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But only four this night. Only four, when it ought to have been a hundred, perhaps two. A crew of trapped miners, a school, and a row of housing before that raging landslide.

It was midnight before Patrick persuaded his tired body up those stairs. He’d had the good sense to wash, redress before he went to find her. He felt he could never again stand the stench of wet earth. He’d scrubbed and scrubbed until every particle was lifted from his skin, nails, hair, and still, he felt gritty with it.

Sam was asleep in his chair, and Patrick passed him by like a phantom, his feet dragging, his heart pounding. The door was unlocked. He pushed it inward.

Nina was curled up in sleep. Moonbeams found her through the window and left squares of light on the blankets. She breathed softly, her parted lips so achingly perfect it made his stomach tighten.

He closed the door silently, and she didn’t stir.

Patrick laid himself beside her, the shape of his body mimicking hers. He thought he could waste away hours looking at her. This close, he could trace the ridge of her cheekbone, touch the small scar on her jaw, be awed by all the finer pieces of the picture.

She blinked away dreams, and he was grateful to have her hazel eyes now, too. It was quite a relief to drown in them. “Ask me again if I trust you,” he whispered, burying the fingers of one hand into the light curls behind her ear.

He could hear her swallow. “Do you trust me?”

“There’s no one I trust more,” he said.

And when she finally settled against his chest, he held her, and it was the easiest thing in the world to do. Even as she shook with the day’s dealings. Even when she finally broke apart under the tremendous enormity of all those lives and all that darkness.

“Thank you,” Patrick told her, again and again, until his eyes closed and her shuddering slowed. “Shhh. I’ll keep you safe.”

And then he slept. He slept like a man who’d never seen the winding snake of a tunnel, who had never felt the darkness as a vise, pressing in from all sides, pulverizing bones to dust.

CHAPTER 48NINA

I awoke wrapped in Patrick.

His breath on my neck, my back to his chest, his hand on my stomach, my nightdress bunched indecently high. I felt all the hard planes of him against me and had never felt as restful. How little it would take to shut my eyes and sleep another day.

My stomach, however, would not be ignored. It growled insistently.

I rose with the intention of finding food for the both of us. Surely Patrick would be hungry when he woke. God knew when he’d last eaten.

His discarded pocket watch on the bedside table read just before six. Dawn broke beyond the rooftops; I would likely meet no one but Sam in the stairwell, nor in the pub or the kitchen. I slipped a coat over my clothes without bothering to dress properly.

Sam was snoring with his head lolling on his chest. The stairs creaked as I descended but the rooms on each landing were quiet. Barely any sounds from the street permeated.

I was almost to the bottom when I heard a thundering from above. Feet pounded the steps as they descended, intensifying as they neared. I frowned at the way I had come, watching a window shudder in its frame.

Patrick appeared, barreling around the banister. His hair stuck up at every angle. He remained shirtless, as he had been in sleep, trousersunbelted and hanging loose on his hips. The way he panted made the muscles of his chest and stomach expand in distracting ways. Truly, I had never seen a man more magnificent.

I swallowed, blinked rapidly. Then said, “Is someone chasing you?”

He braced his arms against the wall and hung his head, cursing. “Godalmighty, Nina. It’s barely daybreak. I thought… I thought—”

“What?” I asked. “That I’d left?”

His cheeks hollowed and filled. “No, I—”

“I’m only finding breakfast,” I told him, trying not to stare at his body. Trying to ignore the warmth pooling low in my stomach at the sight of him. “I’ll return soon.”

But Patrick shook his head, descending the last of the stairs. “I’ll have it brought up,” he said. “That’s what I pay the cooks for.”

“I’m capable of procuring some toast,” I argued. “And I’m hungry.”

“You aren’t even properly dressed,” he countered. “And your feet are turnin’ purple with the cold.”

“So areyours.”