Page 19 of Lesson In Forgiveness

The awareness, the suspicion, didn’t lessen as he watched the pieces fall into place behind her eyes. She was taking stock of everything—herself, her surroundings, the situation.

Finally, her lips curved. “You can keep your head for a while longer, big boy.”

Well, that was reassuring. “Thanks, I appreciate it. Think you can slow your breathing down some more, little tiger? That nightmare packed a punch.” He traced a fingertip down her cheek where sweat dampened her skin.

Tabitha snorted derisively, the look she gave him indicating she thought he was an idiot. “Ugh, and people say I’m crazy. I don’t have nightmares; you need to feel emotions like fear to have nightmares.” She paused, frowned. “Just for clarification, I don’t feel fear.”

She did on some level, he thought. Whether she realized it or not, she felt a hell of a lot more than she believed. “Not feeling anything would make you a monster, which is something you’re not. Little tigers who bare their fangs and lash out with claws extended know fear, understand it.”

Indignantly, she pushed up on his chest. Irritation flashed in her eyes. “This is how I wake up every time, Grit. Sweaty, a little breathless, maybe nauseous sometimes. Just like normal people.”

Jesus Christ, someone needed to open her eyes to the truth of what was happening inside her own damn head. She’d been on her own for so long, her issues were warping her sense of self-care. “You’ve been watching me sleep for how long, Tabitha? How many times have I woken up sweating, gasping for air, my heart hammering in my chest until I want to vomit?”

“I always leave before then,” she said slowly. “But others… they’re the same as me. I smell the sweat on them if they wake before I finish the job.”

Probably because she scared them shitless as they snapped out of sleep to a knife at their throat, or however she dealt with her hits. “Can you remember what you dream about?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not fanciful enough to dream. It requires imagination, and my father wasn’t fond of cultivating that in his offspring. The only imagination we were permitted was what we needed to master improvisation. Dreams are for romantics and fools.”

Grit’s eyes drifted to her mouth. Kissing her was a tremendously bad idea, but he had a yen to show her what romance and dreams could do to a fool. Later, perhaps, when her eyes weren’t narrowing into slits of frosted annoyance. “Like it or not, Tabby Cat, your brain is working overtime once you fall asleep.”

“Must you call me names?”

“Must you stalk me?” he countered.

She actually took time to consider his question seriously. The skin between her eyebrows creased with the depth of her thoughts, her lips pursing. “Does it bother you?”

“Yeah, it’s kind of disturbing to know a woman who mastered the art of killing people as a child is consistently breaking into my room and watching me sleep.”

“Oh.” Tabitha chewed on her bottom lip. “Am I supposed to… apologize?”

“That would be appreciated, but I’d honestly prefer you promise not to do it anymore.” Christ, he didn’t enjoy her kicked puppy expression. “When you feel lonely, send me a text or call me. Nine times out of ten, I’ll probably invite you over for takeout and a movie.”

“But not the tenth time?”

Wow, she really picked up on the finer details of a sentence, didn’t she? Grit met her eyes directly, unashamed. “Sometimes, I might have alternative plans.”

Her lip curled in revulsion. “Sex.”

“Men—and women,” he added when her mouth firmed into a line, “have basic needs, Tabitha. Water, food, company. Sex is a big part of our basic needs as humans. It might be a physical representation of love, but sometimes it’s just about connection. Two people coming together to feel.”

Tabitha made a tortured noise in her throat, rolling off him and onto her feet. Her eyes were wildly blue, not completely focused, as she rambled in a sing-song voice. “No, no, no, said the dandelion puff. Too big, so scared, too rough. The monster laughed and made her cry, until the dandelion puff wanted to die.”

Shit. Grit pushed into a sitting position, swinging around to stand, but her jittery movements warned him to sit still. She was like a gangly-legged raccoon dancing on a sea of minefields. “The monster is dead, little tiger. You killed him, remember?”

“Monsters never die. Kill them, kill them, kill them, and they always come back.” Her hands fluttered indecisively, then grabbed a hank of her own hair and yanked savagely. She whirled toward the door. “Blood washes everyone’s sins away but mine.”

Letting her leave the room when she was as far apart in body and mind as this was asking for someone to die. An accidental bump, a harsh word, or even a misinterpreted glance would set her foot down on one of those mines and set off a chain reaction.

Even as he rose, Tabitha strode away, ignoring him when he called her name despite the sharp snap of command in his voice. She flipped the lock, tearing the door open. “Goodbye said the hatter to the hare. Farewell, friend, this is not the end.”

Hell, he’d snapped what few sane wires were left in her head, it seemed. The woman needed a kind touch, quiet words, and a damn good fucking. Her father’s actions had screwed her up seven ways to Sunday; only a man with a wealth of patience, a firm but sympathetic approach, and about fifty years of time stood any chance of breaching her defenses.

A small voice niggled at him, pointing out the obvious: he’d already slipped under her guard. Regardless, he wasn’t the man she needed, not by half. His kinks and her phobias were as far from compatible as engine oil on cereal, and he wasn’t a shrink by any definition.

It was odd, he thought as the door slammed shut behind her, to feel the urge to call her back. To have a sense of emptiness now that she was gone, even though her presence kept him on edge.

Tabitha was beautiful, smart, a brat in the best way, and appealed to him on every level. She’d already proved she was a challenge, inclined to throw wrenches in the works, and had no regard for anyone’s laws but her own.

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