She turns silent. “Yes, but—”
“No buts. She’s in no state to be woken. If you trust me, I’ll bring her home tomorrow.”
Silence again. “Okay.” Her agreement isn’t without hesitation; I hear that clear as day, but I pay no attention to it. She trusts me and that’s all that matters here.
“I’ll get her to call you when she wakes up.”
I don’t wait for her reply. I end the call and stare out into the inky night. Fuck knows what Zara’s been through, but my gut’s telling me it’s nothing good. And fuck knows why I’ve decided for her to sleep here tonight. The only thing I do know right now is that this girl is in my veins more than any girl has ever been.
And while I should be doing everything in my power to get her out, I’m choosing to do the complete opposite. Instead of running from danger, I’m opening my arms up wide and welcoming her in.
17
Zara
* * *
The previous night comes back to me slowly as I wake in a strange bedroom. Fury’s bedroom. Well, I’m guessing it’s his room since I’m in his house. I remember throwing up in his bathroom last night while he held my hair. This mortifies me. I mean, is there anything worse than the guy you like holding your hair while you vomit? Though, at this point, Fury has seen pretty much all my bad sides; our entire friendship—if it can even be called that—is one big spectacle of humiliating behaviour on my part. And now I have to go face him while feeling seedier than I’ve ever felt.
I gingerly place my feet on the floor, testing the waters of how I feel in an upright position.
Not too bad.
Not too good either, but okay enough to leave the bed.
Fury’s house is all high ceilings, dark wood floors, and masculine grey. It’s also quite bare with no hangings on the wall or decorating of any sort. Not that I would expect that from him, but still, it’s very stark.
I find him out on his back deck, mug in hand, wearing jeans and that black T-shirt of his I love. He doesn’t acknowledge that he hears my approach, but I know he does, because he’s always on alert.
“Hey,” I say, moving to stand next to him at the railing.
When he turns to look at me, I’m surprised at the warmth I find in his eyes. “How are you feeling?” Even his voice holds warmth. And concern.
His mood helps ease my apprehension. “Awful. But I deserve that.”
He looks back out across his yard for a few moments before finishing his drink. Then, glancing at me, he says, “I’m making more coffee. You want one?”
I shake my head. “No. Thanks. I think I just need to stick to water today.”
He takes that in, the same way he’s taking me in: with an intense look that’s throwing me off a little. It’s like he’s studying me, trying to get a handle on me or something.
“Yeah, not a bad idea.” He jerks his chin towards the screen door. “I’ll get you some.”
We head inside, and Fury makes himself a coffee and pours me a glass of water while I pull up a stool at the breakfast bar.
“Have you lived here long?” I ask.
“Two years.”
“So I guess you’re not going to hang anything on the walls, then.”
He frowns.
I motion at the bare walls. “If you haven’t decorated in two years, I’m guessing you’re not going to.”
He comes around the counter and takes the stool next to me. Still watching me like he’s trying to figure me out. “Do you remember last night?”
Okay.