She had surprised him in that too. Oliver had thought she had come for comfort from him, and he'd only been too happy to allow her that. But after a time, she had reached up, almost aggressively, and forced his head onto her lap.
Naturally, such a thing had caught Oliver Patrick off guard. He had flexed his fingers, and his back had stiffened. Who was he to need such comfort? Her hand had found his head, and her fingers had ran through his hair, and the rigidness with which Oliver lay gently eased. He felt Nila's hands quiet down as well, and soften, as if they'd found their purpose, and delighted in it.
It came as a wound to Oliver's pride, he had to admit, as he lay there like a cat, reduced to the need for protection. What wounded him more, perhaps, was the safety that he felt, reduced as he was. It was a terrifying thing to realize, so late in his career, that he still had weakness in him. His eyes had looked at her uncertainly, and she'd gently smiled at him in return.
