It’s a lifeline.
I grab for it, this thin thread connecting me to reality like a rope thrown to a swimmer cast overboard. It feels solid in my grip as I haul myself up, hand over hand, my lungs straining for oxygen. My head breaks the surface, and I suck in a deep breath of precious air. My arms and legs churn frantically, desperate to stay afloat.
“Rune! Damn it?—”
But I don’t get to hear the rest of what my savior has to say. Because another wave comes, washing me clear through the doorway and out into the real world. The door clicks shut behind me, and just like that, I’m back on my stoop again.
I blink once, twice, clearing the red haze from my eyes. There’s no blood. No monster, either. Just my garden in thefading light, asters and mums nodding drowsily, my fountain of Cassandra burbling away. And my unlikely companion.
He’s crouching in front of me, his big hands dangling between his knees, as if he’s afraid to touch me. His eyes are fixed on my face, and his hair is an unholy mess, like he’s been running his fingers through it, the way he did earlier today.
I try to tell him I’m fine. That he should leave. That none of this is his problem.
But the world blurs, and for the second time that day, I black out. This time, I fall.
Straight into Donovan’s arms.
Chapter
Thirteen
My head iscold and wet, but the rest of me is overheating. Gentle, reassuring fingers stroke my hair back from my face. I can hear Valentine purring, a low, steady thrum, but I can’t see her. In point of fact, I can’t see anything; the world has dissolved into fuzzy darkness.
“Rune?” The fingers brush my cheek, their touch warm against my skin. I want to nuzzle into them. “Can you hear me?”
Bewildered, I blink—and find myself staring into the chiseled face of Donovan Frost, creased with an uncharacteristic expression of concern. It’shisfingers on my face,histouch that’s made me feel safe.
What in the actual…
“Ahhh!” I jerk upright, dislodging the package of frozen peas draped over my forehead. It drops into my lap, right on top of the plush blanket that was pulled up to my chin. No wonder I was freezing and smothering at the same time. “What are youdoing?”
Donovan takes a startled step backward, nearly tripping over Valentine in his rush to get away from me. “I’m sorry! I was just trying to help!”
“By hovering over me Edward Cullen-style while I’m unconscious?” I pick up the bag of frozen peas and drop it on the coffee table, where it lands with a clink. “How did I get inside? Did—did you carry me?”
He glares at me, the knight-in-shining-armor act replaced by a crochety dude doing his best impression of Get Off My Lawn. “What was I supposed to do? Leave you lying on your porch? Step over you on my way inside to fetch some smelling salts?”
I glare right back. “Since we’re playing Twenty Questions, what were you doing in front of my house anyway? Do you make a habit of stalking damsels in distress?”
Donovan folds his arms across his chest, those penetrating blue eyes of his boring into me. Valentine winds around his ankles, still purring, the traitor. “Do you make a habit of collapsing? Also, most people would just say thank you.”
“Thank you,” I mutter to the folds of the unnecessary blanket, now puddled in my lap.
“You’re welcome. At the risk of invading your privacy, what the hell happened? That’s twice today. Are you…sick?”
I shake my head, trying to figure out what version of the truth to give him. My filter must be broken, because I go with the plain, unvarnished version. “I have premonitions, okay? The rough ones sometimes make me pass out.”
Now Donovan looks more pissed off than ever. His dark brows lower, and he makes a deep noise that can only be interpreted as a growl. “You don’t have to tell me, Whitlock. There’s no need to make up a crap story.It’s privatewould suffice.”
I should drop this subject. Pursuing it has never done me any good. But I’ve had a truly terrible day, and I can’t let it rest. “What, you don’t believe psychic powers exist?”
He snorts. “I believe in data. Evidence. Not some crackpot excuse for tricking gullible and vulnerable people out of their money. 1-900-give-me-all-your-life-savings.”
Right. So, not only does he not believe me because of my curse, he doesn’t believe people like me exist, on principle. We’re a freaking match made in hell.
Donovan tilts his head, amusement quirking his lips. “Wait. Don’t tell me youdo?”
“I believe,” I say, choosing my words carefully, “that there’s more to the world than what we can see, touch, or hear. That there are forces out there we don’t understand. And just because we can’t measure or exploit them, that’s no reason to dismiss the idea they might exist.”
