seen her looking so ill and vulnerable before. It gave him a harsh twinge of self-disgust to acknowledge that it was directly due to him that he was seeing
There, it was out. She had actually said it, and relief made her sag a little.
But Max didn't sag. Clea had to watch the mask of cold condescension slide away from him, watch those blue eyes narrow into angry slits, watch that lazy body pass through the stages of coiling up in reaction. His hands went stiff, then clenched into fists, his spine arching convulsively and his face rife with furious colour before paling to a stage beyond anger.
Real fear made her put out a shaky hand towards him in appeal. 'Let me explain ...'
'You bitch!' he whispered, and Clea fell back a few steps as, on a low animal growl, Max launched himself out of the chair, hard hands snaking out to clutch at her quivering shoulders before she had a chance to move out of his way.
'It was an accident, Max—'
He wasn't listening, his fingers crushing the fine bones beneath them, eyes like silver points of violence between their frightening slits. 'I trusted you!' he bit out roughly, and shook her hard.
It was like looking on the face of a stranger; anger contorted his face, held his jaw clenched and his lips pulled back from glinting white teeth. She whimpered, jerking up her hands to clutch at his wrists, in an attempt to make him let go of her, but he only increased the pressure.
'I trusted you!' he repeated, his voice so thick that he was barely understandable. 'You were going to take care of it!' he grated in a rough, whining voice meant to mock her own assurances all those months ago. 'And all the time you were planning this!'
'No!'
'Yes! You bitch!' He shook her again, the whirl of blue-black hair a mad tumble around her paste-white face. 'I trusted you—I trusted you!'
Then another thread of his control snapped, and Clea had to watch in horror as his arm went back, hand hovering above her while his blanched face told her what he meant to do.
'Don't—' she tremored. Fear sent her own arm up to protect her face, and she cowered in his grip. Then the heat began, surging with incredible swiftness up and along her body until it reached her ears where it roared, blocking out everything else.
Max, the arcing hand and his biting grip on her upper arm all became insignificant as she began trembling violently, quivering from head to toe. The pressure inside her head increased, balls of brightly coloured lights propelled themselves against the back of her eyes and exploded into a million excruciating fragments, and she whimpered again, a pathetically weak sound, just before she felt herself go heavy.
Then there was nothing, absolutely nothing. Blackness assailed her, and thankfully gave her an escape route.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Maxwatched in a kind of horrified fascination as Clea crumpled to the floor in a deep faint. The angry hold he'd had on her was insufficient to halt her fall, so that all he could manage to do was control it a little, numbly watching the way her arm, once released, fell heavily against her limp body.
The utter silence in the room buzzed in his ears; the actuality of what he had almost done still damning him, for his right arm was still raised in readiness to strike. The shock of it wiped his face clear of everything but appalled horror at himself.
He stared down at the inert heap of electric-blue wool and flailing black hair, swallowed tensely, then fell to his knees beside her, gently turning her over and away from the arm that still protected her face from his pending blow. Everything about her looked blue, her clothes, her hair—and even the frightening pallor of her skin.
'Clea—' he breathed hoarsely, shocked by his own actions, by the way he had caused this to happen.
Then he was sucking in a deep breath of air and pulling himself together, scooping her limp frame into his arms and carrying her to the sofa. She was heavy in faint, boneless. He had never seen her looking so ill and vulnerable before. It gave him a harsh twinge of self-disgust to acknowledge that it was directly due to him that he was seeing
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