Fragile

by Shiloh Walker

  She needed from him what her mother had done.

  Forcing her to get up, get out. Get back to life.

  Blowing out a breath, he muttered, “Yeah. That’s what I need to do.”

  Of course, saying it, thinking it, and actually doing it were very, very different things.

  “OH, that was fun,” Liz said, her voice just a little too bright. Her smile, although as sweet and warm as ever, was forced, and Devon saw right through the cheerful pretense.

  But Devon didn’t want to hurt her mom’s feelings or make her worry any more than she already had. Forcing a smile of her own, she said, “Yeah. I’m glad you talked me in to it.”

  They worked their way through the crowded restaurant, following the hostess to a booth way in the back. They’d only waited thirty minutes, nothing short of a miracle this time of day. P. F. Chang’s, as always, was seriously busy, and with the holiday shoppers descending on the mall en masse, it was a stroke of luck the two women had gotten to a table in under an hour.

  As they settled down at a small table, Liz smiled at Devon. But this smile, though sadder, seemed more real. “You never were a good liar, baby,” she said softly. She reached out, tucked a strand of Devon’s hair back from her face, and said, “But you needed to get out of the house. You can’t stay inside forever.”

  Shrugging, Devon opened the menu and tried to concentrate on it. But her mother’s insightful, knowing stare never wavered, and finally, she looked up and met that stare. “I was going to get out . . . soon.”

  “Oh, really? When?” Liz asked curiously, bringing up her arm and propping her elbow on the table. She rested her chin in the cradle of her hand and waited.

  Devon shrugged again. “I don’t know. Maybe this week . . .”

  “And maybe not. Have you called your office about coming back?”

  She shook her head. “My boss told me to take all the time I need. They’ll do okay without me.”

  “But will you do okay taking all the time you need, Devon?” Liz sighed and shook her head. “You do need time, Devon. Time doesn’t heal all wounds; you and I both know that. It does help . . . but not if you just sit around and watch the hands on the clock tick away your life.”

  Squirming on the hard seat, Devon tried not to hear the truth in those words. She didn’t want to hear it; she didn’t want to face reality, face life. As long as she just kept floating through the days like she had been, it was easier not to think.

  Not to feel.

  Warm hands covered hers. She blinked and looked up to meet her mother’s concerned gaze. “Baby, you can’t keep going like this,” Liz said. “Not you. You have to fight this back; otherwise, you’ll lose yourself again.” She reached up with one hand, stroked Devon’s inner arm, touching the faded scars.

  Devon tried to jerk away, but Liz wouldn’t let her. “You’ve lost yourself before, baby. And you and I know that it wasn’t easy to come back. You get lost like that again, there’s no guarantee you’d make the trip back this time.”

  Defensively, Devon jerked her arm and wrapped it around herself, hiding the scars. “I’m not going there again, Mom. I wouldn’t . . .”

  Sighing, Liz leaned back. “I’m not talking about the drugs, Devon. I’m talking about you. When you first came to us, you didn’t care if you lived or died. That’s what I’m talking about. You’re falling back into that hole again, and if you hit rock bottom this time, it’s going to be every bit as hard, if not harder, to climb back out. You really want that fight?”

  “I’m not . . .” She blinked, cleared her throat. Tried again. Her voice shook as she said, “I’m fine, Mama. I’m getting better.”

  “You’re not fine. You’re losing too much weight; you’re drifting away . . . That man of yours? You barely even looked at him the entire time I was at your house.” Liz leaned forward, reached out, and laced her fingers with Devon’s. “You’re pushing him away. Don’t think I don’t see it. Don’t think he doesn’t see it. You’re pushing him away . . . and he made you happier than you’ve ever been.”

  This time, the tears weren’t so easy to control, and Devon turned her head aside as they started to fall. “I know he made me happy.” Made . . . past tense. Even she heard the finality of it. And it hurt. Hearing that hurt.

  The pain hadn’t been absent after all. Just hiding. And for some reason, acknowledging that she didn’t want to let Luke make her happy anymore was the key to opening that gate. Tears burned her eyes, and sobs threatened to choke her. She battled it back through sheer will, but even so, when she looked back at her mother, it was through a veil of tears.

  “Don’t you want that back?” Liz asked.

  Devon shook her head. Her voice trembled as she whispered, “I don’t know, Mama. I don’t know anything anymore.”

  “Is it because you blame him?”

  Devon stilled. Blinked back the tears. Her mother’s hand tightened around hers in a comforting squeeze, but it didn’t give her comfort. Jerking back like she’d been scalded, Devon said stiffly, “I don’t blame him. He didn’t do it. He didn’t make it happen.”

  “But he wasn’t there to stop it, either.”

  Shaking her head, Devon said, “He did stop it. The police came . . .”

  “After that bastard was already dead. Why not sooner?” Liz countered.

  “And what if he hadn’t called them at all? What if he’d waited until he got home to find out why I wasn’t answering the phone?” Devon shook her head, scrubbed the tears from her face. “No. I don’t blame Luke, and I sure as hell hope you aren’t.”

  A slow, pleased smile bloomed on Liz’s face. “Good. I’m glad to hear that.” She opened her menu and started to study it.

  But then she lowered it, glanced at Devon over the top edge. “You know, maybe you should let Luke know you don’t blame him. I haven’t ever seen a man so eaten up with guilt, Devon. This is killing him. Seeing you hurt is killing him.”

  Quietly, Devon whispered, “He loves me.”

  Liz nodded, lifted the menu back up. “Yes. He does. You don’t really want to lose that, do you?”

  Devon closed her eyes and swallowed. Made herself think. Made herself feel. The sweet, blissful fog of the past few weeks was slipping away, faster and faster, and she knew she couldn’t bring it back, couldn’t lose herself in that oblivion anymore. Thanks to her mom. Grimacing, Devon tried to decide if she wanted to thank her or stomp off in a sulk.

  But then she made herself think about Luke. The important thing.

  You don’t really want to lose that, do you?

  The answer, once she let herself think about it, was simply there, no waiting, no searching, no introspection. Simply there, like it had been waiting for her to look.

  “No. I don’t want to lose him.”

  Her mother’s only response was a noncommittal “Hmmm.”

  Rolling her eyes, Devon muttered, “You should have gone into psychology.”

  “I did, baby. But I only use it with you.” She glanced over the menu and grinned. “Is it working?”

  Flipping the menu open, Devon replied, “What do you think?”

  She skimmed the entreés, tried to think of something that sounded good. Actually, the longer she looked at it, though, the more all of it sounded pretty damned good. Her belly rumbled demandingly, and she was still weighing her options when the waitress arrived with ice water.

  “Are we ready to order?”

  Devon gestured toward her mom and continued to ponder. Finally, she decided on the orange chicken. Closing the menu, she asked for a bowl of hot and sour soup. As the waitress took the menu, Devon reached for her water.

  But as she lifted it to her lips, a shiver raced down her spine. It had nothing to do with the cold, though. The skin on the back of her neck started to crawl, and her gut went hot and slippery with panic.

  Lifting her head, she glanced around, trying to pinpoint what was wrong.

  Somebody . . . it felt like somebody was watching her. />
  “Baby? Is something wrong?”

  The sound of her mother’s voice jerked her back to the present, and Devon swallowed, shook her head. Nobody is watching you, Devon. He’s dead. Dead. Buried.

  She forced another smile at her mom and shrugged. “No. Just a case of the heebie-jeebies for a second.”

  WHEN the car pulled in the driveway a good five hours after they’d left, Luke heard it. Gut instinct was to go outside into the soft drift of snow, open the door for Devon, hold her elbow as she walked up the icy sidewalk.

  Second instinct was to just wait in the living room.

  He went with the third one, moving to the door and opening it, waiting there as Devon and her mom climbed out. As they moved to the back of the Subaru, he headed outside. “Anything left to buy this close to Christmas?” he asked.

  Then he took a look in the trunk and blinked. It was literally filled with bags. “Uh . . . guess so.”

  Devon glanced at him, then away. But she had a small smile on her pretty mouth. A real one. Not that blank, empty smile she’d been giving him for the past two weeks. “You know how I am about shopping.” She nodded toward her mom and added, “She’s worse.”

  In a breezy voice, Liz said, “I am not. I’m better. Shopping is an art, sweetheart. You know that.”

  “An art?” Luke repeated.

  “Hmmm. And Mom’s a master. I’m her fledging protégée.” She grinned at her mom.

  For a second, just one split second, Luke’s heart lodged in his throat. He made himself talk, almost afraid of bursting the bubble, but he wanted to see her look at him with that smile on her face. “I don’t know, sugar. I’ve seen you shop. I wouldn’t call that fledging.”

  Liz chuckled. “Obviously you haven’t seen me shop.”

  Devon smiled and reached for some of the bags. Luke went to take them from her, but Liz intercepted him and dumped several more boxes and bags into his arms. “Be a dear, Luke. Can you carry these inside for Devon? I really do need to get home.”

  She waited until Devon had the rest of her bags, and then she brushed a kiss over Devon’s cheek, waved at Luke. “You kids get inside now where it’s warm.”

  Luke glanced down at the load in his arms and then stepped aside, let Devon head up the walkway first. The walk inside was completed in silence. Although Luke still wasn’t sure, it seemed this silence was different, though. He couldn’t explain how, but something seemed different.

  Her eyes, maybe. They didn’t have that flat, vacant stare, and she actually looked at him of her own volition a time or two. Her face wasn’t as pale, either, and while she still hadn’t said much of anything, she didn’t seem so withdrawn.

  Following her into her office, he waited while she stowed her bags in the closet and then did the same with the ones he carried. As she tucked one last box away, Luke tucked his hands into his pockets and waited.

  He wasn’t sure what he was waiting for, though.

  At least not until Devon took a deep breath, bracing herself, or at least it seemed that way to Luke. She slid the pocket doors shut and then turned around to look at him, leaning back against the doors. “Hasn’t been the best first Christmas season the two of us could have had, huh?” she said into the silence.

  “No.” In his pockets, his hands clenched into fists. It was hell, he’d discovered, having a gut full of fire-hot fury and no place to direct it. The only target that deserved the kind of fury he had trapped inside was dead, dead and cold in the ground. There was no way to make Wilder pay for what he’d done to Devon.

  “I’m not real sure how to get things back the way they were.” Her voice was sad, soft, and wistful. Her lids lowered over her eyes, and the look on her face added just one more jagged tear to his heart.

  “Is that what you want?” He had to know. The distance between them, the pain inside of her that he couldn’t ease. He kept thinking that Devon would decide she’d deal with this better if she just wiped the slate clean and started over. Away from him.

  “Yeah.” She lifted her lashes and stared at him. Her voice was different now, and Luke suspected it wouldn’t ever be the way it used to be. The whiskey-rough timbre would most likely sound sexy as hell to a lot of men. But Luke couldn’t hear it without recalling the ring of bruises around her neck and how her throat had been so swollen, she hadn’t been able to swallow even a spoonful of water for two days after the attack. It was a miracle her throat hadn’t been permanently damaged, that her airway hadn’t been crushed.

  Her head cocked to the side, the long, russet red sweep of her hair framing her face. “What about you? Do you want that, or are things too different now?”

  In a rusty voice, Luke whispered, “Things are different—and they aren’t. I fucked up, Devon. You got hurt because of me.” So much for putting it aside, he thought bitterly. But the words had escaped before he could stop them, and it was too late to take them back.

  He stared at her from across the room and wished he could go to her, wished he could hold her. But he wasn’t so certain he had the right.

  “I got hurt because that of that crazy bastard. Not because of you.” Pushing off the wall, she started toward him, and when she stopped, she was so close, he could smell the warm scent of honeysuckle on her skin and see the faint discoloration that still marred the creamy flesh of her neck. “And, if we really want to be honest here, how much worse could it have been if you weren’t around, Luke? Would he have gotten to me before? Done worse?”

  Her voice hitched, and she broke off, swallowed, licked her lips. When she continued, her voice was just the slightest bit uneven. “And we both know it could have been worse.”

  Although neither of them said anything, they were both thinking of Danielle. The other woman hadn’t just been beaten and terrified. Wilder had raped her repeatedly throughout the day. Broken ribs, a concussion, a shattered cheekbone—plastic surgeons had been called in. The physical damage could be fixed; Danielle would heal.

  On the outside.

  But the rest of her was a different story.

  “Have you talked to her any more?”

  Devon shook her head. She’d gone to see Danielle in the hospital exactly one time. Luke had been with her, and when Danielle had looked at Devon and started to panic, they’d left. “I left a message with her mom. If Danielle wants to talk with me, she’ll get in touch.” She grimaced and added, “But I’m not expecting to hear from her.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Tears glinted in her eyes, and when she blinked, one broke free, spilling over to roll down her cheek. Luke reached up, slowly, waited for her to flinch away. Instead, as he wiped the tear away with his thumb, she turned her face into his palm and kissed him. “I hate him for what he did to Danielle, more than any of this. She wasn’t anything to him, an innocent bystander, and he damn near killed her.”

  When she stepped forward and pressed her body against his, Luke swore the earth shifted and moved. And as she slid her arms around his waist and settled against him, rubbing her cheek against his chest, he all but heard the little click as everything in his world settled back into place.

  Well, not quite. He still had the rage eating away at his gut like acid, and he didn’t dare do more than hold her for fear of scaring her.

  But this? This was a start.

  MORNING dawned, and Devon found herself wrapped in Luke’s arms. The faint, silvery light of early morning streamed in through the slit in her curtains, but she had no desire to move.

  Against her back, she felt the warm, long length of Luke’s body. Against her bottom, she felt another warm, long length—no, not warm. Hot, throbbing.

  Ever since the attack, Luke had been treating her like spun glass. He always woke before she did, leaving the bed in silence, although it was usually the absence of his warmth that woke her. He didn’t seem in any hurry to move this morning, though, and Devon was glad of it.

  Mostly.

  When he slid a hand over her hip, she held still, almost afr
aid to let herself react in any way. She didn’t want to go back to being scared to death of a man’s touch, especially not Luke’s touch. Yet she knew that was an unrealistic expectation, and she’d been dreading this on some level.

  The part of her that hadn’t completely shut down, that is. Dreading anything sexual, yet also regretting the knowledge that it would hurt Luke when she pulled back.

  But as he stroked his hand up and down, slow and gentle, all she felt was warmth. It spread through her lazily, need easing through her instead of exploding. The bed shifted under him as he pushed up onto his elbow, lowering his lips to brush them over her shoulder.

  “Morning.” His voice was husky and soft, and it sent shivers running down her spine.

  “Hmmmm. Morning.”

  He kept up the slow, lazy caress on her hip, but his touch was light, almost impersonal. “Don’t suppose you’re in the mood for breakfast, are you?”

  “Uh-uh.” Closing her eyes, she focused on his hand and wished he’d touch something beside her hip. She bit her lip and wiggled, pushing back against him.

  Luke, nice and casual-like, eased backward, breaking the contact between their lower bodies. Smoothed her hair back from her face and asked, “Was that uh-uh a yes or a no?”

  Rolling onto her back, Devon smiled up at Luke. “It was a no. Or least a no, not right now. Right now . . .” She reached down and closed her fingers around his wrist, tugging his hand upward, guiding it to her breast. Her face flamed hot, and she knew she was probably blushing to the roots of her hair, but she didn’t look away from him. “Right now, I’m in the mood for this.”

  Like a flash, heat leaped into his eyes, but then it was gone, tucked away and hidden. He dipped his head and rubbed his lips against hers. “Devon . . .”

  She narrowed her eyes at him and then let go of his hand, shoving at his chest until he fell back—humoring her, no doubt. She could shove on him all damn day and she wouldn’t budge him until he let her. That was fine, though. Just fine. As he settled down beside her, she threw one leg over his hips and straddled him.