I dig a shirt out of the drawer, tug it on. “You’re bleeding again. Gonna get the kit.”
She makes a face, then sits up, sheets pooling around her waist. The bruises on her arms match the ones on her face. Her ribs are streaked with red and purple, the old scar on her side still angry and raised.
“You like what you see?” she teases.
I walk over, kneel in front of her, and pull the blankets off her legs. The bandages on her feet are soaked through, the cuts wide and angry.
I don’t answer. I just unwrap the tape, slow and careful, and check the wounds. They’re not as deep as I thought. She winces once, but otherwise doesn’t react.
I clean them again, then lift her foot and kiss the arch. It makes her snort, and she kicks me in the chest, not hard.
“You’re supposed to be the scary one,” she says, shaking her head.
I pick her up, toss her over my shoulder, and carry her to the bathroom.
She pounds on my back, but not like she means it.
“Put me down, asshole,” she says, but she’s laughing.
The bathroom is relatively clean, but it’s pretty bare. Only a bar of soap, half used. I set her on the edge of the tub, then start the water. She watches, arms crossed, as I pour in a handful of whatever bath salts I find under the sink.
“You giving me a spa day?” she asks, mock-outraged.
“Shut up,” I say. “You stink.”
She grins, teeth white and sharp. “Takes one to know one.”
When the tub is full, I help her in. She winces as the hot water hits her skin, but then sinks back with a sigh. I sit on the toilet lid, arms folded, and watch her.
She scrubs the blood from her nails, picks at a scab on her leg, then sinks under the water until just her face is above the surface. She looks like a crocodile, waiting to snap.
“I can do this myself, you know,” she says.
“I know.”
But I don’t leave.
She washes her hair, dunking under and popping back up, water running in rivulets down her neck. She’s beautiful, and I hate that word, but it’s true.
She sits up, arms on the rim, and just looks at me.
“What now?” she asks, all the humor gone.
I shrug. “We wait. See who comes for us.”
She nods. “You think my father will send someone?”
“Definitely.”
She laughs, but it’s bitter. “He’ll send ten. Or a hundred.”
“I know.”
She looks away, then back. “You scared?”
I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “Only scared of losing you.”
She goes still.
