She glared as she dropped her palm to her side. “I’ve had much fouler things in my mouth. Chill out.”
Fair, but not the point.
“Why don’t you go back to the house?” I told her. “I’m going to stay here and talk to him when he wakes up.”
Ria frowned. “But you’re scared. You need me.”
“I’m fine.” I forced a smile. “I’m just a little worked up, but I’m fine. I’d feel better if I knew you were home safe. We’ll get the window boxes tomorrow—”
“I’m not worried about the window boxes,” she said. “I’m worried about you—”
“And I’m fine.” I forced my smile higher, took her shoulders, and held her gaze. “Everything’s fine. I’ll be home in a couple hours. Stay by the phone, and call here if you need me, okay?”
Still frowning, she studied me for a moment. “Alright. But where’s your phone book? I want to make some calls too.”
“Who to?” I asked.
“Some of those Witches you know.” Her voice lowered, glancing at the door. “Maybe we should keep this quiet though. We don’t know what any of this means, and before we go screaming from the rooftops…”
“Yeah, I agree. But if you talk to Dad, don’t tell him,” I whispered. “Until we know more, don’t tell him anything.”
“Why not? He might know—”
“He might not. He might be just as confused as we are. Then he might run his mouth to someone he shouldn’t,” I said. “Just… Until we know more, this is between me and you.”
She glanced at the door. “And what’s his name, I guess.”
I sighed deeply. “And Declan.”
CHAPTERTEN
DECLAN
Beep.Beep.
Plop!Plop!Plop!
Thump-thump.Thump-thump.
It was so loud. That thump, the beep, the plop. It was all so fucking loud, and I wanted to scream at it to shut the hell up. But even licking my dry lips was a challenge.
Bright, too. It was so bright, but my eyes were closed.
My chest hurt. Not like it was burning, not like it was on fire, but like someone was sitting on it. Which typically did not hurt with being as strong as I was. But that was the best thing I could equate it to. Intense, heavy pressure.
The weight on my eyes wasn’t much different. They felt thick; like they were crusted over. I tried to open them on my own, but it was like they’d been sealed shut. I lifted my hand to rub them, and a quiet gasp sounded.
“Thank god,” she murmured, voice drawing closer. “How do you feel? Are you alright?”
“I’m good.” I wasn’t really—even my voice cracked as I cleared my eyes enough to open them. The pressure in my chest intensified as I spoke. But the masculine urge to pretend I was fine was stronger than I was outweighed my pain.
Brooke’s blue gaze was wide, like they enveloped half of her face. She leaned in and smacked the back of her hand against my forehead. I assumed she was checking for a fever, but it felt more like assault than comfort.
“You don’t look good,” she murmured. “Are you hurting anywhere? Do you feel sick? Do you—”
“I feel like you just backhanded me.” I shooed her hand away and dragged myself upright. That tightness in my chest soothed slightly. Vertical was apparently the preferable position.
“I’m sorry,” Brooke said.