Don't think about it.
I move toward the fridge, hyper-aware of Bane's presence. My body protests every step. I try to walk normally, try not to limp, try not to show how much everything hurts.
The fridge is stocked. Of course it is. Rich people don't have empty refrigerators. I grab the first thing I see—some kind of fancy yogurt in a glass container—and a spoon from the drawer.
The island has six stools. Bane is at one end. I could sit at the other end, maximum distance between us. That would be the smart choice.
I sit two stools away instead. Close enough to be social. Far enough to be safe.
Or so I think.
The moment I lower myself onto the stool, pain lances through me. Sharp. Blinding. I can't stop the hiss that escapes between my teeth, can't control the way my face contorts.
Fuck.
I grip the edge of the counter and breathe through it. In. Out. In. Out.
When I open my eyes, Bane is watching me.
Those hazel eyes are sharp. Tracking. Taking in the way I'm sitting—perched on one hip, most of my weight on my left side, obviously avoiding pressure on—
His jaw tightens.
Something flickers across his face. Too fast to identify. Gone before I can name it.
He looks back at his laptop without a word.
The silence stretches between us. Heavy. Loaded.
I eat my yogurt mechanically. Vanilla. Expensive. I barely taste it.
My mind keeps cycling back to last night. To Zero. To what it means that Bane is being almost... civil. Does he know? Can he tell? Is it obvious that I got fucked six ways from Sunday and left bleeding on the basement floor?
The thought makes heat crawl up my neck.
"You look like shit," Bane says.
I blink. "What?"
He doesn't look up from his screen. "You. You look like shit. When's the last time you slept properly? Or ate?"
"I'm eating now."
"Yogurt isn't food." His fingers move across the keyboard. Typing something. "There's leftover pasta in the back of the fridge. Margot made it yesterday."
Is he... is he telling me to eat more?
"I'm fine."
"Sure you are." His voice is flat. "That's why you're sitting like you've got a stick up your ass and wincing every time you breathe."
The blood drains from my face.
He knows. He has to know. There's no other explanation for—
"Relax." He glances at me, and there's something almost like amusement in his expression. "I'm not going to ask. Whatever you did to yourself, it's your business."
Whatever I did tomyself.
