I shift my gaze back to Matthaeus, disliking him for this. He’s loyal to Dante. That’s clear. I study him, his eyes a warm brown, hair almost the same shade as his eyes. Square jawed like all of them. Big, like all of them. Soldiers. Killers.
“The brand on your hip is infected.”
I feel my face flush. He saw it, too?
“I left a fresh bandage and ointment you’ll need to put on it in the bathroom. Do that after your shower and if it hurts, let me know. You’ll need to clean it and put that ointment on twice a day.”
I don’t reply.
He gestures to the bedroom. “Go. Ten minutes or I’ll come in there and get you.”
He means it. I know it from his expression. He’s the first to turn away. He walks into the kitchen. He’s not afraid to give me his back. Not afraid of me. I get it. I have no doubt he can overpower me and, more importantly, he won’t hesitate to. He’s been given the green light by Dante. Besides, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t think I’m worth the trouble they went through.
So, I walk down the hall, guilt gnawing at me for what I said. For that look on Dante’s face.
Inside the bedroom I notice Matthaeus hasn’t just taken the lock off the door but removed the doorknob altogether. Same with the bathroom. I can’t even close either door. And there is a brand-new lock on the window. He’s been busy.
I head to the bathroom, stripping off my boots and wet things, hanging them on the drying rack because I’m not sure I have other clothes. The bandage on my hip is already peeling so I pull it the rest of the way off and try not to see the angry red P there. I touch my hand to the skin around it. It feels hot.
I switch on the shower and step under the flow. It feels good. So good. The water is steaming hot and for a long minute I just close my eyes and let it wash over me. I don’t even care that the brand stings. I try to forget what just happened. The things I said. The look on his face.
He is Dante. I know that. Part of me knew it from the first moment I saw him. I’d never forget those eyes.
I open mine then.
He lost one of his eyes. I’m sad about that fact. And as I pick up the shampoo, his shampoo, I think about how awful I was to him. How I hurt him when he’s the one person who wants to help me. Wants to save me.
But he can’t save me. And it’ll be better for him, and for me, the sooner he understands that.
I scrub my hair, smelling him all around me. That scent familiar from the bed. I shampoo twice then a third time. He doesn’t have conditioner, but I don’t care. I want to cut it off anyway. Get rid of it.
I use his bodywash too and am aware of the time so, for as much as I want to stay under that hot flow, I switch off the shower and reach for a towel. I make a turban out of it for my hair then take a second one, wrapping it around myself. At the counter I look at my reflection, feeling as tired as I look. I pick up the toothbrush that’s still in its package and brush my teeth, dry my hip gingerly then put some of the ointment on and bandage it again.
Apart from the underwear, my clothes are too wet to wear so I go to the pile of his things. They’re folded neatly. I pick a warm, oversized sweater that smells like him, pull the towel off my head and put it on. It comes to the middle of my thighs.
I go back into the bathroom then and open the drawers to look for a brush and a pair of scissors. I find neither, only a small comb with teeth too close, some shaving cream, a couple of razors. A box of condoms.
I pick those up, think about him, how he felt when he got hard.
The fact that he got hard wrestling me.
I should feel disgusted. Angry. But I don’t because I lied. He’s not like them. He’s nothing like them. And my mind naturally imagines his hands on me, his body on top of mine. His weight pressing me into the bed.
I close my eyes, setting one hand to my stomach to quiet the fluttering. I put the condoms back in the drawer and wonder what’s wrong with me. How can I even think about that? About any man in that way ever again? But everything feels different with him.
Inside another drawer I find his aftershave. Glancing quickly at the door I twist off the lid and inhale deeply. Then, before I can think better of it, I tilt the bottle, dab some onto my fingertips and press them to the pulse at my neck.