"I'm fine in what I'm wearing."
"You'll be more comfortable in this."
"Adrian—"
"Change, Seraphina. Or I'll change you myself."
The threat hangs between us. I grab the shirt, disappear into the bathroom.
The space is all black marble and chrome. I avoid lookingin the mirror as I strip off the borrowed clothes and pull on his t-shirt. It hangs to mid-thigh, smells like him. I hate that it makes me feel safer.
When I come out, he's sitting on the edge of the bed. Waiting.
"Good," he says. "Now come here."
I don't move. "Why?"
"Because I need to check your injuries."
"Dr. Reeves already?—"
"Dr. Reeves didn't see you change clothes. I want to make sure nothing's gotten worse." When I still don't move, he sighs. "I'm not going to hurt you, Seraphina. Just let me look."
Slowly, I walk over. Stand in front of him.
His hands are gentle as they lift the shirt slightly, revealing the bruises on my ribs. Dark purple and blue spreading across my skin. He touches them carefully, checking for any sign of worsening.
"Does this hurt?" His fingers press lightly.
"Yes."
"This?"
"Yes."
His jaw tightens. "You were supposed to run."
"What?"
"In the alley. When he grabbed you. You were supposed to run." His hands are still on my ribs, warm through the thin fabric. "Instead, you fought."
"I wasn't going to just let him?—"
"You could have been killed."
"So could you."
He looks up at me. Something flickers in his expression. "I'm not easy to kill."
"Neither am I, apparently."
His lips twitch. Almost a smile. "No. You're not."
His hands move to my face, tilting it gently to examine the bruises there. His touch is careful. Almost tender. And I hatethat my body responds to it. That despite everything, part of me remembers how good his hands felt.
"You're going to have a black eye," he murmurs.
"I've had worse."
