Jen watched Daemon cross the kitchen to the coffee pot and pour himself a cup. She frowned at the tattoo on his forearm. She could swear that it had been on his biceps last night.
“Jenny, you mind giving us a few minutes, man to man?” the sheriff asked.
For some inexplicable reason, she did mind, but had no reason to say so. Instead, she rose and collected her crutches. Daemon met her gaze and offered a tight smile. She realized that he wanted this, wanted to talk with Hale alone. She supposed he wanted to lay any suspicions to rest.
Seeing no option, she left them alone.
The sheriff’s voice drifted to her. “So where were you last night, Mr Alexander?”
“Last night?” Daemon’s tone was laced with perverse humour. “Why, I was right here, Sheriff. With Jen.”
She froze. He didn’t exactly lie. He had been here with her as night fell. But after that? Where had Daemon been then? And why did he only offer a partial truth?
“Why do you ask, Sheriff? Was there some problem last night?”
“Mrs Peteri says she saw someone lurking in the woods. Someone with a flashlight that has a blue bulb. A very powerful flashlight. That wouldn’t have been you, would it, Mr Alexander?”
Daemon laughed. “Come outside and search my car if you feel compelled, Sheriff Hale.”
“I just might do that,” the sheriff said. “Might like to look at where you live, too. You rent a room at Maybelle Tewksbury’s, don’t you?”
“I do. You’re welcome to look there, as well.” Daemon paused. “I don’t own a flashlight. Blue bulb or otherwise.”
But he did. If not a flashlight, then some other type of light. Jen had seen it leaking through the door of the room Daemon had been working in last night.
Not bothering with stealth, because her crutches made that hopeless, she headed up the stairs to the room under the eaves. Heart racing, she pushed open the door. The walls that had been covered with her grandmother’s floral paper were now a soft cappuccino colour. She hobbled into the room. Paint tins were neatly placed on a folded drop cloth, roller trays washed and stacked. And there was a high-power light in the corner, switched to “Off, but still plugged into the outlet. Plugged in. Which meant it needed electricity to work. This couldn’t be the blue light Lina Peteri had seen in the woods.
With a sigh of relief, Jen turned back towards the bedroom door. Her heart twitched and stopped.
The wall was still covered in her grandmother’s paper, but it looked fresh and new. No dirt, smears or tears. Somehow Daemon had cleaned and restored it. Moving closer, she placed her hand on the wall, feeling her world tip a
nd tilt. What sort of man did something like this? Something so selflessly kind?
From outside came the slam of a car door, the roar of an engine, and a moment later Daemon was there, framed in the doorway, his dark hair falling across his brow. His lips curved in a small smile.
“Sheriff Hale left?” Jen asked, feeling inexplicably awkward.
“Yeah.” Daemon closed the space between them. “Do you like it? The paper?”
“I love it.” I could love you, if I let myself. Oh God, where had that thought come from? This man was not for her. He could never be for her. She had known for her whole life that she was different, that no man could be her future. And for the first time, that reality made her unbearably sad.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t save it all, but I managed to strip away enough bits from the three most damaged walls and use them to patch the fourth. Then I restored it with an eraser and a little brush—” he gestured at a couple of small paint tins “—after I matched the colour of the flowers.”
Again, her world tilted. The amount of work he’d done. For her. He’d done this for her.
“Thank you. You have no idea—”
“But I do. That’s why I did it.”
His blue eyes were bright and clear against the fringe of dark lashes. They were beautiful, deep, and glittering with something she was afraid to acknowledge. She felt the heat of him as he stepped closer. Catching her wrist, he drew her hand to his face, turning to rest his jaw against her palm. He drew a shallow breath and held very still, careful, cautious, as though it had been a long while since anyone had touched him this way.
The contact scorched her, made her ache and yearn.
Her crutches limited her movements and she cursed them silently. She wanted to rise up on her toes, press her mouth to his.
“Kiss me,” she whispered. It was both an order and a plea.
He slid his fingers to the base of her skull, threading them through the strands of her hair. Her eyes flew open, then fluttered closed as he kissed her, lips hard on hers. He wanted her and he let her know that, his kiss spinning through her, touching every part of her like a live wire. With a moan, she arched into him, her crutches clattering to the floor, her weight held in his arms.