Edge Of Oblivion

42

The table. He’d hit the coffee table, he’d rolled in the broken glass—

“Are you hurt?” he said again, harsher this time, taking a step over the blood-splattered ivory carpet toward Morgan.

“No.” Her gaze flickered down to his waist. He put a hand over his abdomen and felt his own blood seep hot and thick between his fingers. A tiny sliver of glass pricked the tip of his finger.

Christ. It went all the way through. He’d seen enough knife wounds to know that a perforated bowel was not going to be pretty. And he was bleeding like a stuck pig, which meant there was a distinct possibility one of the abdominal arteries had been compromised. If he had any chance of survival, he needed help.

Fast.

“Listen to me very carefully, Morgan,” he said, his tongue strangely numb. “I want you to get my cell phone from the leather case on the desk and call the first number on the speed dial. No one will speak when it’s answered, but tell them you’re with me, and I’m hurt. When they ask for it, the password is Esperanza.”

He felt both hot and cold, and sweat had bloomed over his chest. He took another step toward her and almost stumbled. She jerked forward with both hands out and crossed the room.

“Say you understand. Say it, Morgan.”

“You’re bleeding.” Her voice cracked. “Here, sit on the couch. Let me take a look.”

She guided him to the couch, and without protest, he let her. With pain now radiating out from the wound in throbbing hot spikes, he held perfectly still as she quickly unbuttoned his shirt and smoothed it over his shoulders, then pulled it off his body. She knelt next to him and touched his side, probing, her fingers featherlight on his bare skin. Her movements were careful, almost reverent, and he realized she was taking care to avoid hurting him.

She didn’t want to hurt him. That thought gave him as much pain as the blade of glass embedded in his body. He closed his eyes, concentrated on his breathing, and let the deep, warm scent of her skin wash over him.

Not bad. This wasn’t a bad way to die. Here, with her, with her scent in his nose and her fingers soft on his skin. Of the thousand ways he’d imagined his death, one as pleasant as this had never been included.

“It’s clean, but I won’t lie—it’s bad,” she said. “I’m not going to remove it because that will only make it worse.” He smiled, wondering how she knew that. “Do you think you can lie on your side?”

He opened his eyes and looked at her, and when she looked up into his face he saw not fear or panic but something cool and detached that looked worryingly close to calculation. It froze his heart to stone in his chest. And that’s when he realized she wasn’t going to call anyone for help. She was going to let him bleed out here on the wheat-and-ivory striped silk sofa, and then take her freedom once and for all.

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 because 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.