I must look confused, because he says, “Jax gave me this. It’s for your skin—to help heal any of the cuts you may still have. He also gave me this.” He holds up another vial. “It’s for pain.”
“I don’t need that one,” I murmur, nodding my head toward the additional vial. I need to stay lucid; dropping my guard now is ludicrous. We’re hidden in plain sight here. We can’t count on this position to harbor any real shelter—not for much longer, anyway.
“You’re in pain. You can hardly lift your arm up,” Trey observes.
“It’s not that bad—really—I’m just a little stiff is all.”
“How am I to know that when you minimize everything that happens to you?”
“I don’t do that—”
“You do,” he counters in a quiet way. He believes it. He must be upset about what I asked Jax when we arrived—about whether or not I’d been raped. I look away from the mirror for a moment. Right now, I don’t want to talk about the interrogation or anything that has gone on in the last few days. I want to pretend like none of this is happening—like we’re not at war. The thought of Kyon is enough to make my stomach ache. He’s probably out there hunting for me, and there’s nothing I can do about it except hide from him.
I try to reel in my thoughts and change the subject. “How long have I been asleep?” I look at my wringing hands.
“Almost two rotations.”
I glace back to the mirror to see his expression. It hasn’t changed from his look of concern. “Should we have moved from here by now?” I ask with an uneasy grimace.
“We couldn’t—”
“Because of me?” I ask worriedly.
He shakes his head. “No. The enemy has occupied the city just east of here and they have positions north and south. There’s resistance fighting just outside the city limits—Rafe troops are mobilizing there.”
“Oh,” I say. I should want to know more, but I don’t. I’m afraid to know more.
Trey waits for me to ask questions. When I don’t, he grows more concerned. His voice is softly soothing as he says, “We’re safe for now, and that’s not likely to change soon. We’ll know before it does, and then we’ll leave.”
“You promise?” I fiddle with the countertop, closing the sink with a wave of my fingers on the glass.
“I promise,” he vows.
“Do you have a plan just in case?”
“Yes,” he says, nodding.
“Is it a good plan?”
“The best of plans.”
“Is it better than crossing fields at night occupied by saers with only a recurve?”
“Much better than that plan,” he says with a reluctant smile. “And we have much better food this time.”
I exhale a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Okay then.”
“Why didn’t you wake me when you got up? I could’ve helped you,” Trey asks.
I wave my hand dismissively. “You looked exhausted. Have you slept more than a few parts since we’ve been here?”
“I’ve gotten rest here and there.” He shrugs as if it’s no big deal.
In the mirror, he grows larger as he moves nearer until he towers over me. He stops just a breadth away, but I feel him as if we’re touching. His closeness is a physical thing, pulling me to him. Warmth radiates from him, enveloping me. I lean back against his broad chest. He bends his neck so the new growth from his beard tickles my throat, sending a shiver crashing through me. My cheeks flush, adding color to them as he reaches for the hem of my shirt.
“Your ribs are still healing—let me help you with this.” He begins to lift the fabric up when I cover his hands with mine. It’s so intimate, letting him undress me, I don’t know if I can handle it. I struggle to meet his eyes in the mirror.
When I do, he says, “It’s just me, Kricket. Lift your arms.” The earnestness of his request wars with my senses. Before I met him, I never let anyone help me do anything.
Slowly, I obey, raising my arms up. He ratchets the hem of my dingy shirt. I wince again, sucking in my breath when the stiff lining in it scraps against my bruised flesh. Trey’s large hand covers my fragile ribs, holding them firmly beneath my bared breast. The pressure is just enough to relieve the ache from them as he pulls my shirt over my head with his other hand. His thumb brushes the lower edge of my breast when I drop my arms. His forearm covers my nipples while he pulls me against him once more. I close my eyes as my skin reacts to his against my bare flesh. When I open them, he’s watching me in the mirror, his eyes dark and unreadable.
He sweeps my hair off my neck, directing it over one shoulder. I watch him in the mirror as he leans down and brushes his lips over my back. He kisses my bruises, like he’d take them from me if he could.
“It’s okay, they don’t hurt—”
He pauses but doesn’t look at me when he says harshly, “It’s not okay. I will never be okay with this.”
Trey turns me around to face him. His hand reaches up to entwine in my hair; it tilts my face up to his. He kisses me softly, afraid that he’ll hurt me. When I kiss him back, my tongue stroking his, the need within him becomes increasingly apparent. His kisses become bolder, unrestrained, as if he’ll extract some kind of retribution for the time that was stolen from us.
His touch fills me with yearning; I ache to wrap myself around him—to hang on tight. My heart flutters with desire and fear at the all-consuming feel of it. You can’t need him this much, my paper heart warns me. If it doesn’t last, and it can’t last—you know that—how will you survive the loss of him?
I ignore those feverish thoughts. My bare skin presses to him, rubbing against the soft fabric of his shirt. This isn’t simple infatuation that I can just ignore, hold my breath, and hope to have pass. It’s something that I can no longer protect myself against. If something happens to him now, it happens to me as well. The thought scares me to death. I’ve always been better off alone—always. That thought comes with a squeezing of my heart that is hard to ignore. I don’t want to be alone anymore, not when I can be with him.
My arms come up to wrap around the back of his neck. Trey reaches down, lifting me off the floor, his arm under the backs of my knees. The thick bones of his forearm and the muscles of his bicep press me gently against his chest; I feel the power he controls beneath his skin. My fingers play over his strong shoulders, the breadth of which seems to go on forever. His assault on my lips continues; they’re more cathartic than if I were to slink into the corner alone to cry. Trey’s hand moves from the nape of my neck to stroke a path over my back. He turns away from the mirror, taking me to the sunken tub.