He grabbed at her mindlessly, using her to haul himself from the morass of dark horror. He seized her roughly, pushed her legs apart, and plunged himself into her soft receptive body.
She slid her fingers into his hair and closed her eyes, but he shook her hard, shouting, “No, look at me! Look at me, damn you!”
And she opened her eyes wide, shining clear and gold, and clung to him as he rode the storm, thrusting deeply into her, burying himself in her, cleansing himself in her heat and softness, driving out the demons that plagued him.
Until he shattered and was safe.
He lay there, panting, on her breast, and at last her eyes fluttered closed.
Slowly, Luke came back to himself. Through the shutters on the window he could see slits of cold, predawn light.
He was still inside his wife, still crushing her into the hard, lumpy mattress. Oh God, what had he done, using her so roughly? Grabbing her like an animal, pounding into her. Shouting at her.
Shame coiled in his belly.
He gently disengaged and moved off her.
“Isabella,” he began.
She stirred sleepily against him. “Well, if that’s what a nightmare does to you, remind yourself to have them more often.” She stretched and twined herself around him. “Do we have time for a nap before dawn?”
“You didn’t mind?”
She half opened her eyes and looked at him, a catlike smile of satisfaction curling her lips. “You want me to purr?”
It surprised a laugh out of him, and suddenly he found himself laughing and laughing. Horrified, he realized he was on the verge of tears. Laughter turned to choked sounds, and she wrapped her arms around him and held him tight as he fought the laughter-sobs that wracked him.
“Hush, my love,” she murmured. “It’s all right. Let it go, let it go.” She drew him down to her breast, stroking his damp hair back from his forehead, and murmured soothing things until the bout of emotion had passed and he lay calm.
And was safe.
“La Cuchilla?”
He nodded.
“What sort of a person would do that to another person?” She could not believe a woman could do such an evil thing.
He didn’t answer. She stroked his hair. “How did ithappen?”
He shook his head. “It was just… something stupid. We were young and stupid.”
“We?”
“Michael and I.”
She waited. And he knew he would have to explain, some of it, at least. All these years he’d kept it locked up inside him, and now…
But if he was going to keep waking her up with the damned dreams…
Trust, she’d said. It didn’t come easy.
“Michael was one of us, Wellington’s Angels, or his Devil Riders, depending on who you talk to. Five of us from school, Gabe, Harry, Rafe, Michael, and me.”
He could hear her soft breathing and the shifting of coals in the dying fire.
“Michael was the only one of us who didn’t make it home.”
She tucked the bedclothes more warmly around them both and waited.
