Chapter 9
Alex couldn't remember ever being so completely terrified before. It was God's truth that he hadn't even been fazed when he was shot while working in Chicago. That was all a part of the job and the wound had been inflicted by a .22 and could hardly be called a flesh wound; it had only hit him in the meat of his shoulder, 6 weeks in a sling and a couple stitches was all it took to patch him up. But when he had been rocketed out of his sleep by Juliette's frantic screams of his name and body racking sobs, he had been thrown into unbridled panic. Apparently, so had Mick and Cale-who had opted to stay the night on the couch after one too many beers-because they had come rushing into the bedroom with their weapons drawn.
Now he held her in his lap with her legs wrapped around his waist, one arm tightly wound around her waist while his other hand stroked up and down her back. Her sobbing had finally stopped, and was now down to a few whimpers and deep calming breaths as she worked to compose herself. Her hands that had been tightly fisted between them now splayed wide over his chest and her face was pressed into the side of his neck.
"Jules," he murmured and felt her shift. She pulled away and looked at him, eyes red and cheeks stained with her drying tears. He could see the monster headache brewing behind her eyes. "Bad dream?"
"Got it in one guess," she said softly. The fact that her eyes were constantly moving over his face-as if committing it to her memory-was not lost on him.
"Want to tell me about it?" He asked, sighing when she only shook her head. She reached up with her hands and used her fingertips to trace his face. Softly, almost as if they were feathers, her fingers moved over his forehead and to his cheeks. They moved across them to his nose and down to his lips and out to his jaw. Slowly they slid down his throat and rested at the base right over his pulse. "Jules..."
"I'm sorry," she said gently and shifted to get up only to be held firmly in place with his hands on her hips.
"Jules," he said again and waited for her to meet his eyes with hers, "who is an evil whore?" He asked when she looked up at him.
"I was talking in my sleep?" She asked, not answering his question.
"Sugar, you were screaming in your sleep, Mick and Cale came running in here guns drawn for Christ's sake."
"Wow," she murmured, "I haven't done that since Jack died."
"Fine, now that we've established that you haven't done something that nearly gave me a heart attack in years, answer my question." He sounded annoyed and it was enough to have her snort out a sardonic laugh.
"My sister," she replied, "what else did I say?"
"You were screaming for me, tell me what happened."
"Not much, I just watched my sister and her lover waltz into my bar and murder you and Duncan," she said as if it were an everyday occurrence. "Oh, and you died in my arms." She would not tell him that her subconscious was wishing they were in love and engaged. Only her life could get so royally fucked up. What the hell was wrong with her anyways? Whatever it was had to be fixed and goddamn fast.
"But the good news is I got to shoot the bad guy," she said and whirled her finger around in such a sarcastic mime of "whoopee" he almost laughed.
"Do you want to call Duncan?" He asked. How could he have known that she was now worried about him? The question warmed her and made a genuine smile tug at her lips.
"No, I'm sure he's fine. But..."
"But?"
"My cousin Claire, for some reason I have this terrible feeling that they'll go after her because she and I are so close," she told him and nibbled on the corner of her lip. "If something were to happen to her..."
