Chapter 7

The storm hit at midnight.

Thunder rattled the windowpanes of the East Wing, shaking the old stone foundation.

Darcie hated storms. In the trailer, a storm meant leaks. It meant the roof might fly off. It meant fear.

She had showered and changed into silk pajamas-part of the "wardrobe" Gwendolyn had provided for the role.

Darcie climbed onto the massive medical bed. It was wide enough for two, but she stuck to the very edge, as far away from Fleet as possible.

"Just three months," she muttered to the ceiling. "Ninety days."

She turned her back to him and closed her eyes.

CRACK-BOOM.

Lightning struck somewhere close. The room lit up in a flash of strobe-white.

Darcie gasped, her body jerking instinctively.

The mattress was designed to prevent bedsores, which meant it was soft and slightly fluid. Her sudden movement shifted the center of gravity.

She slid backward.

Her back collided with Fleet's side.

Darcie tried to scramble away, but another clap of thunder roared overhead, louder than the first.

Panic overrode logic. She didn't move away. She sought the anchor.

She turned and buried her face in his shoulder. She threw her arm across his chest and tangled her legs with his. He was solid. Immovable. Safe.

Fleet was drifting in the void when the weight hit him. Soft curves. Trembling limbs. A foreign, living heat against his inert body. She was shaking.

Scared, the realization came to him, a clear signal through the noise. The tough girl was terrified of thunder.

Her hair was under his chin. Her breath was warm against his neck. It was sensory overload for him. His brain, long starved of input, fired neurons like fireworks.

"Momma..." Darcie mumbled into his shirt, half-asleep, half-delirious with fear. "Don't go..."

Momma? Fleet thought.

A strange, protective ache formed in the center of his consciousness. She wasn't asking for money. She was asking for comfort.

Move, he commanded his body, a desperate, silent roar. Dammit, move. She needs you.

Another crash of thunder. Darcie whimpered and squeezed him tighter. Her hand pressed flat against his pectoral muscle, right over his heart.

The electricity of the storm seemed to jump from the air, through her, and into him.

MOVE! Fleet thought.

He focused everything on his right hand. Every ounce of willpower. Every scream of frustration.

And then, it happened.

His index finger twitched.

It wasn't much. Just a jerk. A spasm. But against her palm, it felt like an earthquake.

Darcie froze. Her eyes snapped open.

She lifted her head. The room was dark, lit only by the lightning flashes.

"Fleet?" she whispered.

She stared at his hand.

"Do it again," she begged. "Please."

She waited. One minute. Two.

Nothing. His hand was as still as stone.

Darcie let out a shaky breath, laughing at herself. "I'm losing it. Plants don't move, Darcie."

But she didn't move away. The storm was still raging outside.

She laid her head back down on his shoulder.

"Goodnight, big guy," she whispered. "Thanks for the twitch. Even if I imagined it."

I moved, Fleet thought, a savage, roaring triumph echoing through the darkness. I moved for her.

He felt her breathing slow down as she fell asleep. He stayed awake all night, a silent sentinel in the dark.