Mira
The Brit steps forward slowly, a predator on the prowl. I watch himveryclosely—I wasn’t kidding when I said he’s the most dangerous one here. His aura, his energy, his vibe—the intangible feeling that I get from people—never changes. It’s flat, dissonant. It’s his smile thatreallymakes him frightening, though; I’ve never seen someone fake a smile that well.
“You need something to bite down on so you don’t rip your cheek or tongue clean off?” he asks as he comes to a stop beside me. “It’s gonna hurt, love.”
I nod. “Yeah, I know. I’ve had dislocations before.”Not all of them were accidental; getting dragged around by your arm as a kid tends to fuck up your body. “I’ll be good. I won’t scream.”
Brit’s brows lift in disbelief. I guess his doubt makes sense. Joint dislocations are phenomenally painful, but I learned many years ago how to keep quiet while getting mybroken bonesset. That’s a different kind of pain, a literal bone-deep agony. Back then, I knew if I made a single peep, I’d get another broken bone.
“Okay, then. I did my duty by offering.” He stares hard at me. “I’m not going to make it hurt any more than it has to, understand? It’ll be over quick.” He glances at Verdant Eyes. “You’ll need to keep her still for me, Dorian.”
Dorian. The name suits Verdant Eyes. It brings to mind Oscar Wilde’s book, The Picture of Dorian Gray. I wonder whatthisDorian would see if he stared at a picture of his soul. Something terrifying, to be sure.
Dorian walks up to me, flanking my left side. When he raises his hands, I flinch. It’s an instinctual reaction that I can’t keep down. His brows furrow, but he doesn’t comment as he puts one rough, calloused palm on my arm, and the other on my waist. His hands are warm, his body’s warm, and there’s something enticing about his energy, like the notes of a siren song. I bet he ismostskilled at luring in girls with his appearance and sexy vibe alone; he looks like he’d make a killing as a model. Or porn star. The big-dick energy emanating from him is overwhelming.
“Ready?” Brit asks.
I nod. When he takes my right arm, I try to hide my flinch, but don’t succeed. I’m flighty right now, firmly in survival mode, so even though I’m doing a good job of keeping my fear from the surface, I’m not so good at masking my reaction. I inhale a deep breath and nod again at The Brit.
He takes my wrist in one hand and moves the other to grip me just below my shoulder. He bends my arm at the elbow and rotates it outwards. A new wash of pain overcomes me, and I squeeze my eyes shut, gritting my teeth and steeling myself.
“Looks like a partial dislocation,” Brit says. “Means it’ll heal nice and quick. Lucky girl.” Abruptly, he shoves my arm up and back into its socket, and I hear a loud pop andfeelit as my shoulder’s forced back into place.
Shooting agony overtakes me, preventing me from thanking him. Primal tears prickle at my eyes, a noise bubbles up in my throat, but old instincts keep me from letting it out. I inhale and exhale severaltimes, my breaths shaky, and count the seconds until the worst of my pain subsides. Slowly, it dulls into a deep-set ache—not as bad as it was before, but not pleasant, either. When I think I can use my voice without crying, I open my eyes and glance at the Brit. “It’s better now, thanks. I didnotfeel like paying a hospital bill.”
Brit stares at me with furrowed eyebrows. “You didn’t make a single noise,” he observes. “Your breaths got so shaky I thought you were going to pass out or scream, but you did neither.”
“Yeah, I don’t pass out much. Well, I am prone to heat exhaustion in the summers, but it’s not too hot out now. Can you let go of me?” I glance between him and Dorian.
Brit releases me immediately, taking a step back and raising his hands to show he won’t touch me again. Oddly enough, the gesture calms me. He might be the most dangerous one, but I have an inkling that he has his own honor code, and it’s a strong one that’s rooted in…justice, maybe?He strikes me as a vigilante. Flashlight Guy is a stone-cold killer. Dorian is a little trickier, because I think he might be a mix of both. He’s smooth but coarse. He’s got morals, but I think they can be rearranged to fit his narrative. And I’m willing to bet that there’s very little he won’t do, but the few limits he has never get crossed.
I look at Dorian. “Um, can you let go of me, too? You’re intimidating.”
Dorian doesn’t. He’s watching me with a deep consideration, brows furrowed as he sweeps his thumb over my arm. “Are you immune to pain or something?” he asks.
I release a low, somewhat sad laugh. “No.”Just used to it. “That’d be pretty cool, though.”
“Try to move your arm, love,” the Brit says. “Make sure it’s alright now.”
I gingerly rotate my shoulder, wincing at the pinpricks that ignite. Then, I flex my hand, move my arm, do a range of motion tests, all of which prove that my arm is perfectly functional, albeitverysore.
“It’s good now. Back in place. Youdidmake it quick; I’ve had doctors do a shittier job.” Once again, I look at Dorian. “You’re still holding me.”
“I am,” he agrees.You should get used to it, his eyes say.
Uh…no thanks. There’s something intriguing about him, but my survival instincts are finely honed. “Will it get me killed if I shake you off? Asking you politely isn’t working.”
“It won’t get you killed, but dismissing me could get you punished.” I shrink back at the threat; Dorian smiles faintly. “Not like that, pretty girl. You won’t be getting buried or swimming with the fishes—no time soon and not by our hands, anyways.” When I tense, he adds, “Or by our orders. You can calm down.”
“I can’t,” I disagree. “I need music for that. You won’t give me my phone or backpack. Ergo, I’ll still be freaking out in… how long did you say I’d be yourguest?” I question. “A week? I guess I’ve gone in panicked states for longer, but it’s been a while.” I’m not looking forward to remaining in fight or flight for that long, but I’ll manage.
“I said I wouldn’t kill you,” Dorian reminds me, gently squeezing my arm in reassurance. “I won’t.”
“Yeah, my brain heard you. I sort of believe you. I’m still freaked out and totally off balance."
He tilts his head to the side. “Do you always blurt out whatever you’re thinking?”
“No. Usually I only blurt out about a third of what I’m thinking. The rest stays inside. Can you please let go of me?”
