“Fine, whatever.” Her whispered reply was listless, but she didn’t protest when he tucked an arm around her.

Hell, he didn’t know why he did it. Maybe to comfort her. Maybe to get some comfort for himself. Letting his nose come to rest in the soft curtain of her hair, he closed his eyes, and despite the burning bedside lamp and the mountain of things he had to do, everything fell away and he slept.

When he opened his eyes again, he knew he had gotten enough sleep for survival, but it wasn’t a true, deep rest.

From where he lay, he could see out the open bedroom door to the bottom of the stairs. The filtered light that shone down the stairs was stronger, more yellow. The day had advanced. Moving carefully so he wouldn’t disturb Molly, he pulled out his phone to check the screen. It was almost noon. He had slept for over five hours.

Pushing himself on little rest had become a way of life, so five hours was actually a good amount for him. Easing away from Molly, he stood and paused to regard her slumbering form with a frown.

He didn’t sleep with women. He hadn’t even when he had lived with his wife, now long dead. But it had felt good to curl around Molly and hold her in his arms. Too good. Worse, he didn’t want to leave her. He wanted to stroke his fingers along her pale cheek, to erase forever the marks that Sullivan had put on her body and replace those memories with pleasure.

He had veered dangerously off-track.

Moving quietly, he gathered a clean outfit from the dresser, turned off the bedside lamp and closed the door as he exited. Once outside, he showered, shaved, and fixed a strong cup of coffee. Taking it into the other room along with another sandwich, he sat at the desk and ate as he considered this current debacle.

Molly never should have been able to see the contents of this room, but she had recovered Power much faster than he’d anticipated. From the questions she had asked, he realized he had revealed far more in their previous conversations than he had ever meant to. How the hell had she known to ask if he was Russian?

As soon as he thought it, the answer came to him. He had cast spells in front of her. Of course she had paid close attention to everything he had said whether she understood it or not. He had been her only real source of information about something that was very important to her.

He could spellcast in English, but sometimes he fell back on casting spells as he had learned them in his native language. That had been a sloppy mistake. She might not know how to speak Russian, but she sure as hell knew how to make an educated guess.