“What is it?” I ask.
She lifts one shoulder, a threadbare shrug. “I slept in the truck. I’m wired now.” Her mouth pulls to the side. “Can we…I don’t know. Talk or watch TV or something? Just…not be alone with our brains for a minute?”
I drop the bedding on the end of the couch and scrub a hand over my face. Every part of me feels stretched thin—muscles, patience, control.
“I’m kind of played out here, Tallulah,” I admit.
She tilts her head. “Why are you insisting on calling me Tallulah, for real? I hate that name.”
Because you’re more than a tally mark on some bastard’s kill sheet.
I don’t say it out loud. Instead, I nod toward her bicep. In the porch light earlier, I’d caught a glimpse of something dark on her sleeve; now, under the cabin lights, I see the faint rusty stain more clearly.
“Let me see your arm.”
She looks down, frowns. “It’s nothing.”
“Let. Me. See.”
She sighs, twisting her head to get a better look, and pulls the shirt down over her shoulder. There’s a torn place on thesleeve, and underneath it, a long, shallow scrape tracks along the outside of her arm.
“It’s from a hook in the linen closet,” she mutters. “Something they hang things on, I guess…I pressed alongside it when we were all squeezing in there. I felt it snag but didn’t realize it scraped me.”
The skin around it is pink and crusted with old blood. Nothing serious. Still, something in me doesn’t like the idea of Henry Thurston being the only one to mark her, even indirectly.
“Take your shirt off,” I say.
Her eyes go wide. “Excuse me?”
“I need to see how far it goes,” I lie bluntly. “You can keep your bra on, hacker girl. I’m not trying to cop a feel here.”
Her cheeks flush, but after a second she grabs the hem of the shirt and peels it over her head, moving carefully so she doesn’t crack the scab. She hesitates when the cotton catches on the scrape. I step in, fingers gentle as I help ease the sleeve past the wound, doing my best to keep my eyes on her arm andnoton the way her breasts spill over the top of a plain black bra.
So far, my self-control is losing.
“I need you up here,” I say, voice a little rough. Without waiting for an argument, I lift her onto the counter so the scrape is at a better angle, her legs dangling, toes brushing the cabinet doors.
She makes a soft sound, more surprise than protest, and braces her hands lightly on my shoulders for balance. The heat of her palms burns through my shirt.
I turn to the sink before I can do something stupid and dampen a dishtowel with warm water. “Here. Work on cleaning it while I get some alcohol and bandages.”
She takes the cloth silently and starts wiping gingerly at the dried blood. I leave her there and head to the bathroom.
I keep the cabin well-stocked for the infrequent trips I make—canned food, extra clothing, basic medical supplies. I hauled it all in myself over a couple summers when Kael insisted I needed a “legitimate” source of income and a place to disappear that didn’t involve his building.
I sift through a plastic bin now, pulling out a strip of bandages, a small bottle of rubbing alcohol, antibacterial ointment. On my way back through the bedroom, I grab a clean T-shirt from the dresser, one of mine.
Back in the kitchen, Tally is sitting very still on the counter. Her arm is red but clean, the scrape clearly visible now in the overhead light—ugly but shallow.
“This should heal fast,” I tell her, pouring a thin stream of alcohol over it.
She hisses, shoulders jerking. “Sadist.”
“Baby,” I mutter.
“Tis but a scratch,” she murmurs, lips twitching despite everything.
I snort. “You’ve had worse, right.”
