Chaz comes out with a cooler. As he sits on the other log and starts pulling out food, my mouth waters. Nope, still not enough.
As soon as Chaz unloads a handful of towelette packets, I grab for them. “Oh, thank God.”
I leave him one and bring the rest with me into the tent to clean up and change. The blood smears as I scrub down my forearms and between my fingers. Chaz’s shirt, along with my tank and bra, hit the floor before I sacrifice the rest of the packages to clean up my front and back. I’m down to my last two when I walk out of the tent, my new zip-up hoodie held over my chest.
Chaz bites into an apple, scanning me as I stand in front of him with my hand held out.
“Please?” I say, spinning around. “I can’t reach the middle.”
He blows out an annoyed breath that I consider a yes, and I rip open a wipe, handing it over my shoulder. It pulls from my fingers. He runs his hand across my shoulder blades, brushing my hair out of the way as he goes. I play with the drawstring while he works up the center of my back, trying to ignore his skin on mine.
“You have more?” he asks, standing up.
I tear open the last packet and pass it back. He moves my hair again, his presence looming over me. His hand slides down my back. It leaves a trail that chills in the cool night air. I fight off a shiver, adjusting the hoodie to better cover my arms. He dips beneath the waistband of my yoga pants, and I shiver again.
Once he finishes, he tosses the towelettes into the fire. I start to step away, but he grips my side. My breath catches, his long fingers splaying over my ribs. He moves closer until his body heat spreads across my back like a blanket, and he sweeps my hair away from the nape of my neck.
“Your tattoo.” His voice is low, breath on my skin. It reminds me of the fight, the crowd and noise surrounding us yet completely separate. “The four lines,” he says. “I couldn’t figure out how I knew them before, but they’re The Watchers’ fall from grace.”
A wave of relief washes over me as I nod. “It’s still there?”
I’ve wanted to ask all day, but I couldn’t face the possibility of it being gone.
He answers first by tracing his thumb down one of the curvy lines and then the loop of the Ouroborus—life and death. “It’s faded more.”
“It loses color with every resurrection, like a mystical power gauge.”
“You have a limit on how many times you can come back?”
“The soul can only leave the body so many times before losing its hold permanently. Once the tattoo’s gone, I’ll be on my final life.” I turn with the sweatshirt still loosely held to my chest. “Until then, my soul reenters my body, which reverts to its most ideal state.”
His expression stays impassive. “How many times have you died?”
“Five. Twice of old age, once from consumption, a hit-and-run last year, and then…” I trail off, the evidence of the last time still burning a few feet away.
“And your sister?”
“Five.” I look out over the desert, the sand white under the moon. “She came back five times before her tattoo disappeared.”
“Let me guess. Sweet Donny promised you a way to save her.”
“The Essence of Creation. The original Descended gained their abilities by fusing their blood with it. Back then, it was everywhere. It’s gone now, but I thought if I could just find enough to reset her…” I shake my head, looking up at him. “It doesn’t matter. Abaddon lied about there being a way to make more.”
Chaz stares at me hard, his jaw working beneath the surface. “I could have told you he couldn’t. Saved us all a lot of drama.” He sits back down and nudges the cooler until it bumps my legs.
I turn around to put the sweatshirt on and zip it up before I grab a sandwich.
When we finish eating, Chaz pulls on the tee Hex left him. He stops outside the tent and holds up the flap. “In.”
Despite the shortness of his command, I duck under his arm. “Sir.”
Instead of sleeping bags, the demon, who’s clearly never camped, left us three pillows and half a dozen blankets of various sizes. I start spreading out two to lie on. For some reason, it surprises me when, Chaz steps in a few minutes later. He lowers down in the center of my blankets and stretches out on his side.
The space fills with him, and I have no choice but to drop down right beside him. I roll to face him, a safe foot of tent between us. “Should we create a blanket wall, or—”
I gasp when Chaz drags me toward him. He traps my arms behind my back, holding my wrists in his hand and pulling me closer. I’m plastered against his hard chest, his mouth inches from mine. And then I feel the fabric wrap around my wrists. My bra isn’t in the corner anymore, and I realize too late what he’s doing.
“No.” I wiggle to free my hands, but he rolls us over so that half of his body covers mine. It leaves me nowhere to go while he finishes binding my hands together. I tug a few more times before I rest my forehead on his chest. An admission of defeat.
“In case you get any ideas in the night.” He tightens the knot and rolls to his back. “As is one, then so will be the other.”
Asshole.
I twirl the dagger in my hand, staring up at the green material of the tent. Nyx finally quit huffing and settled down, but I can’t fucking sleep. All I can think about is that, for the first time in my existence, I’m aging. I said it earlier, but it didn’t sink in until now.
I’m one day closer to dying. Not to going home or finishing my sentence. Dying.
The blanket moves when Nyx readjusts.
“How old are you?” I ask, twisting the tip of the metal against my palm.
“Tie me in front, and I’ll tell you.” But when I ignore her request, she sighs. “When we met, I was twenty-three. Now, I’m twenty-two—at least, that seems to be my body’s age whenever it resets.”
“Cool. And all my shit says I’m twenty-four.” I roll my head on the pillow to see her. “How old are you?”
She’s still facing me, arms secured behind her. “One hundred and fifty-eight.”
I do the math. Most likely, I would have been dropping around the East Coast then. Maybe a rogue charge still in Paris. With the last name Lamore, she was probably there, too, but I don’t bother asking. We’re doing the staring thing again, like every other time we’re around each other. Except now, it’s different. Now, I see her. And I move my head back to stare at the top of the tent, done fucking looking.
Sometime in the night, Nyx wiggles her way over. I wake up with her cuddled into me. Even with the blankets, it’s fucking cold, and I’m not running hot for once, so I let her stay.
Traitorous or not, she’s warm.
I readjust onto my side, draping my arm over her. A little while later, she’s wormed even closer somehow. Her shoes are off, her feet wedged between my legs, her even breaths on my chest, and head tucked under my chin. I blame it on being half-asleep that I slide my other arm under her until I’m full-on snuggling with the enemy. Fuck me. I still can’t keep my hands to myself with her.