That’s the part that keeps hitting me. I trusted him completely, and he used that trust to put something inside my body.
And yet.
He also saved my life because of it.
Shit.
I’m standing there, towel clutched to my chest, contorting myself in front of the mirror like a deranged flamingo, trying to locate the invisible chip, when there’s a knock at the door.
“Swan? You OK?”
“Yeah. Just—” I open the door a crack. “I didn’t bring in any dry clothes.”
“Hold on,” Bones says. “You want me to get your bag? Or they’ve got those fluffy robe things out here. They’re covered in plastic from the dry cleaner. So I’m guessing they’re safe to use.”
“I’ll take the robe,” I say, letting the door swing open and feeling weirdly shy about standing in front of him in just a towel, despite all the things we’ve already done together—or maybe because of them.
“Here,” he says, his eyes not even slightly subtle about drinking me in as he holds it out.
“Thanks.”
As I take the robe, his knuckles brush the back of my hand. For one suspended second, neither of us pulls away. Something sparks—like static, but heavier. Not quite desire. Not quite anger. Something older. Deeper. A pressure that’s been building for years and has no name.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Does it involve you dropping that towel on the floor while I watch? Because if it does, the answer is yes.”
I roll my eyes. “No, it does not involve my towel. It’s about the tracker.”
Bones’s mouth twists. I can see him bracing—ready for a fight, maybe even preferring one to the weird emotional vacuum we’re both standing in. “Fire away.”
“Where is it?”
He looks at me for a long moment, arms folded tight across his broad chest, before answering. “Turn around.”
I do, clutching the robe and towel against me. His hand comes up—warm, rough—and gently sweeps my hair forward over my shoulder. His fingers skim down my shoulder blade, barely there, until they stop at a spot a few inches below.
Before I can think, my body leans into him. Thirteen years of instinct overriding common sense. I catch myself too late, going stiff again.
“Right there,” he murmurs, his fingertips pressing lightly. “It’s subdermal. You won’t see it, but if you know what you’re feeling for, you can touch it.”
His hand is still on my bare skin. I should move. I should step away. Put space between us.
But I don’t. And it pisses me off how much I don’t.
And it pisses me off more that my whole body is lighting up under his palm like it’s been waiting for this.
It doesn’t mean anything, I lie to myself. It’s just conditioning. Habit. Safety.
I twist, trying to catch the spot in the mirror, reaching back awkwardly—but I can’t quite get there.
“Here.”
He takes my hand in his, guiding my fingers.
“Feel that?”
He presses my pointer and middle fingers to my back, moving them in tiny, controlled circles. There’s a dense little bump under my skin about the size of a grain of rice, maybe less, almost invisible if you don’t know it’s there. My skin tingles. Not from the spot—well, sort of from the spot—but mostly from Bones touching me.
