Page 74 of Want Me, Take Me, Haunt Me, Make Me

“Maybe I’m just tougher.”

“Ha. I know what condition bloodyTarzanwould be in if he’d fought the thing—how’s that for clarity?”

She laughed, which made her prove his point by wincing. “Iamsore,” she admitted. “And pretty exhausted. And”—one question, fairly urgent, did come to mind—“I’m guessing that I have at least a day or two before your master makes another try? Sending a kaiju after me must have cost it some power, but I don’t know how much it has.”

“Not nearly enough to worry about just now. I can’t swear to how many days we’ve got, but I’m certain it’s at least one.”

“Thank you.” One of the knots in Hazel’s stomach unwound. “And in that case, I probably should be boring and go sleep for a while. Can’t avoid my bedroom forever.”

Whatever Maxwell saw in her face made his soften. He stood up when she did—much more smoothly than her, since his whole left side probably didn’t ache—and met her eyes with calm certainty. “I’ll keep watch,” he said. “On the other side of the wall, of course, but I’ll be there.”

To hell with it.

He wouldn’t kill her, he couldn’t drag her back with him, and Hazel was too tired to be paranoid about any other situation. “You can stay wherever you like,” she said.

* * *

He wanted her. Of course he did; he’d wanted her since she’d had him bound in thorns and battled him with questions, and he’d stopped denying it when he’d caught her in the ruined city. To be close to Hazel was to be aware of her nimble hands, her agile body, the curve of her lips, and desire was inevitable after that.

Not only was Hazel injured, but she had a ludicrously narrow bed. “It was cheap,” she said, when Maxwell looked askance at it. “And I didn’texpectto have much of a social life here.”

“I’d think not. It seems rather improbable that you don’t roll off every night as it is.”

“I’m not much of a roller.” Hazel sat down on the bed and started taking off her shoes. “Though apparently I do steal the covers. It hasn’t been a big problem lately.”

The allusion, mild as it was, squashed the conversation. Hazel set her second shoe neatly by her first, then hesitated. “Um. Well.”

“Yes,” said Maxwell inanely.

When Hazel hadn’t known his true identity, keeping up his facade had also, for the most part, meant thinking out what to say in advance. When he’d faced her as Ligat, necessarily her opponent, conversation had been both armor and weapon. Smooth superiority had come easily, even if he’d mostly known the superiority to be false from the start.

He’d gotten out of practice being genuine.

“I’ll turn around,” he offered. “But I can leave if you want.”

“Both seem pointless. You’ve seen it all before—it’s not like you lose your memory when you change your appearance.” Though she spoke to him, she seemed to half address herself.

Memory, in fact, washed over Maxwell with overwhelming force as Hazel spoke. He started toward her, then caught himself. “I wouldn’t presume. You’d have every right to change your feelings, especially after last night.”

Hazel stood up. “I would,” she agreed, a small smile on her lips, “but I haven’t. Though if you have—”

He’d taken her in his arms before she got the next word out,though he managed to remember her injuries and restrain himself. Hazel, of course, immediately tested that control by leaning upward to kiss him. The contact was light compared to their previous encounters, but the longing it stirred in Maxwell was just as strong.

“No more,” he said, pulling back. “Not until you’ve healed.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Hazel reached up, brushed her fingertips along his jawline—and then hissed as she stretched a little too far. “Or maybe Ido. Stupid middle-aged bodies.”

“I’m quite fond of yours.” Maxwell kissed her one more time, barely touching her lips with his, and then released her. “Which means I’d better turn around.”

* * *

The evening turned into night while Hazel slept, and Maxwell mostly stayed in the chair he’d brought beside her bed, dozing for brief, light stints before waking and checking on both her and the house as a whole. She didn’t stir; once she’d turned over on her side and fallen asleep, she stayed there. Only her breathing reassured Maxwell that she was still alive.

Neither Perthrux nor Chapman nor Albert Gordon’s restless shade disturbed the house. Maxwell left the room a few times to peer out the windows, never seeing more than moonlight on the trees and, once, a bat soaring past in search of prey. Most likely he could have really slept for a stretch without even remotely dire consequences, but he wouldn’t tempt fate when Hazel was injured.

On one of his trips, he picked up a book from the hall table, a luridly red paperback with an embossed title:Incursions: Demons, Ghosts, Extradimensional Invaders, and the Human Resistance Through the Ages.A snarling human face with fangs and goat horns looked out from the cover.

Hazel had clearly been doing her research—and been either curious or desperate.