Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 42

I hang up before he can argue, shoving the phone away like it burned me. When we reach Addy’s place, I slide out of the cab, scoop her up and head inside. I dig through her purse for her keys, let myself in, cross to the couch, and drop her onto it.

I’m halfway to the door before something gnaws at me. I curse under my breath, turn back. She’s sprawled like a starfish, heels still on, one arm hanging off the edge. Christ. I take off her shoes and toss them aside, then pull the blanket from the backrest and drape it over her. There. Now I've used up all my annual generosity in a night.

Locking up behind me, I head back to the cab. The driver looks at me in the rearview. “Where to now?”

I’m opening my mouth to give him Xander’s address when he stirs beside me. A small sound first....half groan, half sigh..

then something slurred. I lean in, his lips inches from my ear.

“You ....you let me walk away.”

The words are soft, broken at the edges, but they hit me like a sucker punch. I don’t know why...hell, I don’t want to know why. But there’s something in my chest, sharp and hot, and it’s got me changing the words before they leave my mouth.

I give the driver my address instead. He nods, turns onto the main road.

********

I kick the apartment door shut behind me and carry him straight to the bedroom. He’s in my arms now, all loose limbs and heat radiating through my jacket. When I set him down on the bed, the sheets pull tight beneath him.

His skin’s clammy, damp with sweat, and he smells like he crawled out of a whiskey barrel. I stand over him, taking him in, jaw tight.

“Just how much did you drink?” My voice comes out with a lazy drawl, half amusement, half bite. “Trying to pickle yourself?”

He doesn’t answer, just makes a low sound and rolls his head to the side. I press a hand to his forehead without thinking. He’s burning up. The heat seeps into my palm, along with the realization that my own side’s aching like hell from earlier...from all the recent fighting, but I ignore it.

I crouch, tug his sneakers off...same fancy pair from that day at the park. I toss them aside along with his socks, watch them thud against the wall. Then it’s the shirt. I peel it over his head, trying not to notice the way his skin catches the dim lamp light. The hard lines, the dark ink. I should focus, I tell myself, but my eyes linger anyway.

He’s muttering now....strings of incoherent words, curses, my name more than once. Like I’m the villain in his drunk little nightmare. Probably not wrong.

I work on his jeans next. I could leave them, but… I don’t. Not because I need to. Because I want him comfortable. That’s the excuse I’m running with. I strip them off, toss them onto the growing pile, then run my fingers through his hair. The strands are damp, curling a little at the edges from sweat.

His eyes crack open, glassy and unfocused. He blinks at me, squinting like I’m a trick of the light. Then his hand comes up, slow and clumsy, and hooks at the back of my neck.

“You really here?” His voice is raw, shredded from drink and whatever’s eating at him.

I lean in, close enough for him to feel my breath. “Yeah, I’m here.”

He scoffs...a tiny, humorless sound, and lets his fingers slide away. “No, you’re not… You’re in my fucking head.”

And damn me, but I smile. Can’t help it.

I pull the blanket over him, tucking it in at his waist just enough to keep him warm, then I sit there for a while. He mutters every so often, fragments of thoughts that don’t make sense but keep my attention anyway. After a few minutes, I push to my feet, turning toward the door.

I don't make it one step before I feel a tug on my jacket.

I look back. His hand’s fisted in the leather, eyes half-lidded but locked on me. “Don’t go.”

And there it is, that thing in my chest again, sharp and relentless. The part of me that should walk away… but won’t.

I was going to take the couch. Waste the hours until sunrise, maybe stare at the ceiling until my brain quieted enough to let me crash. I haven’t slept in the same bed with anyone since…

Yeah. Since then.

I don’t like thinking about then.

But Xander’s lying there, flushed and soft around the edges, breathing slow but uneven, like he’s still chasing something in his head. He looks good. Too good. And I’m tired, bone-deep, fight-worn tired. The kind that seeps into your marrow.

“Fine,” I mutter under my breath, more to myself than him. “I’ll stay.”

I strip down..shirt over my head, jeans unbuttoned and kicked off, boots hitting the floor with a heavy thud. The room’s quiet except for the sound of my belt hitting the chair and his breathing. I climb into bed, the mattress dipping under my weight.

The second I reach over and switch off the light, the dark wraps around us. My eyes adjust enough to catch the shift of his body. Then he’s turning, slow but deliberate, snuggling into me like I’m some goddamn safety blanket.

It’s… warm. Comfortable. Too comfortable.

My pulse is pounding in my ears, and that voice, the one that likes to remind me what happens when I get this close, when I let anyone in, is there....spitting warnings. But it’s muffled, like static on a dead channel. White noise.

I give in.

Sliding my arm beneath him, I let his head rest on it, my fingers brushing against the back of his neck. My other arm comes around his waist, pulling him in until I feel the solid weight of him against me. His scent, under all the liquor and sweat, is familiar now. Dangerous.

“Sleep,” I tell him quietly, the word more like an order than a suggestion.

He lets out this soft, tired sound..half sigh, half hum, that sinks straight into my ribs. I lie there, staring at the ceiling in the dark, feeling his breath warm against my collarbone. Every muscle in me is coiled tight, like I’m bracing for something.

And maybe I am.

Because this, him, feels like the kind of trouble I never walk away from despite knowing I damn well should.