Demon Fire (The Angel Fire Book 3), Marie Johnston [books suggested by bill gates TXT] 📗

She didn’t seem like an idiot, but those brilliant eyes of hers were dull, their dimness cutting straight through him. She was evasive, and he’d bet the pension he’d walked away from that she was lying her ass off. But that didn’t bother him as much as it should.

Two weeks had passed and she’d done little more than go to the bathroom, eat a few bites when he was extra persistent about food, and sleep.

Depression was understandable, but this was . . . different.

Her wounds had scabbed over and were well on their way to the next stage of healing. She should be moving, slowly stretching out her arm and back muscles, keeping the scar tissue healthy and reducing any limitations they could cause.

He pestered her about it. She half-assed some exercises if only to placate him, then tucked into his bed and ignored the world.

Admittedly, there wasn’t much world here to ignore.

He perched on the edge of the couch and scanned his bare-bones cabin. Books were the only items adorning the shelving he’d put up when he’d thought this would be a hunting retreat for him and—

He rubbed the center of his chest. Air disappeared from his lungs and he wasn’t confident he could draw in another breath. Grief was an insidious beast like that. One moment, he was fine. Then he thought of the life he’d had and everything he’d lost, and the gravity of it crushed him as completely as if it were a physical force.

If Sierra cared to notice her surroundings, she’d never guess a thing about his old life. There were no certificates. No medals. No knickknacks. And definitely no pictures.

He’d come here to forget.

The storm had passed. He’d shoveled the roof clear of the heavy snowfall. Cleared out the drive all the way to the highway, which wasn’t far. He hadn’t exactly lied to Sierra about that. They weren’t close to an interstate. But the cabin wasn’t far off the highway.

There was no good goddamn reason Sierra was still here, but there she was. In his bed.

She might be healing, but her mind was shut down. He couldn’t shuffle her off to be someone else’s problem until she had a snowball’s chance in hell of caring for herself.

Anger gnawed at him. Why couldn’t he be a heartless prick?

Call the police. Get her the hell out of his house. He’d be done.

With her gone, he wouldn’t look around his cabin and see a whole lot of nothing. His whole life boiled down to a secluded cabin where he didn’t bother to talk to his shadow, much less help another person.

He wasn’t a hero anymore. He’d learned too late that he’d never been a hero.

He let his gaze roam over Sierra’s face, the only part of her sticking out of the blankets. She hadn’t outright showered, but she’d summoned enough energy to clean herself up and give herself a sink bath. He’d ripped up an old T-shirt so it wouldn’t cling to her back, and she’d tied it off behind her so it wouldn’t gape open and bare her front. She also wore a pair of his boxers. She’d gotten them to stay up and he hated that he was curious to know how.

He hated that he was curious at all. Controlling boyfriend? Something about that story had soured his mood. It would fit why she didn’t have a single possession and was nowhere near where she claimed home was. But it wasn’t right. She’d lied.

Was it something about him that attracted women who couldn’t tell the truth to save their life?

What was it about him that thought he could help these women? He of all people knew how badly it would end.

Sierra’s eyes fluttered open. He didn’t bother to look away. She knew by now that he wasn’t a creep, unless she considered the way he pestered her to drink some water as a sign of perversion.

“You should get up.” He said it at least once a day and he meant it more each time. At first, it was because the sooner she was mobile, the faster he could get her out. Each day that went by, a different sense of urgency mounted.

He had plenty on his conscience. He wasn’t going to add letting a woman he’d rescued succumb to whatever demons haunted her.

“I’m tired.”

“I know. You’ll get stronger the more you move.”

Her pink lips turned down. His gaze landed on those a moment too long. She was attractive in a rumpled way, and he should fear the thought of her actually taking a shower and wearing decent clothing. He’d been able to keep himself from imagining how sexy she probably was. Good thing she didn’t have decent clothing. He didn’t trust her enough to leave the cabin and go buy some in town. The movement would irritate her back, but he might find her camped on the curb, unwilling to go through the effort. He could take her. She’d have to come with him, and then once they were in town and she was in actual women’s wear, there was nothing stopping him from putting her on a bus and waving as it departed the station.

That scenario loomed far off. Sierra didn’t twitch. “I’m tired.” Her eyelids drifted shut.

A thread of his patience snapped. “For God’s sake, get up and do something.” Dammit. He shoved his hands through his hair. He needed a trim. Same with his beard. He was the poster child for a mountain man and he’d just raised his voice to a petite, defenseless woman.

He turned away and paced the small living space of his one-room cabin. If he wanted to expand his path, he could veer into the kitchen and make a lap around the line of counters that functioned as an island, a table, and bookshelves. “Do you think you’re the only one who’s been through some shit? Do you think you’re the only one who’s wanted to waste into nothingness? Do you