Page 90 of Edge of Oblivion (Night Prowler 2)
Locked. She’d locked the door against him.
He could have easily broken it down, but he knew what she meant by it. The Fever was over.
They were over. And in his state of anguish and utter self-loathing, it had torn a hole in him wide enough to drive a truck through. Everything good in his life inevitably ended. And the better the good thing, the more catastrophic the ending.
For every gift, an equally terrible price.
He’d decided while he and Bartleby had driven to this place in the predawn dark with Julian’s shrouded body in the back of the car that he was cursed. Because of who and what he was, because of the life he’d lived, because from the very beginning he’d been unwanted, an outsider in a world he could see but never touch, his very being was tainted. Like the gentle rain that turns to ruinous floods or the morning sun that rises to scorch all the earth dry at noon or the soft breeze that becomes a hurricane, anything he touched started out fine but always turned to shit later.
Cursed.
So it was better Morgan stayed away from him. Better she wanted to stick to their agreement, better she thought he did, too, though it would kill him to even think of not being near her again, not touching her again.
Because he knew without doubt he was in love with her. He was totally gone. She infuriated him, she drove him to distraction, she baited him and challenged him and defied him, but for all that, she calmed him in a way no one ever had. And after years of his being dead, she made him feel alive.
With her, he felt...whole.
“We should get back. I need to check on Mateo and Tomás,” Bartleby said, rousing Xander from his thoughts. He opened his eyes to find the doctor gazing solemnly at him, a furrow between his brows.
Xander nodded, a chill like ice spreading through his gut. He leaned down to retrieve the two shovels and handed them to Bartleby. “Give me a moment,” he said.
Bartleby laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Take your time,” he murmured with understanding, then turned and slowly walked down the sloping hill toward the car, a grave-digging shovel clasped in each hand like a pair of morbid walking sticks.
Xander stared down at the freshly disturbed patch of grass at his feet. He felt, for the first time in his adult life, fear. Mingled with regret and the kind of acid, devouring sorrow that doesn’t have a name, it was almost completely debilitating. For a moment he didn’t know if his lungs would remember how to expand and contract. He almost hoped they wouldn’t.
How much pain can a heart take before it just stops beating? he wondered, swallowing around the flame of agony in his throat. Surely it couldn’t endure much more?
“Good-bye, old friend,” he said, head bowed. “I’m sorry. Wherever you are, I hope you can forgive me for all the ways I’ve failed you.” He took a long, slow breath, then lifted his head and stared out over the sun-kissed rooftops of Rome, red and gold and glimmering in the morning light.
“Maybe I’ll see you soon,” he whispered.
When he and Bartleby arrived back at the safe house, he found Morgan curled up on the black leather sofa in the media room with her feet tucked beneath her body, chewing on a thumbnail as she watched television. She was so absorbed in the program, she didn’t hear when he came in and stood staring silently at her from the doorway. She was dressed entirely in black, leggings and a long black cowl-
neck sweater belted at the waist to make a knee-skimming dress. Her feet were bare, her hair was pulled back in a loose bun, her face was devoid of makeup.
She was, as always, breathtaking. His heart broke all over again.
“We’re back,” he said tonelessly, and she jumped.
“Oh!” She leapt from the couch and faced him, pale as snow, the hand at her throat shaking, pulse pounding furiously in the hollow of her neck. “I didn’t—I wasn’t—” she stammered, blinking, and adjusted the neckline of her sweater, closing it tightly around her throat. “I was watching TV.
They said—the news said someone gave an undercover video to the press showing animal abuse at that facility...and the authorities have gone in to shut it down...” She trailed off, waiting for him to reply.
He said nothing. He’d already forgotten about the phone with the photos and video he’d dropped off early this morning at the local news offices. At this moment he could hardly remember anything at all; it took every ounce of his concentration not to cross the room and yank her into his arms. He wanted to bury his nose in her hair, bury himself in her warmth and scent and softness, cry like a baby while she held him and wiped his tears away.
“I was so worried,” she murmured, staring at him, her eyes soft.
Cursed! he screamed at himself, and stayed put. He forced his face to stay in the expressionless mask it had grown accustomed to over so many years and said, “The Fever’s gone, isn’t it?”
She shifted
her weight from one foot to another. A flush spread across her pale cheeks under the weight of his stare. She nodded, looking absolutely as miserable as he felt, and bit her lip.
Inwardly, he groaned in torture. He wanted to bite that lip himself. His hands clenched to fists at his sides, and he stood staring at her, willing himself to remain where he was until his body vibrated under the agony of push/pull, stay/go, hold/break. But the Fever was gone, she’d locked him out of her bedroom, they had a deal, and anyway he was no good for her.
He had to let go.
Only he had no idea how he would do that when being with her suddenly seemed more important than air.
