The person he was closest to.
“Don’t die,” he said against the side of her face, the discomfort of their physical intimacy almost forgotten as he whispered into her ear. “Ne meurs pas.” He considered loading her into his truck and heading into town, taking her to a hospital. But there was nothing in Blackwood. He’d have to go all the way into Charlottesville, which would take an hour, longer in this storm. Not a good idea, especially considering he’d been drinking. Maybe he should call 911. Thiswasan actual emergency. He couldn’t imagine an ambulance getting up here, though.
After a while, something shifted. Abby’s trembling subsided, and she let out a long, unhappy-sounding, “Mmmmmmm.”
“Oh, thank God,” Luc whispered with relief.
Another pained groan from her pushed him slightly away.
“Are you okay? What do you need? You’re hurt. Where are you hurt?”
“Burns,” she slurred.
“It burns?”
Her only response was a moan. But that was good, right? Sensation returning?
“Okay. I’ll call an ambulance or the authorities or—”
“No!” she groaned against his neck. “Please don’t.”
“Why not, Abby?” he asked.
“It’s bad. So bad,” she said, slurring.
“Okay. Okay, I won’t call anyone.”
Luc held her in near silence, the only sounds the gentle crackling of the fire, a sleepy sigh from the dog, and the dry rasp of his hand rubbing her arm.
He moved to her hand, relieved to find the fingers warm. Hehadto take her to the hospital, didn’t he? Wasn’t there something about the heart being affected if the body got too cold? He rubbed and rubbed her fingers, ignoring the feel of her against him, until finally he couldn’t ignore it anymore and backed up to give her space. To givehimselfroom to breathe.
“Please,” she whispered. Luc lay stock-still, breathing hard. “It’s better when you hold me.”
He pulled her in again. “I’ve got you, Abby. I’ve got you.”
* * *
Hurt. Everywhere. Hot, hot burning, worse than anything Isaiah could do. Worse than God’s wrath.
There were flames. They crackled close, popping like hellfire, growing, consuming. Tears rose up, and with them came regret. At all the things she’d never see, never do. It used to be wearing jeans and boots. Or flip-flops, with the sand in her toes. A milk shake for Sammy. It was different, this new regret. Darker. Hotter, rooted in her belly. Caresses. Aches to be tamped down, desires to be satisfied.
Her lips moved, saying something. They hurt. Dry and parched. Almost stuck together. More words came out, and a hand touched her cheek, blessedly cool. Hard against her lips, words floated through the air and cold, cold water in her mouth. Sputtering, choking. Hauled up, sitting.
I can’t open my eyes, she thought, although suddenly, the thought was floating in front of her, stolen from her brain. Her lungs. Real words.
Other words in response. “Drink,chérie. Drink. Can you please?”
Drink. Luc wanted her to drink.
She wanted that, too.
She drank. Each sip an effort, each movement controlled from somewhere outside her body, above or below or perhaps a tiny spot in the farthest reaches of her brain, telling her to pull in, slowly swallow, open for the next sip.
He was there. She could see those harsh features, lips set in a grim line, eyes too shadowed to make out. Realer tonight than he’d been before. So real, she had to reach out and touch his face, run a finger down that chipped-looking nose, its texture exactly like the rock on the mountain.
“Go back to sleep.” His words gave permission, and so she did.
13
