Chương 81: Ch 44b – Comfort

Her hand rests perfectly over the curve of his pec. Pressing gently, she ensures as much contact as possible so that she can absorb his heat through the thin top. She watches her hand slowly rise and fall with his breathing. Her ear listens to the thump of his heartbeat. Her own breathing matches his. Slow. Rhythmic. She allows herself to believe that, in this moment, his strong chest can bear the heaviness of her heart. Its warmth can provide all the comfort she needs Its hardness can protect her from anything.

A tear escapes from the corner of her eye and skims quickly over her cheek. The dampness of his top underneath her has lulled her into the false belief that she has exhausted all her tears. She sighs, expelling a long humid breath. His body shifts beneath her. His hand at the base of her ribs adjusts then presses reassurance into her side. His other hand makes small strokes across her hair.

Outside of the little shed they are sheltered in she can hear the wind whipping the rain into waves that thrash against the thin walls. There is a drip somewhere in the room. It splats dully on the concrete floor. She imagines the floor to be colder than the cold air that icily pinches the end of her nose. She doesn't know for certain as she is curled on Draig's lap. Her hip nestles at his groin, her shoulder is sandwiched under his arm, her knees are tucked against his side.

Only the side of the thick sole of her boot touches the floor. Her other boot rests on top of it, a muffled throb pulses in her ankle. He shifts again underneath her. Realisation flushes her cheeks with embarrassment.

"Oh, sorry, you're probably cold on the floor," she exclaims, her voice hoarse after her long period of sobbing. She tries to lift her head up from his chest but doesn't make it far before pain spears in the top of her shoulder.

"I can move," she says unconvincingly.

"I'm fine," his voice insists somewhere above her. His hand on her head encourages it back to his chest.

"But your arse is probably frozen or numb or both," she rambles, trying again to pull away from his chest.

"My arse is neither," he says in a low growl that rumbles through his chest.

"The floor is too cold, you're in borderline shock, I'm not letting you near it." His hand cradles her head against his chest with a little more insistence, his elbow adding pressure on her upper back.

"Plus, I'm trying to keep the fabric in place on your shoulder, so that the bleeding doesn't start again." She resigns herself to her position, relieved to remain snuggled in his warmth. They had assumed the position soon after he slammed the door on the hurricane winds. Before her comms had been cut she had heard him inform Wyndeer that they were sheltering in " some sort of shed," that he had lost track of exactly which building in the chaotic search for her.

Having confirmed her injuries weren't life threatening, which involved a brief check under her clothes while she had remained propped in his arms, Wyndeer had told them to stay safe. He would venture out to find them as soon as it was safe to do so. She believes there had been further discussion privately between the two of them. Draig's chest had vibrated in the patter of a conversation while he spoke in a voice too mumbled for her to hear.

She hadn't had the presence of mind to look around the shed, but from the corner she can see now, it appears to contain nothing more than broken lengths of wood and rusty poles. And a lot of dust. As soon as he had settled her on his lap Cara had started crying, unable to stop the gushing release of grief. Draig had not tried to intervene, seemingly content to hold her. As the tears eventually dried up he perhaps had assumed she had fallen asleep, but she had just been staring numbly at her hand rising and falling.

"I'm not going to ask you to explain anything," he says above her, his chin occasionally tapping the top of her head as he speaks.

"But I will listen if you want to talk." She stiffens at his words, anxiety clenching in her chest.

"Only if it helps," he quickly reassures her. Her grief bubbles up her throat, her need to release all the thoughts trapped inside pushes at her tongue. Yet still, she cannot tell him. This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

"Is Wyndeer angry?" she asks with a shaky voice.

"Don't worry about Wyndeer," he reassures her.

"But I broke his rules."

"He's not a monster, Cara. He understands what happened." She stares at her hand. Her fingernails are crusted with dirt. Brown and red smears paint her fingers. At her finger tips the occasional glimpse of raw flesh can be seen. Fresh tears begin welling in her eyes.

"I can't," her voice is lost in her emotion. She tries again, "I can't get it out."

"Get what out?" concern edges his voice.

"I- I can't-," she tries to talk but her lungs keep drawing in air, "I can't- It- It's bottled up so tight I can't release it." She sucks in more air. A short inhale, followed by another, and another.

"Breathe with me Cara," he says, moving his hand from her ribs and placing it on her hand on his chest. He gives her hand a reassuring squeeze as he blows a long breath out. His warm exhale lands on the top of her head. Shakily her breath releases.

"Good," he murmurs, "now a long breath in. Her head and hand rise as his chest expands. She hesitantly copies him. He continues, leading her breathing back to a regulated rhythm.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks, after they have sat in a comfortable silence for a while.

"Yes," she whispers, staring at the little sores on her fingers, still visible under his warm hand.

"Ok." He clears his throat. She waits.

"What was the fourth animal?" he asks.

"After the elephant, the bear, and the fat birds?"

"A lion," she answers quietly.

"You don't have lions?"

"Not quite like that, possibly something similar," he reflects.

"And the last little animal, the one you tried to touch. What was that? It looked like a small version of the," he hesitates over the pronunciation, "lion. Smaller with less fur."

"A cat," she says. She blinks. Tears escape her eyes.

"You don't have cats?" His thumbs rubs soothingly across her hand.

"And the woman that the cat ran back to. Who was she?" Cara blows out a long shaky breath, preparing herself for her answer.

"My Gran. My Grandmother. She was my Grandmother, but she was very much like a mother to me." A low moan escapes as she fights to hold back a new onslaught of tears.

"I don't think this is a good time to talk about this, Cara," Draig warns gently.

"No," she rushs, "no, it is. Please I need to talk about it. Otherwise it just stays bottled up. Stuck inside. Driving me crazy. Even when the shard holds it back, the idea that it's all gone still haunts me."

"What does the shard hold back, Cara?" His body has stiffened beneath her. His hand presses firmly on hers. She pushes up from his chest, ignoring the complaint from her shoulder. She wants him to see her face, to see that she isn't lying about anything. He lets her sit up, though his hand keeps a hold of hers.

"The healing," she says, looking at his indigo eyes, narrowed and wary.

"The shard healing. It heals me mentally too. It packs away my memories into a memory wall. It's like I can access any memory I want to, but it shields me from feeling it." She searches his face for understanding. His expression hasn't changed.

"It's giving me a coping mechanism. But it's not helping me accept what's happened, it's just numbing everything. It helps in the short term but it's sending me insane. It numbs everything, but it's all still there, still real. Then nobody wants me to talk about anything, and it- and it's- it's like I'm drowning inside." His index finger rubs a straight line back and forth across her hand. She wonders if he wants to rub his finger along his bottom lip as she had seen him do so many times when deep in thought.

Realising she is staring at his lips she flickers her gaze to his eyes. The wariness has gone. His eyes are wider now, filled with sadness and something else she cannot place. They hold each other's stares as his hand reaches up to her face. His thumb brushes lightly across her lower lip as his fingers follow her jawline, seeking out the back of her neck.

For a second she thinks he was pulling her in for a kiss but just as her stare drops from his eyes to his slightly open mouth his hand gently guides her lower, back to her position on his chest. His fingers caress the back of her neck. She finds herself drawing in a deep lungful of his scent.

"I didn't realise," he says. She wishes she could look at his face again. Instead, she closes her eyes, willing herself to record and remember the feel of his fingers on the nape of her neck. After a while his fingers disappear, returning to rest on her hand on his chest.

"Do you want me to keep asking questions?" he asks uncertainly.

"Even though it upsets you?"

"Yes," she says into his chest. He pats the back of her hand.

"Only if you promise to tell me to stop when it's too much."

"I will," she promises, opening her eyes to watch as she tilts her hand to capture his fingers. He accepted her hold with a small squeeze.

"Who were the women at the end? The one who reached out to you? And the one who cried?" he asks.

"My sister," she chokes back the sob that immediately occupies her throat.

"Her name is Jenny." She squeezes his fingers hard as the tears begin flowing.

"And my Mum."