But my body doesn't listen.
My body has apparently decided that survival instincts are optional and is now running on some other set of instructions entirely.
Koshin sets the plate aside and turns back to me.
“Do you need help getting up?”
I shift toward the edge of the bed, and the movement wakes up every bruise I'd managed to forget about while lying still.
“My legs work perfectly fine, thank you very much."
I'm slower than I want to be.
He waits.
When I finally get my feet under me, my legs shake—just a little, just enough to be humiliating.
Koshin's hand catches my elbow and steadies me. Firm without being tight, careful without hesitating.
Gentle hands. This man with gentle hands who peels skin from bone for information.
The contrast should horrify me. Should send me stumbling backward, putting distance between us, remembering what he is and what he does and why I should be afraid.
Instead, my body leans into the support.
Traitor.
"I need—" I clear my throat. "I need to wash. And change."
He nods toward a door I hadn't noticed. "Through there. I'll wait."
The washroom is small and private and blessedly empty of him. I lean against the closed door and breathe.
Get yourself together.
Except that's impossible when he keeps touching me gently. When he keeps looking at me like I matter. My whole body is thrumming with want—and that's what this is, no point pretending otherwise.
Fuck.
I wash quickly, trying not to notice how my skin still feels lit up where his hands were. Trying not to notice how my reflection looks different somehow—flushed, awake, alive in a way I haven't felt in months.
There are clothes laid out on the chair. Clean. Folded.
I pick up the shirt first. Soft—softer than anything I've worn in years. Black, fitted, with buttons that look like they're made of actual pearl. The fabric has weight to it. Quality. The kind of thing Seris would have stolen for me back when we were stupid enough to think stealing nice things would make us feel like nice people.
The pants are the same. Dark charcoal, tapered at the ankle, with a high waist that will actually sit where it's supposed to instead of sliding down my hips every time I move. There's give in the fabric when I stretch it between my hands. Room to breathe. Room to run, if I needed to.
Not that I'm planning to run.
Not that I could run.
The shoes are black. Slip-ons with a low heel, pointed toe, something almost delicate about the shape of them. Feminine in a way I haven't been allowed to be in a long time. I turn one over in my hands. The sole is leather. Unmarked.
New. All of it, new.
Don't. Don't think about that.
I return to the main chamber.
