He'll have to break all the rules to keep her, but first she has to break just one and let him in...
It's taken four years, but Anna Fray has finally put the past behind her. Mostly. She fills her days working in a bar and her nights watching bad ro...
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The first thing I became aware of was warmth.
Not pain.
Not panic.
Not the smell of damp earth and mould clinging to the back of my throat.
Warmth.
For a few blissful seconds I drifted in that strange place between sleeping and waking, cocooned beneath a thin blanket and something solid and reassuring beside me.
Then the memories came flooding back. An unwelcome winter wind blowing open a door which slumber had tentatively sealed shut.
Christopher, that sickening crack and his glazed stare.
The conservation centre with its disturbing decay.
Olivia and the weight of her confession.
And lightning. Blinding, bright, beautiful.
My eyes flew open.
The room was bathed in pale winter sunlight. Dust danced lazily through the beams spilling in through the window.
Home.
I was home.
A familiar chest rose and fell beneath my cheek.
Atticus.
Relief hit so hard it stole the air from my lungs.
His arm was draped across my waist, holding me against him. Slowly, I tipped my head back and looked at him. His face was buried against a velvet teal cushion, dark hair falling across his forehead.
Atticus Crowe was asleep.
Actually asleep.
For a moment I simply stared. I wasn't sure I'd ever seen him sleep before. Rest, maybe, or disappear into one of those strange Watcher trances where he seemed half in this world and half somewhere else.
But this?
This looked human.
There were faint shadows beneath his eyes and his mouth was slightly parted. Without his usual alertness he looked younger somehow. Softer.
Vulnerable.
A faint pulse hummed beneath his tattoo where my hand rested against his chest. It beat in gentle rhythm beneath my fingertips.
One beat.
Then another.
Almost like a heartbeat.
I watched him for a moment longer than was probably healthy.
