Page 166 of Override

He stops. Completely. The box hits the mattress beside me. Before I can even blink, he's in front of me. His hands cup my face. Warm palms settle against my cheeks, his fingers disappearing into my hair as he tilts my face toward his.

My breath catches. Not because he hurts me. He doesn't. His touch is impossibly gentle. It's the expression on his face that steals the air from my lungs.

"No." The word comes out low. Almost harsh. His eyes search mine. "Statistically, I can survive a lot of things. You getting hurt is not a variable I'm willing to test, because I have no data suggesting I'd remain even remotely functional afterward."

I stare at him. His thumbs rest just beneath my cheekbones. For one strange, suspended moment, neither of us moves. My heart begins beating harder. His eyes drop briefly. Not to my mouth. To his hands. His entire body freezes.

Then he releases me so quickly he nearly takes a step backward. "Sorry."

I blink. He clears his throat and picks up the box. "I shouldn't have touched you without asking."

The place where his palms had been feels cold. "It's okay."

He doesn't seem convinced.

He shoves the box toward me instead. "I brought this."

I take it carefully. It's heavier than I expected. "What is it?"

His expression changes again. Guilt. "I didn't get the first few things."

I frown.

"I didn't realize what they were doing at first."

The room goes very still. "What who was doing?"

He looks at the box. My fingers move toward the cardboard flaps. I open it. For a moment, I don't understand what I'm seeing.

Just fabric. Colors. A soft gray sleeve. A flash of faded green. Then my hand begins to shake.

I reach inside and pull out a sweater.

My sweater.

The old green one my father bought me when I was young. The cuff is stretched because I always pulled it over my hands. There's a tiny snag near the hem from where I'd caught it on a fence after too much wine and an ill-advised shortcut back to the hotel.

I thought it was gone. My breath catches. I set it beside me and reach into the box again. A pair of jeans. My faded band T-shirt. The soft black leggings Ronan hated because he said they made me look careless.

One piece after another. My clothes. Not the dresses hanging in my closet. Not the expensive sweaters chosen for me. Mine.

I pull out an old T-shirt and press it against my chest. "How?"

Taibhse sits in the chair across from the bed, leaving space between us. "They were being removed from the house."

I look at him. "I know that." My voice breaks.

"I found them."

"You found them?"

"Eventually."

My fingers tighten around the shirt. "What does that mean?"

He looks uncomfortable. Actually uncomfortable. "I noticed the pattern late."

"What pattern?"