Sweat coats my body like oil, dripping into my eyes and stinging them while I make my way back through the tunnel. I shine the light up toward the opening of the hole, mapping the best route to climb up with her on my back.
“Hold tight, baby.”
She attempts to tighten her arms, but her hold is weak as I ascend the rock wall. Sawyer’s head rests on my shoulder, flopping around as I jostle her, worrying me further. It couldn’t have taken more than thirty seconds to reach the top, but every second felt like too many.
Carrying her through the cave and out of the entrance is a blur. The cool air is a balm to my flushed skin, though the bright light pierces my eyes and forces me to stop until I can focus properly.
“Oh no, Enzo, I’m looking into the light,” she mutters, a teasing lilt to her tone.
“You’re not funny,” I snap, squinting against the harsh sun as I carefully make my way across the uneven terrain and get us onto the sand.
“I’ll get you to smile one of these days,” she murmurs. “Maybe you should do it one time before I die.”
“You’re not dying.”
“You sure? I think I hear Jesus talking to me.”
“Then you’re definitely not dying. Jesus would never talk to you.”
She snorts, then groans. “You’re right. Maybe it’s just your voice I’m hearing, and that’s my sign I’m going to Hell. You are the devil, after all.”
If I’m the devil, she’s fucking Lilith.
Finally, I reach the lighthouse, getting the door open and rushing her to the couch. Setting her down gently, I take off to find the first aid kit.
“You’re weirding me out,” she says when I return. I pause long enough to pin her with a glare.
“Didn’t I say you can’t get away from me? That means in death, too,bella.”
She crosses her arms, keeping silent as I get to work cleaning her wound. There’s a minor laceration across the back of her head, but it doesn’t appear to be too deep.
“What’s the diagnosis, doc?”
“You’ll be fine. Doesn’t need stitches, but you probably have a concussion.”
She sighs, opening her mouth to respond, but the creak of the metal steps cuts her off. Sylvester reaches the bottom floor, hobbles through the kitchen toward us until we come into view, stops to take one look at us, and then rushes over as quickly as his wooden peg will carry him.
“What happened to ’er?” he asks, crowding over her to inspect her injury.
“Give her some space,” I snap. Sylvester huffs but backs away.
“I fell,” Sawyer explains sheepishly, shrugging her shoulder. “’Tis nothing but a flesh wound.”
I cast a look to Sylvester. “I’m taking her upstairs. She has a concussion and needs to relax.”
“Well, all right then,” he agrees easily, stepping farther away.
Sawyer goes to stand, but I swoop her in my arms before she can take a step. A little gasp slips from her pink lips, and once more, that desire to taste them arises.
“I can walk.”
“You’ve proven you can fall, too.”
Her face twists into a snarl, aiming a glare my way. She looks like an angry kitten. This close, I can see how bright her eyes are, with a darker navy-blue outer ring.
A buzz forms beneath my skin, and now that I’m no longer distracted by her wound, having her this close is dangerous. It feels too fucking good, and rather than my typical anger, it terrifies me. I’ve faced far worse, yet a five-foot-nothing nymph is what brings me to my knees. I want her out of my fucking head, but she’s in too deep.
I feel Sylvester’s eyes burning into my back as I carry her up the stairs and into our room. When I set her down this time, it’s less gentle. I’m still angry she nearly killed herself, and the prospect of that is debilitating.