His fingers are gentle as he tilts my chin up, flashing a light briefly in my eyes from his phone. “It doesn’t look like it. We’ll get you cleaned up, and then you can rest.”
Sean handles me gently, examining the cut on my cheekbone, the bruise I can feel forming around my eye. His jaw clenches, a muscle jumping in his cheek. "Bastards."
"It's not that bad," I whisper, but my voice comes out shaky and thin.
"It's bad enough." His thumb brushes just below the cut, so careful it barely touches. "I'm going to get the first aid kit. Don't move."
He gets up to rummage under the sink, and I sit there, staring at my hands in my lap. They're still shaking. There's dried blood under my fingernails—that one man’s blood, I think, from when I scratched at him. My wrists are raw and red from the zip ties, the skin broken in places.
Sean comes back to kneel in front of me again, setting the kit beside him, and brings the cloth to my face. The water is warm. He cleans the blood away slowly, carefully, his brow furrowed in concentration.
"Tell me if I hurt you," he murmurs.
I nod, but I don't think he could hurt me right now if he tried. His touch is so gentle it makes my chest ache. He cleans my face, my neck, the scrapes on my wrists. He opens the first aid kit and pulls out antiseptic, cotton pads, bandages. The antiseptic stings when he dabs it on my cheekbone, but I don't flinch. I just watch his face, the pain in his eyes. He looks as if he’s the wounded one.
"I'm okay," I tell him, because he looks like he needs to hear it.
His eyes flick up to mine. "You're not okay. You're hurt. You were taken, and hurt, and—" His voice breaks. He looks away, his jaw working. "Christ, Maeve."
"But I'm here," I say. "I'm safe. You came for me."
"They shouldn’t have been able to take you." His hands are shaking now too, as he smooths a bandage over my cheek. "I should have—I should have kept you safe."
"You did. You are." I reach out, my fingers touching his jaw. He closes his eyes like the touch hurts. "Sean. I'm okay."
He shakes his head, but he doesn't pull away from my hand. He finishes bandaging my wrists, his fingers lingering on my skin, and then he sits back on his heels, looking up at me.
"I need to check the rest of you," he says quietly. "Make sure nothing's broken, nothing's—" He swallows hard. "Did they—did anyone?—"
"No," I say quickly, understanding what he's asking. "No. They hit me, tied me up, but that's all. I promise."
The relief that crosses his face is so stark it makes my throat tight. He nods, then stands, helping me to my feet. "Arms up."
I raise my arms, wincing at the pull in my shoulders, and he carefully lifts my tank top, checking my ribs and my back, his fingers gentle as they probe for injuries. There are bruises forming, dark purple blossoms across my skin, but nothing feels broken. He pulls my shirt back down, then checks my legs and my ankles methodically.
"Nothing broken," he finally says, and the tension in his shoulders eases slightly. "You'll be sore for a few days, but nothing that won't heal."
"Okay," I whisper.
Sean's thumb brushes across my uninjured cheek. "I need to talk to the Council in the morning," he says. "Let them know the job is done."
The words hit me like a physical blow.The job is done.
Of course. Brennan is dead. The threat is eliminated. The reason for our marriage—the whole reason I'm here—is gone. The contract is fulfilled. The job is done. Sean succeeded, so they’ll reward him. Maybe by allowing him to divorce his unwanted wife.
I feel something crack inside my chest, but I don't let it show on my face. I don’t know what I was hoping for—a declaration of love, for Sean to say he never really felt like he didn’t want me… something that I know isn’t realistic and won’t happen. I just nod, pulling back from his hands and wrapping my arms around myself.
"Okay," I say, and my voice sounds distant even to my own ears.
Sean's brow furrows slightly, like he's trying to read something in my expression, but I look away before he can. I'm too tired for this. Too tired to argue, to beg, to figure out if I want him to keep me anyway even though the job is done. Too tired to fight for something he's already decided is over.
That maybe should never have existed in the first place.
"You should get some rest," Sean says, his voice gentler now. "You're exhausted."
I am exhausted. I'm so tired I can barely stand, barely think. My body feels like it weighs a thousand pounds, and my mind is foggy, sluggish, like I'm moving through water.
"Do you want to shower? Or just wash up?"
