“Yeah.” A half-smile ghosted across her lips. “Someone who could escape to another place, even for a little while.”
He looked at her then, taking his eyes off the road for a second, long enough for her to feel it—the warmth, the regret, the silent apology.
A tentative hand reached over, resting lightly on her shoulder.
“Sleep,” he said gently.
And she did.
Chapter 33
Faolan drifted in and out of consciousness, lulled by the gentle hum of the engine, the warm pressure of the pillows Thane had wedged around her, the muted light behind her eyelids. After the constant beeps of medical equipment and the chaos of the ward, it was the best sleep she’d gotten in weeks.
Distantly, she was aware that the car had rolled to a stop.
She felt a shift in the air, cooler, and the sound of the door opening. The buckle of her seatbelt clicked free, and a low voice murmured, almost to himself, “I’ve got you… Hold on, love.”
Strong, careful hands lifted her, and she didn’t have the energy to protest. The warmth of his chest, the faint scent of woodsy aftershave, and the strength of hard muscle holding her surrounded her.
She vaguely registered the beep of a lift button being pressed and the swish of the doors closing. Then a short walk, followed by a soft beep—a keycode, maybe—and she was carried across a threshold into quiet, dim light.
Then she was laid down on a cloud.
Soft, smooth covers tugged gently to her chin.
Then the rustle of fabric and the brush of a kiss, light as breath, on her forehead.
Then nothing as she sank deep.
***
When she woke, the light outside the shuttered window was that strange, golden wash of early evening. Her mouth was dry and her arm ached. She blinked slowly, taking in the unfamiliar ceiling, the muted tones of slate and ash blue, the clean, minimalist decor.
This wasn’t her flat.
Her flat didn’t have sheer grey drapes or elegant armchairs angled by a picture window. It didn’t have a water painting of a house on top of a hill. Belated, she remembered that it didn’t have a lift, either.
There was a bottle of water on the side table, and an extra blanket folded at the foot of the bed. No clutter.
She sat up fast, heart thudding.
The door creaked open.
“You’re up,” Thane said quietly, leaning against the frame. He was bare-chested, a towel slung around his shoulders, hair damp.
Tattooed lines sprawled across his left shoulder and arm—ink like branches, ravens woven into shadowy wings, a skeletal figure riding a horse etched across his bicep.
She stared.
He followed her gaze, then said, “That’s me. Death.”
She blinked. “The Horsemen?”
A wry, humourless smile. “In more ways than one.”
She squared her shoulders. “Why am I here, Thane?”
His expression turned shuttered. “This is my apartment. You’re safe here.”
