Pushing the air out, and bringing it back in.
Precious, limited air.
Luc’s arms are gentle as he carries me. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t push for more than I can give, and I’m grateful.
I don’t have any words in me right now. It’s all I can do to keep breathing.
Darkness.
My nails scratching against the wood.
The thud, thud, thud, of the dirt hitting me from above.
I am still there. I don’t trust this, don’t trust that it’s not something dreamed up inside my head, some disassociation from the terror of being trapped in a box as the air slowly drains away.
But my fingers, cold and numb, curl around the inner edge of his shirt, holding on to his warmth, brushing the skinunderneath. Until I am certain that this version of Luciano Morelli doesn’t only exist in my head, this is all I will allow myself.
And if my truth is that I am dying, slowly asphyxiating underneath the ground, then this twisted imagining is infinitely preferable to that dark, cold hell.
So I allow myself to hold onto Luc, to breathe him in, to soak in the feel of being held so tenderly by him. But I don’t speak. Don’t want to break the spell, to be dragged backthere, alone and afraid.
I’m jostled, murmured apologies rumbling beneath my cheek as warmth spills over us, and I close my eyes against the wash of the light against my eyes. They only open as he separates us, as I sink into soft material, my fingers gently tugged free from their grip on his shirt.
The noise slips free, then. The pained, almost whimpering noise that sounds nothing like Caterina Corvo. His face appears in front of me, stormy hazel eyes and golden skin smeared with dirt and streaks of red. When his hand curves against my cheek, I turn my face into it, needing that connection to him.
“Little crow,” he whispers. “We need to get these ropes off.”
This is a beautiful hallucination.
He waits until I jerk my head in agreement, the movement making my neck ache. I bite back the complaint as he steps away from me. Keeping my eyes straight ahead as warm metal slips beneath my bonds, the rasping sound of rope separating into frayed strands, floating away from my skin.
It hurts. Burns, as he takes my hands in his, rubbing them. As he removes my shoes, massaging painful feeling back into my limbs with gentle touches. “Are you hurt anywhere else, little crow? Apart from your face?”
My forehead creases, the tiniest bit of doubt creeping in. Because the pain is increasing as my skin warms up, and with itcomes a little more clarity. Awareness, that perhaps this might not be the immediate prequel to the end of my life.
Slowly, I lick my lips. Move them, as if in practice.
But the words are almost soundless. The effort grates against my throat, and I try again. Luc squeezes my hand. “Take your time.”
He leans in closer, his ear almost to my mouth.
“Ribs. Sh…oulder.”
I think. “S-tomach, maybe.”
His hand tightens around mine. “I need to look.”
I nod, slowly. “Take this off.”
I feel heavy with dirt, as though my body is stained with it. The sudden, desperate urge to be clean washes over me, and I lift my hand, searching for him.
His fingers slide into mine again, and I breathe.
“I want to be clean,” I whisper. Words come a little more easily now. “Help me.”
My eyes watch Luciano Morelli as he carefully removes my dress. His gaze doesn’t linger as his fingers softly probe my body, pressing into spots that make me hiss.
“Two broken ribs,” he murmurs. “And your shoulder is sprained. Your abdomen is bruised, here. And your nose is broken. Your cheek needs stitches, little crow.”
