“No,” I say, breathless. “I can manage on my own. I’ll just rinse off.”
“Do you need help using the bathroom?”
“No!” I exclaim.
“Suit yourself. If you need me, I’ll be right outside.” A smirk plays over his mouth as he leaves, closing the door.
After I take care of business, I leave my shorts and panties on the floor, and I worm my way out of the tank top and the thin bra. I turn on the shower and stand under the spray, holding my hands up and out of the way to keep the bandages dry. I manage to get all the sand off, near as I can tell. I showered this morning anyway, so I don’t need to soap down or shave tonight.
Afterward, I dry off clumsily with a towel. I don’t have extra underwear along, but I’ve got the silky pajama set I wore at Lloyd’s last night—one of the things Dorian bought me. It’s in my overnight bag, so I wrap myself in one of the thin motel towels and exit the bathroom.
Dorian is smoking on the balcony. He stabs out the cigarette when he sees me and slides open the balcony door, waving away the last curls of smoke.
My god, he’s obscenely beautiful. He should be illegal.
“All done,” I say faintly. “Your turn.”
“Yeah.” He tugs at his lip with his teeth, his heated gaze traveling over me from top to toe.
If there’s one thing I know about him, it’s that he’s insatiablewhen it comes to physical lust. I’m honestly surprised he hasn’t been pushier about it, since he’s clearly attracted to me. I half expect him to come to me, pluck the towel from my grip, and run his hands over my bare skin.
But he only says, “How are you feeling? Dizzy? Cold?”
“I’m fine.”
He shuts the sliding glass door and pulls the curtains after one more cautious look outside. “I think we’re safe. Stay put, okay? I’ll be quick. If anything happens, we’ve got some leftover paint in those cans, and the lighters are still good.”
“I don’t think the skriken will come for us here.”
“Can’t be too careful. Seriously, Baz—don’t leave the room.”
“I do what I want,” I retort.
He releases an exasperated sigh. “Fine.”
The minute I hear the shower start, I pull on my pj’s, grab my purse, and hunt for my credit card. I saw a vending machine on the way in, and I’m starving. I guess fighting for your life works up an appetite.
I’m not gone from the room for five minutes, but when I hip-check my way back through the door, with the room key card and the credit card clamped in my teeth, Dorian is already there, his skin steaming and damp, a towel knotted around his waist. He’s glaring, and his arms are crossed, which only makes his biceps more enticing.
I drop my haul of snack food on the dresser, pushing aside the bags to make room. Then I pluck the cards from between my teeth.
“There and back again.” I throw him a smirk. “And nothing bad happened.”
He doesn’t respond, but his glare deepens. “I told you to stay in the room.”
“And I decided to get food. You hungry?”
“No.” More glaring.
“Oh my god, would you chill? I’m fine.”
“Your safety isn’t just about you,” he says.
Of course he’s not worried about me because he cares. In this, as in everything, he is supremely selfish. The realization stings, and I let venom seep into my voice as I reply. “I know. It’s also about ensuring I stay alive to paint your precious portrait.”
“It’s about my fucking sanity,” he explodes. “Do you think I could forgive myself if you died?”
My stomach flips. “It wouldn’t be your fault. And you could just push it away, right? Refuse to feel it.”
