The Cure

Chapter 54

It hadn't been easy to get her to fall asleep, and probably not the best idea to encourage its sweet relief with wine, Nate thought as she breathed softly, her head in his lap.

The ring box in his pocket pressed into his thigh, beneath her cheek.

She hadn't noticed. Thank God.

She was finally out, and she needed to sleep; his neck was stiff from keeping still and his arms were bruised from where she had fought him by the rhythmic whir of the sliding doors, frenziedly tearing at his sleeves as she tried to free herself from his grip, to return to that grief-stricken carboard room, when he told her that they were going home.

Nate tilted his head back against the wood of the sofa back, closing his eyes.

The sound of her murmuring brought him back from his shallow rest, and her eyes were flickering beneath the lids as she dreamed, her wine-bruised lips twitching as she whispered fractured, nonsensical sentences of nothing.

Melissa had gone to Mrs. Nicks' house after her shift, taking photos of the ownerless clothes that Lola had drunkenly described, sending them for her approval as the undertakers shifted patiently from foot to foot against the beige wall of the empty council house.

'Perfect,' Lola had whispered. 'She loves that skirt. Her toothbrush's in the cabinet above the sink.'

They would go back tomorrow, of course. When they had swept magic over her skin, cleaned her up, brought her back to some semblance of life with makeup and a nice blue blouse.

Put her nice gold necklace on. Put her on a better bed.

Speaking of which, he thought, his legs numb; he shifted gently, sliding out from beneath her, then scooping his arms beneath her knees, her back, picking her up with ease and carrying her across the dark loft to his bedroom; she was half-awake, now, blinking blearily, in a daze, curling her arms about his neck and clinging tightly.

'You don't have to be nice to me,' she murmured, her voice muffled against the wool of his jumper as he lay her down on his bed, pulling the blanket over her.

'I know I don't.'

'I'm sorry I was horrible to you.'

'You didn't mean it. I know.'

He squinted in the dark, smoothing her cheek with the back of his hand, trailing his knuckles along her skin until she closed her eyes.

He crept out of the room to clean his teeth, finding his face drawn, exhausted in the speckled bathroom mirror; his eyes were new, unknown to him, twisting with the fierce peace of certainty, of protectiveness.

He padded back to the bedroom, pausing by the door of his bedroom when he heard the gentle sound of her whispering.

She was gazing at the ceiling with glazed, wide eyes, her mouth moving quickly; he turned his ear towards her, leaning carefully closer, trying to pick out the sentences.

Was she praying?

Was she even awake?

He leaned against the doorframe when a breathy, astonished laugh tinkled through the dark room; a sweeping, rhythmic rustle told him she was shaking her head against the pillow.

'I mean, he said he loves me, mum. He loves me.' Her whisper was shuddering, bewildered. 'What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?'