Émilie has a plan. And, by this point, I’m really only in the proper mental state to process step one, which fortunately is the only step that matters right now. Her suggestion? That we take no further steps tonight.
It’s too late to contact the council. They’re on eastern time, and it’s midnight for them. Insisting on notifying them at this hour suggests an emergency. Well, I suppose a dead body and a comatose resident does qualify as an emergency, but there’s nothing they can do. Sophie isn’t a resident, and the resident is stable. Notification can wait, and if anyone questions that, it was Émilie’s decision and her authority supersedes ours.
I try going to check on Jay, but Dalton threatens to physically block the clinic door. April will notify us of any change in his condition. The next step is dinner. He sends one of the militia to fetch us a hot meal and deliver it to our home, one of the perks of being the guy in charge. We curl up on the sofa to wait for it and …
And the next thing I know, I’m waking on the floor, under a blanket, still curled up with Dalton, who’s asleep. Storm dozes on my other side. It’s dark outside, and I can faintly smell dinner, but there’s no sign of it. Just me, my guy, and my dog, napping by a smoldering fire.
Dalton has stripped down to his boxers—raised up here, the man is not good with heat—and I slide the blanket off his shoulder to admire the view, the hard curve of lean muscle, the smooth skin with only a few faint scars, so much different from my own marred canvas. I touch his chest, too lightly to wake him, and run my hand up to the bristle of his stubble.
I trace a finger along his jaw as my gaze traces the curve of his lips, and heat sparks deep inside me, the urge to kiss those lips and run my hands down his body and—
And the poor guy is getting some much-needed sleep, which I will not disturb even if, come morning, I’ll confess this urge and he’ll assure me he never needs sleep that badly. I chuckle under my breath and press my lips to his with just enough pressure that I hope the touch wends its way through his dreams.
When one gray eye opens, I smile and murmur, “Sorry.”
“Looking for your dinner?” he murmurs back.
“Not … exactly.”
His lips curve in a sleepy smile. “Hungry for something else?”
“You could say that.”
The smile grows, and he rolls onto his back, arms folded behind his head, blanket pushed down over his hips.
“All yours,” he says.
I pause a moment to enjoy the view. Then I roll onto him.
* * *
Sex and then dinner, which we eat on the floor, naked in front of the fire. We don’t talk. Talking right now would be police work, so we eat in companionable silence. When we’re done, Dalton shifts closer, leg hooking over mine, both of us on our stomachs.
“How are you doing?” he asks.
“Scared,” I say, and the word comes with a jolt, as if someone has pushed it out of me. I shake it off with a ragged laugh. “I don’t know where that came from.”
He looks over, his expression calling me a liar.
I shift uncomfortably and shrug. “I’m feeling overwhelmed right now, but I’ll be fine.”
“You sure?”
“I can manage this, Eric.”
“Not doubting that. I mean are you sure it’s just feeling overwhelmed? Not feeling like there’s a boulder over our heads, rocking there, ready to fall? ’Cause that’s how I’m feeling.”
“I hoped it was just me.”
“Nah, sorry.”
He flips onto his back and puts an arm out, and I slide onto it, letting him tug me half onto him.
He continues. “I just feel like all this…”
“Might be the last straw? With the council? That, at the very least, this mess with the hostiles makes a good excuse for clamping down? And by clamping down I mean doing something drastic.”
“Like firing me? Sending you away? Separating us so we can’t cause more trouble?”