“One of Hyssop’s newest litter, I’d guess.”
“Ev, I can’t have a cat. You know I can’t have a living thing.”
It shouldn’t soften her toward him when the years still sat like an open wound between them. But Eva couldn’t help but recall the tattoos of songbirds she’d glimpsed on Arthur’s biceps back at the farm. Had he continued to practice controlling his gift, as they’d done together as teenagers? Or had those swirls of ink become the closest he got to touching anything living?
She swallowed the traitorous need to know and scratched the kitten’s soft little head. There were too many things she and Arthur had left unsaid, too many hurts still festering, for her to ask such a question.
“We can’t turn her out in this.” Eva nodded to the torrent as the kitten bumped her chin with its forehead, already purring. “Can we, little one?”
Arthur remained frozen, watching as Eva rewrapped the kitten in her blanket and set it on the passenger seat.
Eva pointed to the mattress. “Sit.”
Even that felt too intimate. How many times had they arranged themselves in this exact position, trading care for bee stings, cuts, and burns? There were other wounds now that first aid couldn’t fix. Hurts that scraped down to the bone.
Arthur plopped down obediently. “Wash your hands,” he muttered.
To her relief, the poorly stocked first aid box did have a suture kit. Eva clicked on a flashlight she’d grabbed from the cellar. It had a wide base that let it stand upright, its beam bouncing off the van’s ceiling and lighting the space around them. After locating a pack of alcohol wipes from the first aid kit, Eva cleaned her shaking hands. Then she gently rubbed a disinfecting wipe over the pink, raw skin of Arthur’s wound. He winced.
“Try not to move,” Eva muttered. “You’ll make it worse.”
“You don’t have to do this, Ev.”
“You’ll scar if I don’t.”
Arthur gave a harsh laugh. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
The words made her chest squeeze so tightly she had to turn away, shakily threading the needle.
“That’s huge,” Arthur protested, his voice pitched up in alarm.
She couldn’t disagree. The sharp silver tip looked deadly against the broken flesh of his brow. Eva swallowed hard. “Ready?”
“Definitely not.”
She hesitated. “Do you want to go back?”
“No.” The word was hard as stone, and Eva saw him as he’d been in the holding cell, blood leaking down his brow from a wound no one had dared to touch. It made her angry that fear of him had made his needs so easy to ignore. No one deserved that. Not even him.
Eva shored up her courage. She could do this. How hard could it be, really? She’d cross-stitched before, had quilted with her Gran—
“Ev.” Arthur cut into her thoughts. “The anticipation is worse.”
“Right. Okay.” She inched a little closer and tilted his chin up with a finger, a shiver running up her back. Any nearer and she’d practically be positioned between his knees. It would be easier to reach him. Easier to stitch. But she couldn’t seem to get herself to come any closer.
Arthur was wrong. The anticipation wasnotworse. The second the needle pierced his skin, his eyes flew open and he barked a cry of shock and pain. “Fuck!”
“I’m sorry!” Eva bit the inside of her cheek so hard the copper tang of blood spread over her tongue.
Arthur’s chest rose and fell in harsh, staccato breaths. His eyes locked on hers. “Again.”
Her hands trembled. When the steel tip broke through skin on the opposite side, Arthur groaned. Eva pulled the split edges together as softly as she could, still too rough.
Arthur grabbed her by the pockets of her overalls, his expression seared in pain. “Stop,” he whispered. “Please.”
“Okay.” Tears leaked down Eva’s cheeks. “I stopped.”
Up till now, every touch they’d shared had been functional. Practical. Not this. Arthur dragged her so close that her legs brushed the insides of his thighs, denim kissing denim as he shuddered in pain. “I’m sorry,” he rasped. “I just… Can I…?”
