In His Keeping (Slow Burn 2)

“Save it, Caleb,” Beau said quietly. “I need you to back off on this.”

It was the closest he’d come to asking his brother for what essentially amounted to him turning a blind eye to activities the brothers usually shared, worked on together, decided on. Caleb studied him in silence a moment and then seemed to reach a decision or at least heed Beau’s request, which was issued more as a directive when Caleb was unused to answering or deferring to anyone.

Ramie let go of Caleb and crossed the short distance between them and bent slightly to kiss Beau on the cheek.

“Promise you’ll be careful,” she said in a low voice.

He offered her a reassuring smile. “Always.”

SIXTEEN

BEAU roused instantly from sleep, his neck protesting as he straightened from his awkward position in the recliner where he’d drifted off keeping silent vigil over Ari. He blinked rapidly to bring the room into focus, adjusting quickly to the dim light radiating from the slightly ajar door of the bathroom.

Then he blinked again, unsure if he was seeing correctly or if he was having some bizarre hallucination.

Random objects floated haphazardly around the room. The lamp, which was turned off, bumped the wall and suddenly flickered on. The television remote hovered a foot off the floor beside his recliner. Novels that lined one of the shelves of his bookcase thumped and banged against one another before popping out from the shelf and then dropping suddenly to the floor in a cascade of motion.

Things he couldn’t see, but could hear, rattled, knocked and clicked. It seemed the entire room was in motion. He automatically thumped his hands down on the arms of the recliner just to ensure that it wasn’t moving, shaking or floating. Then he planted his feet solidly on the floor to regain his sense of equilibrium.

Suddenly realizing just what was going on, he yanked his gaze from the jittering objects to where Ari still lay curled up on his bed. Her brow was creased, deep furrows appearing in her forehead. Her mouth pursed and then opened, a whimper escaping. One arm flailed outward as if warding off an unseen attacker.

Realization was swift that she was in the throes of a nightmare and her power, now unchecked, was like an electric current in the room, zapping and moving objects with no rhyme or reason, reacting to the utter chaos of her current thought pattern.

He lunged to his feet, afraid she’d incur a serious psychic bleed if she continued as she was. Calling her name softly, he slid onto the bed, catching her flailing arm and trapping it against the hard wall of his chest.

“Ari, honey, wake up. You’re all right. You’re safe. It’s me, Beau Devereaux. Open your eyes, sweetheart. Look at me. I’m right here.”

He continued his soothing stream of babble, reaching with his free hand to rub up and down the curve of the arm secured against his chest. Not knowing what else to do, he leaned in, pressing his lips to the deep lines that marred her forehead, all the while murmuring soft reassurances and pleading with her to wake up.

He lifted his hand, brushing his thumb underneath her nose and then over her plump upper lip, emitting a huge sigh of relief that as of yet, she wasn’t bleeding. Now if he could only pull her back from the vicious grasp of her dreams before she did start to bleed.

“Ari, please baby, you’ve got to wake up,” he pleaded softly, his breath blowing warm over her chilled skin.

She shivered violently and he pulled away just as her eyes jerked open, the pupils dilated, nearly painting her vividly colored eyes black. Her respirations were rapid and erratic and as his hand lowered to her chest, he could feel her heart beating wildly against his palm.

“Beau?” she whispered.

Just that one word—his name—conveyed so much fear that his heart ached for her.

“Yes, honey, it’s me. You were having a bad dream, but you’re safe. I’ve got you. Do you remember where you are?”

Her nose wrinkled momentarily, and a faint puzzled look flashed in her eyes before she visibly calmed, and then she seemed to wilt before his very eyes.

“Oh God,” she said, closing her eyes. “Please tell me that this is a dream. That none of this is happening. That my parents are at home—safe.”

Utter helplessness gripped him, seizing his heart and mind, a sensation he wasn’t at all accustomed to. Nor did he ever want to be accustomed to such weakness. It was the worst feeling in the world, knowing he had no power to fix this, to make it all go away for her.

“I can’t tell you that. I’m sorry,” he said, regret echoed in his every word. “I’d give anything to be able to tell you that, honey, but you’re not dreaming now.”

Her eyes flashed open again, her pupils more normal—and equal—one of the things Doctor Carey had told him was a warning sign of brain injury. Pin prick or uneven or unreactive pupils. It gave him some small measure of relief that despite having used her powers—unconsciously—she hadn’t incurred another bleed, nor did she seem to be ill affected by the incident.

“Are you hurting?” he asked quietly. “Do you need the medicine the doctor prescribed?”

She shook her head in silent denial. She stared into his eyes, seeming to absorb him. Awareness slithered up his spine, despite his attempt to quell it. But she felt it too. He knew she did, because her eyes widened, and she focused in on him even more intently until he felt as though he were drowning in the pools of her eyes.

They were as two magnets, inexorably drawn to one another by a power that defied explanation or definition. It felt . . . right. So very right. More so than anything else he had ever experienced before.