She might wake up while I was doing that. She would clearly see me. Standing over her, touching her, she would see me, and it would scare her.
I would scare her. I needed to move away.
Pulling back, I walked to the corner and turned on a small lamp. With the storm getting closer, the room was getting darker; I didn’t want Megan frightened when she woke up to a dark room. She’d be confused enough, I was sure.
I flung myself down in the chair opposite the sofa, just watching Megan. I angled myself so I was almost hidden in the shadows and sat patiently.
Waiting for her to wake up.
Unsure what I would do or say when she did.* * *MeganConsciousness crept back in slow seconds. My eyes opened and blinked; my head fuzzy and confused. I was warm and comfortable, lying on something soft. I could feel various aches and pains on my body, and my cheeks were stinging. My hand drifted up to my face, and I frowned at the strange texture under my fingers on my cheek. It was dry and rough, and I pulled my hand away looking at the dark smears on my fingers.
Mud?
Images flashed through my mind, and I remembered the events of earlier: Dixie disappearing, Zachary’s hateful words, the woods, falling, Elliott finding me, and Zachary appearing.
Zachary.
I lifted my head, trying to work out where I was. My eyes were frantic as I took in the large, unfamiliar room. In the dim light, my heart beat loud in my chest as I looked around, deciding I had to be in Zachary’s house. I could hear the heavy pounding of rain on the roof over head, and the low rumble of thunder in the distance. I shifted, stifling a groan as my throbbing ankle protested. Carefully, I lifted back the blankets in which I was wrapped and saw my ankle was bandaged, resting on a pillow. I frowned in confusion. Zachary must have done that. He must have carried me here and looked after me.
He seemed so hateful toward me—why would he do that?
There was a large fireplace, the flames glowing and dancing brightly in the hearth, casting light into the room. Elliott was lying in front of it; curled into him was Dixie. Tears of relief filled my eyes at the sight of her tiny form asleep beside her large guardian. Zachary hadn’t been telling me she was safe only to calm me down—he had found her. Lowering my hand, I called her softly. She came over, nudging me with her wet nose, licking my face as I picked her up and held her close, stroking her soft fur. She was safe. Despite the nasty words that came out of Zachary’s mouth, he had helped to make her safe, and I was grateful. With one final lick to my face, Dixie squirmed away, trotting back over to Elliott. He greeted her with a long swipe of his tongue on her head. She settled back into his side and they both put their heads down with soft huffs.
My gaze moved and took in the chair beside the fireplace and the figure in it. Zachary was asleep in the chair, his face half-turned into the corner of the large wingback as he slumbered. His long legs were stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles, arms resting on the chair, hands hanging off the ends. For some reason, his hands fascinated me. Large and wide; his fingers were extraordinarily long and tapered. I could imagine them, gripping a brush as he swirled paint around on one of his canvases. Another unbidden image came to my mind: one where his long fingers ghosted over my skin as his touch danced across my cheek with great tenderness. I frowned in confusion. Where had that thought come from? That wasn’t going to happen. In fact, I was pretty sure as soon as he found me awake, I would be asked to leave.
Still, my eyes remained locked on his graceful hands, and like at the gallery, I noticed markings on the back of one of them. I sat up, easing my way to a sitting position, curious as to what I could see. Gingerly, I lifted my foot off the cushion, and pushed myself up onto my feet. Both dogs glanced my way, curling back up, ignoring my slow movements. I tested my foot and was pleased to discover Zachary’s bandage afforded me the support I needed to walk, albeit rather awkwardly. I was stiff and sore, but I could move. I inched closer to the chair and stood, remaining quiet as I observed him. His left hand was smooth. The right one, however, was…not. The skin was marred and puckered, blemished. My eyes widened as I realized I was looking at deep scars over the back and extending down his fingers, causing them to bend at an odd angle. My heart went out to him as I thought of the pain he must feel on a daily basis. I wondered how he still painted such stunning images, when his injured hand must cause him discomfort. I looked up at his partially hidden face. It was the first time I had seen him without a beanie on. His hair was thick and riotous, so dark it was almost black, hanging low on his collar and over his brow. Long lashes rested on his cheek, and I remembered the flash of blue that came from under them as he had glanced sideways at me. His lips were full and slightly pouty; my body hummed at the thought of them covering mine. His jaw was covered in thick stubble, and for some reason, my fingers itched to reach out and touch it. He was devastatingly handsome.