Page 43 of Edge of Oblivion (Night Prowler 2)
And really, could he blame her?
The room tilted. He didn’t have much time.
“I want you to know I understand,” he murmured. His gaze roved over her face, memorizing the perfect planes and angles, the plush lips, the dark arch of her brows. She pulled back, blinking, and he caught her hand. “I know this is something you need to do, and I understand. And...I don’t blame you.”
She frowned at him. “You don’t blame me for what, exactly?”
“For letting me die.”
As her eyes widened, he lifted his hand to her cheek and traced a finger down the curve of her cheekbone.
Satin. Perfect.
He smiled at her. Then he slumped down onto the sofa’s plush cushions and passed out.
The wave of emotion that hit Morgan was so overwhelming she had to take a moment to breathe against it becau
se she was afraid she’d pass out like Xander just had.
Anger. Shame. Sadness. Regret. Outrage. Disappointment. All of it flooded her at once.
He’d saved her life. And then he’d insulted her. Again.
He thought she was a liar—that much was abundantly clear. She’d already given him her word she wouldn’t run away, but obviously that held no water. He also thought she was low enough to leave him there to bleed out on the couch after he’d risked his own life to save hers. And the way he’d looked at her at the church after he’d kissed her to break the link with the man in white—that had hurt more than she liked to admit.
Because she’d liked that kiss. She’d been lost in it. With his lips on hers, she’d felt something she hadn’t felt in years: connection. Real and warm and illuminating, like someone had turned the lights on in a room kept always dark.
But he’d only been doing his job. The disgusted look on his face after she’d broken away was clear evidence of that.
All of this was only his job, she reminded herself, gazing around the wrecked room. If she died on his watch, he’d be held responsible. It was nothing more than that, and that was as it should be, but she couldn’t seem to get her heart on board. It ached, it throbbed, and she didn’t want to know why.
She really didn’t.
Still shaking, she rose to her feet and found the cell phone in Xander’s bag, right where he’d said it would be. It was hard to dial the number because her hands were trembling and slippery with Xander’s blood, but she did it. She lifted the phone to her ear and listened.
It was picked up on the second ring but not answered, just as he’d said. Only silence greeted her on the other end. She didn’t even hear anyone breathing.
Her voice came low and tremulous. “Xander told me to call this number. He’s hurt, and he told me to call—”
“We have your coordinates,” came the clipped response. It was a male voice, brusque and gravelly, with no discernible accent. “What is the password?”
“Esperanza,” she whispered.
Silence again. Then: “Do not move from your current location.”
“Please hurry—” The line went dead.
She dropped the phone on the desk and went back to Xander. He looked so massive and male on that dainty sofa, so overpowering and at the same time oddly peaceful with his closed eyes, his deep, heavy breathing. Like a napping bull.
A beautiful, half-naked, bloody, napping bull, with a chest full of hatch marks.
She picked up the shirt she’d removed from him and pressed it softly against the oozing wound on his abdomen. He jerked, moaning.
“Shhhh,” she murmured. “I need to keep pressure on it. To help stop the bleeding. I’m sorry.
I’m sorry if it hurts. And I’m going to stay right here with you. I won’t leave you.”
He muttered something that sounded like the password she’d just whispered into the phone, then sank back into unconsciousness.
