Thomas’s faint smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Tell yourself that. Your hands are shaking, and you look a little pale.”
“You know where we are if you need us,” Marcus added. Even as he put a reassuring hand on Thomas, his glance returned to the cottage, watching after Daralyn.
“It’s good,” Rory told him. He hoped Marcus understood, because he couldn’t explain how he knew that. He just did.
After Rory followed Daralyn into the cottage and closed the door, Marcus and Thomas returned to their own porch. Marcus wasn’t surprised when Thomas took a heavy seat on the front stoop. Marcus sat down next to him, putting a hand on his broad back. Thomas was understandably shaken up, but reassuring him helped Marcus settle down himself.
Daralyn’s feral behavior had been startling, but the big shock had been Rory’s comparative steadiness. Thinking about that put more confidence into the words Marcus spoke to Thomas now.
“He’s okay. They both are.”
Thomas ran a hand over his face. “Fuck, he was right for kidding me about acting like Mom. I was about to demand he take off his pants so I could check him myself.”
“Good luck with that. He’d never strip around me.”
Humor flitted through Thomas’s gaze, but he remained serious. “He’s strong, Marcus, but he’s also vulnerable to infection. Plus a bunch of other stuff when he gets stressed, mentally or physically. Weaker immune system, and his heart and lungs are more at risk, because he’s in a chair.”
“He does the PT regularly,” Marcus reminded him. “Which includes standing cardio. They strap him into that machine that I personally think could convert to some very interesting uses in the off hours. PT room by day, BDSM dungeon by night.”
“Tell Rory that and he’ll never go to PT again.” Thomas sighed. “I know he’s an adult now, and he takes care of himself, does all the things he should to keep himself healthy. Hell, he’s grown up so much. Left behind a lot of the baggage. And out there, with her…who’d have thought he’d turn out to be that mature of a Dom, this soon?” He shot an amused look at Marcus. “Must be the mentor he has.”
Marcus grunted. “Didn’t feel that way when I saw her. It’s different with your own sub. I thought I’d fucked up, given him advice based more on you than on her.”
“No.” Thomas touched his knee, leaned against him, drawing and giving strength at the same time. “Though I don’t like to think about it much, you were a hell of an experienced Master, long before I met you. You knew Rory was going to figure this out. And he did.”
Thomas gazed across the yard to the cottage. The blinds were still drawn, but the lights were on and all was quiet. “When he came out, he was as freaked out as we were, but then something clicked, kicked in, when he reached her.”
Hearing Thomas confirm what he’d seen steadied him further, too. Marcus ran a hand down Thomas’s back, hooked his thumb in the waistband of his jeans.
“And damn if she didn’t respond to it, right in front of us.” Thomas looked at him. “At that moment, I couldn’t have raised my voice to her the way he did to save my life, or hers. I’m not even sure you could have.”
“Hmm. When it comes to Daralyn, I think we both have a serious big brother, little sister complex. Rory doesn’t.” Marcus nudged Thomas. “And don’t be too freaked out by his sudden onset of maturity. He’ll have a snarky, angry moment tomorrow and remind you why he’s your annoying little brother.”
“Even the anger… It’s still there, but he manages it better. It seems more targeted at the people who hurt her. Which is totally understandable.”
“Yeah. A lot of that to go around.” Marcus’s expression clouded, his green eyes thoughtful. Thomas touched his leg, drawing his gaze.
“Hey. You okay?”
“Yeah.” Marcus pulled himself out of his head, gripped Thomas’s shoulder and gave it a hard squeeze. He had a sudden desire to be balls-deep in his sub. It would remind him that the bond between a Dom and sub could go to depths beyond the complete comprehension of anyone else. Even other Doms or subs.
“Let’s head back in. For tonight, he’s got it. He’s got her.”
Chapter Eight
When Rory closed the door behind him, Daralyn had stopped in the kitchen. She stood there shivering, the muddy robe drawn around her, one hand clutching and unclutching the thick fabric.
His certainty in the yard faltered. He stood witness to a battered soul, a person who’d lived a life directly opposite from what normal meant to him. The idea that he could guide her onto a shared path with him seemed ludicrous. But she couldn’t afford his doubt, so he put it aside.
“Daralyn.”
She turned to him. The aftermath had set in, her gaze filled with misery and regret. Self-flagellation. He wasn’t going to allow that.
“Get me the hand towel by the sink.”
She picked it up and padded across the kitchen to him, moving as if she carried a bag of boulders. After he took the towel from her hand, a whimsical thing with purple flowers printed on it, he draped it over his wheel. Reaching out, he uncurled her hands from the robe, pushed it off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor with a damp weight.
Before she could shiver, he’d reclaimed her hand and brought her into his lap. He spoke softly. “Bring your legs up. Brace your feet against my push rim.”
She did, and she was curled up against him, his arm around her back. He used his other hand to clasp the towel and wipe off her legs. Then he tossed it away and clasped her thigh, the one not pressed against him, to keep her in that folded up position. She’d knotted her hands against his shirt front, tucking her head under his chin. Since he’d unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt when he took off his tie, he felt her cheek against his skin.
“Hold onto me with both arms.”
She slid them around him, and it freed his hands to push them back into her bedroom. Once there, he stopped by the bed, pulled back the covers. “Come get under the blankets.”
“I had such a nice time tonight. I really did.”
“I did, too. Still am. I’m right where I want to be, Daralyn. Get under the covers. You’re cold, and I don’t like that. Face the back window.”
That last direction won him a puzzled look, but she reluctantly left his lap. She settled under the covers on her side, facing away from him.
“Stay like that. I’m going to get in the bed behind you, help you be warmer.”
He unbuttoned his shirt, shrugged out of it. A peculiar stillness came over her, telling him she was aware of what he was doing. He pulled the undershirt over his head. Worked off the slacks and his shoes and socks. He didn’t usually wear underwear, since it was another layer of material that could crease and cause a skin issue. However, since he’d worn the suit tonight, he’d donned dark boxer briefs, which he was glad for now. He’d leave those on, sending the message he wasn’t going to ask for more from her.
He did a quick check with eyes and hands to confirm everything below the waist looked and felt good, no broken skin or blood.