âStill sleeping,â Maeve mumbled.
Devlin said nothing. She felt his hum, basso profundo, in the acoustic curve of her neck. It reverberated all the way to her feet.
She kicked at the cloud of comforter surrounding them. âTickle.â
Devlin exhaled audibly.
âThat, too!â Maeve cocked her shoulders toward her ears for protection.
The flat of his hand crept around her ribs. He pulled her against his body, skin-to-skin, ten degrees warmer and the rock-solid opposite of the pillows, mattress and covers cocooning them against the winter morning. Not exactly what sheâd call spooning, though. Dev was too angular. The man was more of a fork. Or knife.
âOne more hour, Dev.â She slit one eye open to confirm her suspicions. âNot even morning, you madman.â
He didnât reply. Didnât move. Didnât soothe or sigh.
He just held on.
Thatâs what roused her.
Nightmare. He got them now and then. Vivid, bloody awful things. Unconscious musings on worst-case scenarios portrayed across his mindâs eye in full sensory detail. Sight. Sound. Smell. Every negative possibility his conscious mind would never tolerate. Heâd described bits of them to her occasionally after spiking awake, wide-eyed, skin flushed to a deep red and more than usually ready for action.
Forget flight. Fight or fuckâthat was Devlinâs autonomic response.
Despite their complementary position, heâd cocked his hips away from her. The space created a draft across her bottom. He was holding back. The dream had left him too raw to close that final inch.
She snuggled backward, connecting them.
âChrist,â he hissed. âYour ass is like ice.â
âHelps bring down swelling.â
He huffed a sound of relief as he pushed against her, pillowing the thick heat of his cock against the cool of her cheeks. âDoesnât seem to be working.â
âHow odd.â Maeve didnât wait long before prompting, âDev?â
âShhh.â
âTell me about it?â
He didnât answer. Against her back, Maeve could feel the rise and fall of his chest. His breath lulled her like waves against the sand.
Time settled around them, soft as their bed.
âIâve a story I could tell.â His voice ran rough over words. He sounded like heâd been shouting. âThat do?â
The cold skimming her skinâs surface settled in her veins.
She gave his hand a squeeze to distract from her shudder.
âLovely.â
Â
The well water ran to icy. Enough to make a man shudder before it even touched a body. Hale stripped off his shirt and dumped a fresh bucketful over his head.
Heâd crammed half a weekâs chores into one infernally long day. Every muscle ached. Heâd cleaned stables. Repaired fencing. Stacked wood.
So much to do. Heâd been too long away.
His breath steamed the air as he scrubbed with the soap cake and rag that Polly had installed by the pump for these occasions. He was in the peak of health. Strong. Capable.
Helpless.
He rinsed with another half bucket of icy water. Slicked the hair off his face. Hale could smell the hot supper the old woman must have organized.
Hard work. A pump bath. A good meal. A soft bed to lie down with his wife.
A week ago, heâd have counted himself a wealthy man, a lucky man.
âThat you, sir?â But tonight, it wasnât his wife calling him in for supper. âMr. Hale?â
âIâm coming,â he answered.
His stomach clenched as he passed the kitchen hearth. There was a soup simmering and the faint aroma of yeasted bread, cooling on the sideboard. The comfort of it, the normalcy, made him want to rush back outside into the night.
âWeâre back here, Mr. Hale, in the bedroom.â
It wasnât the dark and dreary scene heâd expected. There was firewood on the hearth. The bedclothes had been changed and smoothed. The floor was
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