Throwing back the comforter, Helia climbed into bed, literally. She wasn’t short, but damn, that bed needed stairs. Loosening the blankets as she moved, she scooted over, making room for Collin closer to the door.
She had her head nestled in a comfy pillow when the bathroom door opened and he stepped out wearing boxer briefs and a T-shirt. She didn’t hide her appreciation.
He paused, backlit by the bathroom light, his eyes flickering over her tucked into bed. His chest rose on a deep inhale, as ifbracing himself, then he flicked the bathroom light off. His feet were silent on the stone floor, and she startled when the bed shifted as he joined her.
“It’s me,” he said.
“This place is very gothic.”
He chuckled as he settled beside her. “You have no idea.”
She’d ask him about that later, but for now, she wanted to curl up next to this blast furnace of a man. Once he settled, she scooted over and nudged her way under his arm, throwing one of hers over his belly and sliding a leg on top of his thigh.
Another sigh.
“Don’t be alarmed if, well, certain parts of my body don’t get the message that this is about sleeping.”
She snorted. “I’m thirty-five, Collin. I’m well aware of how a man’s body can react of its own accord. Now wrap your arm around me.”
He hesitated, then shifted, his arm banding behind her back, holding her to him. She settled her head in the dip of his shoulder below the collarbone, then smiled when his lips brushed the top of her hair.
“Now relax,” she said.
“Bossy,” he muttered, but she heard the affection in his voice.
“Leadership qualities,” she replied.
“Ahh, Helia, what are we going to do?” he whispered. The last words she heard before drifting off to sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Shards of panic sliced through Monk, dragging him from sleep and into confusion. His heart raced; a thousand needles pricked his skin as his pores expanded. Sweat coated his body, and his chest jerked as he gulped for air.
“It’s okay,” he heard. Only it wasn’t. It was anything but okay. Roger was back. He was going to drag him down to the dungeon and…and…
“Collin.” A soft voice, a female voice, cut through the panic. A lighthouse he could make out but not see clearly.
“Collin.” A small hand settled over his heart. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”
The hand shifted, sliding up over his neck, his jaw, then into his hair. Gentle. Soothing.
“Open your eyes,” she said.
Answering the siren’s call, he did as asked, blinking against a sudden onslaught of light.
A curtain of honey-gold hair brushed against his shoulder. Hazel eyes hovered over him. “Helia?”
His heart tripped again as someone knocked on the door. He jerked his attention to the solid wood, calculating how to get Helia safely away from Roger.
“It’s Dulcie,” she said, her voice soft but firm.
Dulcie.
Helia continued stroking her fingers through his hair as reality reasserted its place in his mind. He wasn’t a thirteen-year-old boy. Roger was dead. Helia was beside him. His brother, his family, was knocking. Not Roger.
Another knock.
“Coming,” Monk said, sitting up. The move dislodged Helia’s hand, but he grabbed it and set a kiss on her palm before sliding off the stupidly tall bed.
