Chloe knew this.
“It…aren’t you worried?”
“No.”
“Chloe, how can you be so sure? I’m not fucking sure. I’m terrified that I will do something to—”
“I’m not even a little worried that you will turn into some uncontrolled killer.” Just so they were clear. “I have not worried about that issue since five minutes after meeting you. Whatever he wanted to happen to you, it didn’t. He failed.”
Silence. The only sound was his deep breathing. “You know there’s something dangerous inside me.”
“You’re not dangerous to me.” Weariness pulled at her. Her body began to relax against his. As she drifted to sleep, Chloe thought…
Didn’t he get it? She could sleep in his arms because he was safe for her. The safest place in the world.
***
“Chloe, baby, wake up.” Joel softly stroked her cheek. Three hours had passed since Chloe had fallen asleep in his arms.
Her eyes fluttered open. The room was dark, with the only light spilling though her window.
“Tell me your name.”
“Constance Catherine Chloe Hastings,” she whispered. “But my friends call me Chloe.”
He smiled. “Go back to sleep.”
“I am asleep,” she murmured back as her eyes drifted closed. “And I’m dreaming about you.”
***
“Chloe, wake up.” His fingers slid against her throat. Her pulse was steady. Strong.
She murmured his name, but didn’t open her eyes.
A fission of alarm snaked through him. “I need you to open your eyes and talk to me.”
Her lashes fluttered. He’d moved so that he was crouched on her side of the bed, and Joel peered at her. “Do you know where you are?”
“I was sleeping,” she retorted, voice both grumpy and husky from sleep. “But then you had to wake me up.”
“I’m checking on you. I have to make sure you’re still making sense, sweetheart.”
“I always make sense.” Her eyes sagged closed. She shoved a fist under her pillow.
***
“Chloe…”
“G’away.”
“I want you to open your eyes. Last time, okay? When you wake up again, it can be on your own.”
Her face scrunched—pretty freaking adorably—but her eyes didn’t open.
“I need to make sure you’re not slurring your words and that you’re not having any mental confusion.” Her “G’away” had seemed slurred, so he wanted to hear more.
One eye cracked open.
“Who is your brother?” Joel asked her.
The other eye opened. “I never found his body,” she whispered. “I searched and searched, but couldn’t find him.”
“I know. I know, and I’m sorry that you—”
“If you don’t have the body, how do you know for sure someone is dead?”
Her stare was very, very alert. Her words hadn’t slurred at all. Once more, he was crouched on her side of the bed, the better to see her face and check her responses. But, at her words, his shoulders straightened.
“Sunlight is coming in the window,” she noted. “Day is here again.”
“You don’t need to get up yet. Go back to sleep.”
“But if I do that, I’ll just see the knife. I’m plunging it in over and over—”
“Chloe?” Did she realize exactly what she was saying?
Her lashes swept down. “I’m plunging it into you.”
Chapter Fourteen
Chloe’s eyes opened. The room was bathed in bright sunlight. A dull ache throbbed at the base of her skull, reminding her of the time she and Marie had pulled an all-nighter on Bourbon Street. Marie had been sure that she could drink Chloe under the table at the first stop of the night.
She’d been wrong.
Chloe sat up slowly, waiting for more pain. Her shoulder was a little stiff, and she was sure it would sport a lovely bruise, perhaps a purple or blue shade, but otherwise, she felt pretty good, all things considered.
Joel wasn’t in the bed with her. Wasn’t in the room at all. A long sigh slipped from her. She remembered him waking her during the night. Talking softly to her. Chloe was fairly sure she’d responded appropriately to him each time he’d questioned her, but she couldn’t swear on that fact.
She pushed back the covers and prepared to face whatever madness would come that day—
The hinges squeaked.
The bedroom door opened fully, and Joel balanced a tray on one hand as he crept into the room. When he saw her sitting up, he paused. “Oh.”
The tray was filled with eggs. Orange juice. Biscuits. Even beignets. No tea. Unfortunately.
“I guess I don’t have to be quiet, not since you’re up.” He gave her a quick smile, one that flashed his dimple. The smile seemed oddly nervous.
Chloe realized that she felt nervous around him, too. “Why are you bringing me breakfast?”
“Thought it would be better if you got some sustenance in you before you went heading down the stairs.” He brought the tray forward. Settled it over her. It was one of those trays made for beds—the legs slid over her body so that the top was leveled for eating. “I also just wanted to take care of you so…yeah. The beignets are probably shit. Marie watched me make them and just made fun of me the whole time. By the way, your kitchen is now covered in powdered sugar. You’re welcome for that.”
Chloe tried to figure out a way to tell him that she didn’t have much of an appetite.
“You haven’t eaten since the attack,” he pointed out as he sat in the nearby chair. Her reading chair. She’d snuggle into that chair when she needed to escape the cases that haunted her. Plush, soft, it was heaven. “I need to make sure you can keep food down.” Joel pointed at the tray. “So humor me and try to eat a little, would you?”
She picked up a beignet. Powdered sugar covered her fingers. “I didn’t expect you to have such a…caring bedside manner.”
“I’m only a jerk on certain days.” His stare never left her. “Days when I think I might turn into a freak killer and hurt the only person in the world who matters to me.”
“Oh.” She took a bite out of the beignet. Hurriedly put it back down and reached for the orange juice. After four swallows, she was able to say, “I get that.”
“Is the beignet really shitty or can you not keep down solid food?”
She tried the eggs. Much better. “I’m afraid the beignet was just really shitty.”
A laugh sputtered from him. Her chest seemed to warm, right over the place where her cold, cold heart used to be. She stared at him and felt a faint smile curve her lips.
“You had a bad dream last night,” he said as his eyes darkened even more. “Do you remember it?”
She often had bad dreams. And, yes, she remembered everything. Even her concussion hadn’t stopped that trait. “Yes.” Chloe ate slowly. She finished off the eggs. Half the biscuit. All of the orange juice. “Am I clear now? Do I get a good doctor’s report?”
“Who was the man who attacked you?”