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Authors: Amanda K. Byrne

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BOOK: Fracture
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     “Nora?”

     “Faster,” I whisper. We need to get off the streets, out of the way, grab the clothes and be back soon. Now. Soonnow.

     Declan’s block has all the streetlights shot out. The dark covers everything, turning the buildings into fuzzy outlines. It’s as close to utter silence as you can get in the middle of a city in the middle of a war zone, and it’s got me closer to the edge than being weighed down with Murat’s presence.

     I don’t need to tell him to walk softly. The pair of us creep up the steps side by side. The landing is clear. So’s the hallway.

     The door to the flat is wide open, beckoning a sinister welcome.

     Setting the bundle of blankets down, Murat jerks his head to the door, holding up his hand for me to wait. That’s fine. I’m perfectly content to wait out here, in the dark hallway that is probably clear of anyone wanting to get into some shenanigans. A few tense minutes later, he motions for me to come inside and eases the door shut behind me.

     Somehow the war outside made its way into Declan’s flat. Books and papers, food cartons, broken plates, ripped pillows and cushions with the stuffing spilling out like entrails. Clothing and shoes and paper, so much more paper than one would expect. Bending down, I pick up a scrap. Glossy. Smooth and glossy, like a photograph.

     Torn pictures, littering every surface.

     Murat disappears into the bedroom in search of intact clothes, leaving me to scout out perishables. I can’t stop picking up the pieces of the photos. They’re a puzzle I need to figure out, only Murat’s reappeared and I don’t have time. The paper falls from my hands, useless.

     Murat doesn’t question me when I take the lead, zigging and zagging our way home, doubling back, circling, edging around corners and darting through glass-strewn streets.

     Ismael’s grumbling is loud enough to be heard on the steps. “Soon. He will keep her safe.” The relief in his eyes doesn’t quite cancel out the impatience as we walk through the door. “See? She is back now.”

     “I can’t fuckin’ well see. I can’t get off the bed.” Declan’s disembodied voice holds even more pain than it did before. My stomach knots at the sound. I can’t do this. And I really don’t want to take the syringe Ismael’s holding out.

     Why couldn’t the doctor have given him the shot earlier?

     “He would not let me stick him until you got back,” Ismael says as I stare at the needle.

     “He’s incapacitated. You could have dosed him anyway.”

     “Nora?” Declan, calling from the bedroom.

     
Nora
, the way it sounds, even with his ravaged voice. Something dark and sinful and lovely. My name never sounded as sweet when Ryan said it. An unfamiliar feeling wells. Guilt. I nudge it aside.

     Snatching the syringe, I stalk into the bedroom. “Sheets and blankets need to be changed first. Guess it’s a good thing you’re still conscious.” The brothers shift him off the bed and prop him against the wall, stripping the sheets and blankets aside, smoothing on the clean ones. “Why were you waiting until I got back?”

     Declan’s eyes are still swollen, but there’s a gleam of blue in them, the cracks wide enough for me to see the irises. “You’re a tiny thing, and you went out there alone. You’d already risked your life for me once today. Keep doing it and I’ll be further in debt. I hate owing people.”

     Sheets changed, he’s helped onto the bed again, and he growls until they leave. “I hate being at your mercy almost as much, lass.” Lass? Lass is Scottish. Maybe he’s Scottish. “Go ahead.” He holds out his good arm.

     The man is in a tremendous amount of pain, and he waited until I returned before allowing anyone to dose him. For what? Because he feared I wouldn’t come back, that I’d leave him helpless? “Don’t you think you’d be more comfortable if your clothes weren’t all bloody and soaked?”

     One side of his mouth pulls up in a smirk. His lips are unblemished, full and firm. “Gonna undress me?”

     
It's been so long
. The guilt rises again, spreading sticky little tendrils through my chest.

     “Hey.”

     Ryan’s gone. I have no reason to feel guilty.

     “Nora.” He tries to snap his fingers and grimaces. “I’m foolin’ with you. And yes, if you could get me boots off, that’ll do for now.”

     Foolin’. Turning away, I head for the kitchen, ignoring his protests, and find the scissors exactly where I knew they’d be, in the second drawer to the left of the sink.

     Declan’s eyes widen as much as they can as I give them a testing snap. “Now—”

     “Oh, hush. It’ll be easier to cut them off you.” Easier said than done, too, the denim stiff with blood and dirt. Half of one leg is already ripped, thank god, from the cast. He’s motionless as I snip away, only daring to move when I ask him to lift his hips. I cut away his sweater, a beautiful heavy blue wool I hate ruining. The boots come off, and I tug the covers over him before I have a chance to see him, really see him, stretched out before me dressed in nothing but boxer briefs, a cast, an Ace bandage, and medical tape and cotton pads.

     “Can you move onto your side a little?” He does, and I slide the needle in, depressing the plunger. “Now shut up and get some rest. I’ll wake you in an hour.”

     “Yes, Nurse Ratched,” he mumbles.

     Without waiting to see if he sleeps, I hurry out of the room.

     

Chapter Three

     He’s awake.

     Shuffles and muffled whimpers drift out of the bedroom. Crap. I was supposed to have checked on him several hours ago, and I forgot, too wrapped up in my own thoughts and half-baked plans to remember his concussion. Now it’s early morning, early enough it still looks like night, and Declan’s awake.

     Something thunks, followed by a streak of blue words. The crash followed by another thunk sends me into the bedroom.

     He curses again when I flip on the overhead light. The lamp’s on the floor, and his fingers are doing their best to dig into the fake wood of the bedside table. “What are you doing?”

     “Dancing a jig,” he growls. Someone doesn’t wake up pleasant. “Bathroom through there?” He jerks his head toward the door in the wall.

     Nodding, I start forward, jerking to a stop when he growls again. “G’won. I’ve got it.” His eyes are still mostly swollen, but there’s no mistaking the glare. Fine. If he wants to stumble around and hurt himself even more, he’s welcome to do so.

     More thunks, more cursing, another crash. Shaking my head, I make my way to the tiny kitchen and hope there’s something that can be used as an icepack. The swelling on his face looks horrid.

     The electricity hasn’t been cut on this block, and the fridge cooled off quickly once it was plugged back in. The ice in the trays is cloudy and dirt–encrusted. It’s frozen. That’s what matters. It pops out with a crack.

     I need a towel. A washcloth. Some kind of cloth.

     The flat looks the same as it did when I abandoned it two years ago, if a little shabbier with age. The kitchen towels should be in the same place. Wary of spiders and other nasty things, I stick my hand in the drawer and pull one out. I dump the ice into the middle of a towel and wad it up.

     Declan’s managed to navigate his way back from the bathroom, though he’s balancing on one foot next to the bed. The scowl he shoots me speaks for itself; he can’t quite lower his body to the bed without causing himself immense pain or falling over. Placing the towel full of ice on the bedside table, a grunt escapes me as I take most of his weight. He hisses and flops inelegantly onto the bed, sheets and blankets bunched under him. “Thanks,” he grumbles.

     “Here.” I pass him the towel. “It’s for your face. Help with the swelling.”

     He doesn’t say anything, just presses it over his eyes, groaning as the cold seeps

     through to his skin. It’s not long before the chill of the flat pricks goose bumps on his skin. I’m terrible at this nursing thing. If I’d been thinking, I’d have moved the covers out of the way before he got back into bed. “Lift your hips.”

     He doesn’t.

     “Declan. You want to freeze?”

     “Not particularly.”

     “Then lift your hips, you ass. The blankets are all bunched up under you.” With a grunt, he does, abs contracting with the effort, the light throwing his bruises and scrapes into stark relief.

     It always hits when I least expect it and never at a convenient time. I’m not sure there’s ever a convenient time for a panic attack. It’s a rising wave of greasy, oily black, suffocating and intense. I’m pulling the blankets up, fingers brushing his shoulder, and the miniscule contact rushes through me. A vise tightens its grip on my lungs. Ryan’s in the street, broken and still. The ground is wobbly and someone’s speaking. I think. I can’t hear too well.

     Then there’s a wall of sound, Ryan’s whimpers and hisses, the agonized screams, grunts and taunts in a language I can’t understand. A grip so tight on my wrist I’ll have bruises, and the sound stops and it’s just Declan, but he’s so far away. Tiny, tiny, growing smaller by the minute until there’s nothing more than black sucking me in.

* * *

     A soft buzzing wakes me, my name, over and over.
Nora. Nora. Nora.
It’s starting to lose meaning.

     I’m heavy. My limbs won’t move, and I can’t feel my feet any longer. Opening my eyes takes what little energy I have.

     “Nora.”

     There’s my name again.

     “Nora. Lass. Fuck. Get up.”

     Up. Right. Up. Up? Oh. I’m on the floor, next to the bed. How did I end up on the floor? “Why am I on the floor?”

     “You fainted. Or something. Surprised you didn’t land on me or hit your head on the table on the way down.”

     Unreasonably irritated at his lack of concern, I manage to prop myself up with my hands and immediately regret it, blood surging and swirling, black edging my vision once more. I suck in a breath, let it whistle through my teeth, and wait for the sensation to pass.

     I move slowly, arms and legs still half–asleep. My eyes are gritty from the lack of it. I’ve never passed out from a panic attack before. My stomach clenches with a vicious twist, and I try to remember when I ate last. Probably yesterday morning. Maybe that was why. “How long was I out?”

     The skin around his eyes is a sickening greyish purple, the faint gleam of blue visible through the cracks of his lids. “A minute, maybe. Hard to tell.” He narrows his eyes further, if that’s even possible. “You need some sleep.” With his good arm, he gestures to the other side of the bed. “Get in. Or get on.”

     “I’m fine.” I will be, anyway, once Declan drops it.

     “You’re not.”

     “I’m not getting in the bed. Or on it. You done with the ice?” The towel’s next to his head on the pillow. His hand closes around my wrist. I yank it free. “Don’t
touch
me.” Not now. Not when my skin is fragile and easily scarred. I stalk out of the room.

     I wipe off the dusty countertops and eat some crackers I’d found in Declan’s apartment, wasting time in the dark and wondering how I’m going to continue caring for my uninvited guest. Better than thinking about the fainting spell and what brought it on. Better than acknowledging 
again
, that I can’t move past Ryan’s death. I don’t know how. I’m trapped here, surrounded by reminders of how he died. As long as I am, the nightmare won’t end.

     The sounds coming from the bedroom are too restless for Declan to have fallen back asleep. Dawn is still a few hours away, not that it matters. I have nothing to do other than play caretaker to a stranger.

     A shower will pass a few minutes.

     Locating the change of clothing I brought with me, I hunt down a towel and some soap. It’s dish soap, abrasive, but it’ll do the job. Hopefully the water will heat.

     The towel’s over his eyes when I enter the bedroom. “Think you could turn off the overhead light now?”

     I bite my tongue at his carelessly dismissive tone. While not exactly helpless, he’s certainly not mobile. I replace the lamp first and switch it on before flipping off the light. “Thanks,” he mumbles.

     The bathroom is tiny. Ryan and I would squish ourselves together in the shower on occasion, water trickling into the cracks between our bodies, slicking skin and steaming away. Close, close sex, the kind that’s only possible when movement is limited and lust drives your actions.

     I’m used to the ache — it’s a constant companion — but it always gets worse after a panic attack. Tears are pointless. That doesn’t stop them from running down my cheeks, mingling with the pitiful spray from the showerhead. The water’s lukewarm, growing colder, and still I stand under it until I shiver. Penance. For not being strong enough to put this behind me. For choosing to wallow in the darkness, to shut everyone out.

     The water does its job. I’ve numbed myself, and I’m wide awake. Wide awake with nothing to do.

     Declan doesn’t make a sound when I step out of the bathroom. Asleep, hopefully. It’s good for him, helps dull the pain, speeds healing. Moving as quietly as I can, I pad to the bedside table, fingers closing around the switch at the base of the lamp.

     “Don’t.”

     Okay. Not asleep.

     “Is there more ice?” He moves the towel.

     I take it from him. “I doubt it.” Leaving the lamp burning, I head for the kitchen again. The ice trays are empty, nothing in the freezer that would be of use. I fill the trays and, in a fit of inspiration, soak some of the towels and fold them over, laying them flat in the freezer.

     “No ice, but this’ll help a little.” I’m careful not to touch his bare skin again as I lay a cold, wet towel over his eyes. His jaw twitches. “Go back to sleep.”

     “Can’t. Not tired. Need a distraction. I can’t just keep lying here.”

     I huff out a breath. “If you think you can sit up without any pain, be my guest. I highly suggest you remain horizontal for a while longer. Your torso took a pretty brutal beating.”

     “Thanks for pointing out the obvious.” But he stays on his back. “Talk. Or something.”

BOOK: Fracture
5.82Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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