Free Prince of Shadows by Nancy Gideon

behind them, filling the space with his presence. She couldn’t have been more relieved. He hobbled to his dresser and pulled out a T-shirt and a pair of gym shorts.
    “Takes a while for the shower to get warm, but it’s got pretty good pressure.” He handed her the clothes. “You go ahead. Should have everything you need, towels, toothbrush . . .”
    “Thanks.” One word. So terribly inadequate.
    The shower was indescribable. She stood in the steamy downpour for the longest time before reaching for the shampoo that smelled like him, for the soap that smelled like him. As she brushed her teeth and towel-dried her hair, she kept waiting for the jittery panic to return, for the smothering sense of fear. But all she could feel as she slipped on the bulky borrowed clothing was the surrounding comfort of Cale’s essence and the numbing heaviness of her own fatigue.
    The inviting aroma of seared meat coaxed her out of the bathroom. There were two places set at the table. One plate held a nice pan-fried steak and the other a barely browned slab of beef swimming in raw juices.
    “I didn’t know if you’d be hungry or not.”
    “Looks good. Thank you.”
    He looked good, in a clean sleeveless sweatshirt that showed off his amazing arms and sweatpants that made room for the fresh binding about his thigh. His feet were bare. He seemed as awkward as the sight of those bare feet made her feel.
    She sat down and picked up the cloth napkin wrapped about her silverware, bemused. Cale paused, knife and fork at the ready. “What?”
    “All this. It’s . . . very civilized.”
    He scowled at her. “What did you expect? Two spoons and an open can? Eat,” he concluded gruffly, slicing off a slab of steak tartar and chewing fiercely to speed his healing.
    They ate in an oddly comfortable silence. By the time they finished, Cale was staring somberly into the pooling liquids on his plate, his features pinched and eyes shadowed. His gaze flew up when she stood, as if unsure what to do with her.
    “Which side?” she asked. His brow furrowed, forcing her to explain. “Of the bed. Which side do you want?”
    “Oh. Closest to the door. That way I won’t wake you when I . . .” He didn’t finish.
    Come to bed.
    The relaxed playing-house mood abruptly threaded with tension. He began to noisily gather the dishes without looking up, allowing her to slip out of sight under covers that smelled like him. And within three or four heartbeats, she was out.

    A strange sound woke her to a darkened room. Her nervous gasp brought the surety of Cale’s scent to calm her. She was alone. The shock of the evening’s events seemed far removed, including the fact that she was in Cale Terriot’s bed.
    A sliver of light underlined the bathroom door. She could hear the shower running. And again that low, raw sound that made her chest instinctively tighten as she approached. The door was partially ajar, the sign of a man used to living alone.
    “Cale?” she called worriedly, then pushed in far enough to see him standing under the hard spray of the shower, leaning against the tiles, his eyes closed. She realized two things. His naked body was beyond breathtaking, and his spirit was crushed. His powerful shoulders jerked with the force of a soul-deep sorrow muffled by the thunder of running water.
    Kendra took a step forward, intending to go to him, but stopped. She was responsible for his private pain, for the weight of his brother’s death at his own hands. What comfort could she possibly give that he’d want to receive from her?
    She returned to the bed, huddling teary-eyed in the darkness, until she heard him open the door and switch off the light. She lay still, barely breathing as he gingerly lay down beside her. He drew a deep shaky breath and expelled it softly, then lay unmoving, so alone in his grief that her tender emotions couldn’t stand it. She could picture those tormented eyes staring blindly at the ceiling.
    Kendra rolled