At least...not all of him.
I swooned against the pillows.
He carried Peter all the way home.
He stabbed someone for me.
He protected Mollie and Rachel.
I wanted to hug him.
He’d done all that while bleeding and hurt.
And then, he yelled at me.
I huffed and blew hair out of my eyes.
My gaze landed on his face. On his hollow severe cheeks, clenched jaw, and thick black eyelashes.
It isn’t fair.
He was like a Venus flytrap.
Dressed up with pretty petals but with poison waiting deep within.
I laughed as I pictured myself as a hapless fly, landing on his petals for an innocent sip of nectar, only to be devoured.
Good grief, I thought this stuff wasn’t supposed to make me hallucinate?
Henri shot me a sharp look as he padded closer toward the bed. His eyes searched mine as if making sure I was okay. But he didn’t say a word. Not a single one.
His unspoken question echoed in my ears; I answered him anyway.
“I’m feeling great!” I nodded sharply, confidently. A slight twinge all over but nothing like before. I never wanted to feel that way again. The excruciation of so many bruises. The needling pain in my side.
No, thank you.
Another wave of softness descended as Henri sat carefully on the bed.
The mattress rocked a little under his weight, making it feel as if I lay upon a giant fluffy marshmallow.
My heart squeezed as I studied his drawn face. No light in his eyes. No aliveness or awareness or need.
He’s not sinking...he’s drowned.
Raising my arm, it hovered on its own accord. So light. Featherweight and flimsy. I tried to reach for him. To give him touch. To give him something to cling to.
But he reared back as if I’d tried to strike him.
I recoiled, wincing in preparation for another scolding.
When nothing came—when he merely opened a tub of cream and shifted closer—I let my stupid heart guide me. Just like I always did. Just like I probably shouldn’t.
With a quick breath, I pressed my hand on his thigh.
My fingers burned with his strength.
The towel around his hips slightly damp and cool.