She realized she was making noise, that she was crying out in pleasure and release, because Conall was too, trying and failing to keep his hands at her waist gentle as he thrust in her with the same urgent need that had just broken over her.
Gizelle did not mind his hands grabbing at her; it was somehow perfect for the moment, and she knew beyond anything else that she was safe here, with him.
She had chosen him.
He was hers.
Chapter 32
Conall woke to quiet.
No, not to quiet.
To silence.
It was silent again, and Gizelle was gone.
Despair felt like a heavy blanket. There was moonlight through the windows that Conall had never bothered to pull the curtains across, and he stared out at the jungle canopy that was moving in a night breeze he coul
dn’t hear.
After an indulgent moment of self-pity, he made himself throw off the blanket and get up, turning on the light beside the bed so he could navigate to the bathroom.
He was splashing cool water on his face when he caught sight of her in the mirror.
Gizelle was curled up in the corner of the tile shower, tangled in a towel, with another draped over her as a blanket. Her eyes were closed tight.
“Gizelle,” he said, not wanting to startle her as he approached.
She was shivering.
No, not shivering.
She was trembling, her limbs twitching as if she were trying to flee but couldn’t.
“Gizelle,” he said again, and he gently touched her, braced for the explosion of sound.
He jumped, releasing her, and spun around at the voices. They vanished as his hand left her skin, and a quick survey of the room revealed no one with them.
Cautiously, he touched her again, laying careful fingers on her bare shoulder.
It sounded like there was a storm, a bone-deep rumbling, screams. A man’s voice was saying in agony, “We’re losing her!” A wolf howled in agony, and someone... sang.
She was dreaming.
“Gizelle,” he called. He couldn’t hear his own voice.
Unable to leave her lying there, he gathered her into his arms, towels and all, and carried her back to the bed. “Gizelle,” he called, and she continued to dream. He guessed from what he felt through his arms that she was whimpering, but she couldn’t hear it, so he couldn’t either.
He slipped in behind her, curling close, propped up on a pillow. “Gizelle,” he whispered into her hair.
The sounds were awful, drowned in other sounds he couldn’t even identify, like radio static or wind, and she wouldn’t wake up.
So he sang to her, mouth near her ear, a lullaby his mother had sung when he was a child.
He was no opera singer, but he’d done time in the boys’ choir in school and had always been able to carry a tune. He had to trust he still could.
After a long moment, he realized he could hear himself. It was distant and faint, but just enough to confirm his notes were true.