He notices where my eyes go.
“I cleaned you up,” he says quietly, his voice low and rough and very, very human. “As much as I could without hurting you more. You lost a lot of blood.”
Okay.
So he talks.
Good.
That’s… good.
My mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
I try again.
“Hi,” I manage hoarsely, because my brain has apparently decided that this is a normal, socially appropriate response to waking up in a concrete bunker with a bone-spurred murder cryptid standing guard over my bed.
His lips twitch.
Just barely.
It might be my imagination.
“Hi,” he says back.
The word sounds like it hasn’t gotten much use lately.
Silence stretches between us, thick and humming with unspoken things and the faint electrical buzz of the utility strip overhead.
My survival instincts finally finish booting up.
Every single one of them lights up at once.
Not screaming yet.
Just… fully armed.
Every hair on my body stands on end.
My pulse roars in my ears.
My right hand curls into the mattress, searching blindly for something, anything, I could use as a weapon even though I am acutely aware that if he decided to hurt me, the concept of self-defense would be a charming, optimistic joke.
“Okay,” I say carefully, keeping my voice as steady as I can manage while my nervous system throws a rave. “I’m going to ask a couple of extremely basic questions now, and I would really appreciate it if you answered them in the non-murdery way.”
His shoulders shift slightly, as if he’s bracing himself for impact.
“Fair.”
“First,” I say, licking my dry lips. “Am I currently being held hostage by a large, extremely hot, extremely illegal-looking man who tore through a building like the Hulk on bath salts.”
“No.”
The answer is immediate.
Flat.
