"Wraith," she says, her voice impossibly gentle.
It takes everything I have to lift my gaze to hers. Her eyes are clear, steady. All I find there is acceptance.
I don't understand.
"Can I..." she hesitates, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Would it be okay if I touched your face? Through the mask, I mean. I won't try to take it off."
My entire body goes rigid.
The thought of hands on my face—even through the mask—sends searing pain flooding my system.
Acid burning through skin, muscle, bone.
Bandages being changed, tearing at raw flesh.
Surgeon trying to fix what can't be fixed.
No. No. No.
She reads my panic instantly. Her eyes soften with understanding.
"You're afraid I'll run," she whispers.
A statement, not a question.
I give a jerky nod.
"I won't," she says, her voice low and sure. "But you can hold me. Keep me from running if you're worried."
My breath catches in my throat.
"Come here," she murmurs, lying back on the bed. She reaches for me, eyes never leaving mine. "I'm not going anywhere."
I move over her with hesitation, my massive frame dwarfing her smaller one. Position myself above her, arms planted on either side of her head. My choppy black hair falls forward as I hover over her, the strands brushing against her forehead.
I'm careful to support my weight on my forearms, hyperaware of how easily I could crush her.
She's trapped now.
Caged between my arms.
Yet she shows no fear.
Just looks up at me with trust in her eyes.
"Is this better?" she asks.
It shouldn't be.
But it is.
I nod, a short, sharp movement.
My entire body trembles as her delicate hands reach toward my face. Blood pounds in my ears so loudly it almost drowns out the ragged sound of my own breathing. She moves slowly, deliberately, giving me every chance to stop her.
I don't.
Can't move.
