Page 55 of Esperance

“Oh.” He shoved a hand through his hair. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” She was surprised by her desire to move closer to him. Refusing to cave to such a thing, she kept her feet firmly planted. “Are you all right?”

“Fine.” It was clearly a lie, and he must have realized she wasn’t convinced, because he exhaled slowly. “I often have trouble sleeping.”

He didn’t expound, and she didn’t pry. She didn’t have to be an empath to sense his reluctance to talk about what was troubling him.

Instead, she said, “I’m sorry if I disturbed you.”

The corner of his lips twitched. “Clearly, I’m the one who disturbedyou.”

His burst of humor was fleeting, but her interruption had dulled the edge of his pain; possibly enough that she’d be able to ignore it if she returned to the bedroom, but she hated to feel any person hurting—no matter who it was.

Still, they hardly knew each other, and she didn’t know if he’d want her to stay—or if she truly wanted to.

Her bare feet shifted against the cool stone floor, indecision tugging at her. “I can leave you to your thoughts,” she offered.

“Please don’t,” he said softly. “My thoughts are rarely good company these days.”

She never would have expected that raw vulnerability from Carver; she couldn’t leave him now.

She moved for the settee, which put her closer to him, but still maintained some distance. She’d decided it was best to never get too close to Carver; whenever she did, her body betrayed her.

She settled on the end of the settee at an angle, so she could easily view him over the cushioned back. “I used to have trouble sleeping,” she said. “After I lost my mother.”

“I’m sorry.” He leaned back against one of the balcony columns, his gaze never leaving hers. “How old were you when she died?”

“Seven.”

His emotions—already tumultuous—became more so. Sadness, compassion, pity—they all prodded her. “I’m sorry,” he repeated.

Her fingers picked at the edge of her wrapper, anxious for something to do as she remained otherwise still. She never talked of her mother.

Ever.

She edged her thoughts away from the actual loss of her; that horrible feeling of her death. “I missed her during the day, of course, but it was in the darkness of night that I mourned her. I . . . I hated the dark. And the quilt on top of me would become stifling. I’d have to shove it off. I’d pace. And I’d hate the fact that all around me, everything was still as everyone else slept peacefully. It made me feel more alone.”

Carver said nothing, just watched her, but his shoulders looked heavy, as if they were supporting the column he leaned against, and not the other way around.

“One night, Rix—my uncle—found me pacing in my room. He was surprised to find me awake, but not crying from a nightmare.” That’s how he’d usually found her, in those early months after losing her mother. How many nights had he heard her screams, stumbled into her room, and gathered her into his arms?

She forced those memories away and focused back on Carver. “I don’t think he really knew what to do with me. He got me a glass of warm milk, he tucked me into bed, but I still couldn’t sleep. So, he told me stories. Silly ones. Fantastical ones. Stories from his childhood that included Torin and my mother.”

“He distracted you.”

She nodded. “He’d sit with me for hours, even though he had a schedule full of important meetings the next day.”

“Did it work?”

She smiled faintly. “Yes. Somehow, even though I knew what he was doing . . . it worked every time. He would tell me stories, and I’d tell my own, and eventually I’d tire and fall asleep.”

“I’m glad you had him,” Carver murmured.

“So am I.”

In the following pause, he looked over his shoulder toward the jungle that loomed outside the netted balcony doors. He slowly spun the silver ring on his forefinger, the motion clearly unconscious.

“I never used to have trouble sleeping,” he admitted. “It’s been more recent. Since I returned from Harvari.” He didn’t say anything else.

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