The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood #12)(84)
Author: J.R. Ward

“I am enjoying.” She headed back for the counter and cut more bread. “These boys, they need to eat more. Too thin, too thin.”

At this rate, she was going to turn his backups into—what was the expression, sofa potatoes?

And what do you know, even though those two males were stuffed, they took another slice of her homemade bread, and dutifully layered on the sweet butter.

Unbelievable.

Assail shifted his eyes over to Marisol. Her head was down, her fork testing the mettle of the food. She hadn’t eaten much, but she had opened the copper-colored pill bottle Doc Jane had given her and taken one of the gray-and-orange capsules inside.

He wasn’t the only one watching her. The eagle eyes of her grandmother were monitoring everything: Every move of that fork, each sip from her glass of water, all the non-eating that was going on.

Marisol, on the other hand, was watching no one. After the emotional reunion with her bloodline, she had closed up, her stare staying on the meal, her voice limited to yeses and nos about condiments and seasonings.

She had retreated to a place he didn’t want her to dwell in.

“Marisol,” he said.

Her head came up. “Yes?”

“Would you like me to show you to your room?” The instant that came out of his mouth, he glanced at the grandmother. “If you will permit me, of course.”

According to the old ways, the senior female would have been Marisol’s ghardian, and though he rarely showed respect to humans, it felt appropriate to pay mindfulness to the woman.

Marisol’s grandmother nodded. “Yes. I have things for her. There.”

Sure enough, there was a rolling suitcase parked by the archway into the great room.

As the grandmother went back to her own food, he could have sworn there was a slight smile on her mouth.

“I am just exhausted.” Marisol got to her feet and picked up her plate. “I feel like I could sleep forever.”

Let us not talk of such, he thought as he, too, stood.

After she kissed her grandmother’s cheek and spoke in her mother tongue, he followed her, putting his dishes in the sink, and then going over to the suitcase. He wanted to put an arm around her. He did not. He did, however, pick up the luggage when she went for it.

“Allow me,” he said.

The ease with which she gave in told him that she was as yet in pain. And assuming the lead, he took her out to the stairs. There were two sets: one that went up to his chamber, another that proceeded down into the basement, where there were five bedrooms.

The grandmother and the cousins were on the lower level.

Glancing over his shoulder, she was silent and grave behind him, her eyes drooping, her shoulders slumped from fatigue that was more than just physical.

“I shall give you my room,” he told her. “In privacy.”

It would not do for him to stay with her. Not with her grandmother in the house.

Even though that was where he wanted to be.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

Before he knew what he was doing, he willed the reinforced pocket door out of the way, exposing the highly polished black-and-white marble stairs.

Oh … shit, he thought.

“Motion detectors, huh,” she said, without missing a beat.

“Indeed.”

As she mounted the steps, Assail tried not to notice her body’s movements. It seemed the height of disrespect—especially as she was limping.

But dearest Virgin Scribe, he wanted her like nothing and no one else.

His quarters took up the entire top floor, the octagonal space providing three-hundred-sixty-degree views of the river, the distant urban core of Caldwell, the forested flats to the west. The bed was a circular one with a curving headboard, its platform set directly in the center of the room beneath a mirror ceiling. The “furniture” was all built-in: burled walnut cabinetry served as side tables, bureaus, and the desk area, absolutely none of it getting in the way of the glass walls.

Hitting a switch by the door, he triggered the drapes, which swept forth from their hidden compartments, their flowing lengths billowing as they locked into place.

“For your modesty,” he said. “The bath is through here.”

He reached around a doorjamb and flipped another switch. The color scheme of the bedroom was almond and cream, and it was repeated in the marble floors and walls and counters of the loo. Funny, he had never thought one way or the other about the decor, but now he was glad for the calming tones. Marisol deserved the peace she had earned in her hard-won battles.

As she walked about the bathroom, her fingers drifted over the veins in the marble as if she were trying to ground herself.

Pivoting around, she faced him. “Where are you sleeping?”

Never one to hesitate in stating his position, he nonetheless cleared his throat. “Downstairs. In a guest room.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Isn’t there another bed up here?”

He felt his brows lift. “There is a pullout cot.”

“Can you stay? Please.”

Assail found himself clearing his throat again. “Are you sure that’s proper with your grandmother here?”

“I’ve got the heebs so badly, if I’m alone, I’ll never be able to sleep.”

“Then I shall be pleased to accommodate the request.”

He just had to make sure that was all he did …

“Good. Thank you.” She eyed the Jacuzzi tub beneath its windowsill. “That looks amazing.”

“Allow me to fill it for you.” He went forth and cranked the brass handles, the rushing water crystal clear and soon-to-be hot. “It is very deep.”

Not that he’d tried it out himself.

“There is also a petite cuisine here.” He popped open a hidden door, revealing a squat refrigerator, pint-size microwave, and coffeepot. “And there are victuals in the cupboard above if you get hungry.”

Indeed, he was a master of the obvious, was he not.

Awkward silence.

He shut the little cabinet. “I shall wait downstairs whilst you attend to your—”

Marisol’s breakdown arrived without preamble, the sobs racking her shoulders as she put her head in her hands and tried to hold the noise in.

Assail had no experience comforting females, but he went to her without missing a beat. “Dearest one,” he murmured, as he pulled her against his chest.

“I can’t do this. It’s not working—I can’t—”

“Cannot what? Speak unto me.”

Muffled into his shirt, her reply was clear enough. “I can’t pretend it didn’t happen.” She lifted her head, her eyes luminous from the tears. “It’s what I see every time I blink.”