“Do you have anything to wrap your shoulder with?” he asks brusquely.
“I think I have some Band-Aids in the medicine cabinet.” I feel a bit sheepish when Ethan frowns at my joke. He doesn’t know how freakishly fast I heal. He’s understandably not in the mood for my flippant humor. I still grumble, “What? It’s funny.”
I actually don’t have any Band-Aids. My medicine cabinet is empty. I don’t get sick. And any nicks and scratches heal before I can clean them. I’ve never tested my healing powers to this extent before, but so far so good. I don’t know if I would’ve survived a fatal wound, though. If I bleed out before I can heal, then I’ll most likely die. Like I said, I’m no immortal goddess.
But there is no figuring out the why or how of my healing powers since I cut ties with the Shingae. Much like the not-aging thing, I first noticed the power after I came to the United States. It’s almost as though I’m a Blessed, but I don’t recall being accepted into the ranks of the almighty Suhoshin. All I know is something happened to me when I blacked out the night Daeseong came for my mother and me.
Blood blossoms like flowers across her silky white fur. One, then another. Stunned silence smothers the shrill voice of the mob. Lifeless bodies cover the ground ...I shrink back from the memory with a gasp. That night is the last thing I want to remember. Ever.
Ethan moves around my place like he owns it, utterly confident and not the least bit self-conscious about being shirtless. He comes back with some old T-shirts and a soaked hand towel. He sits down next to me, and I almost scoot away, suddenly shy. Fuck that. I force myself to stay exactly where I am.
“I have to get you to a hospital.” He turns me toward him. “That’s a nasty wound.”
“This?” I quirk my eyebrow and take off the kitchen towel. I act nonchalant, but showing him my power makes me feel more exposed than being in my underwear. “It already stopped bleeding.”
“What ... how?” Ethan draws back like I sprouted an extra head. He dabs at my shoulder with the towel, wiping the blood off. He sucks in a sharp breath when he sees the neat three-inch gash, barely oozing blood. He carefully turns me to the side to check the exit wound on my back. His chest expands as he inhales through his nose. My guess is that one’s nearly closed up too. He has to be freaked out, but he only says, “Well, it’s still no paper cut.”
He tears one of my old T-shirts into thin strips and binds my wound. I watch his face, trying to figure out what he’s thinking. But the man has his poker face mastered. When he’s done, I wiggle into my jeans on my own, but I need his help buttoning up my shirt. I ignore the flutter in my stomach as the backs of his fingers brush against my bare skin and linger a second longer than necessary. I’m imagining things. He can’t possibly feel as worked up around me as I do around him. My assessment is confirmed when he buttons me up with aloof efficiency and gets to his feet as soon as he’s finished.
I take slow, small sips of air and try to quiet my mind. But my mind refuses to cooperate as the assassin’s words ring in my head.My brother had that privilege.The little calm I fought for is shattered. I want to find that brother of hers and slaughter him—make him pay for killing Ben. My fists clench. But it’s not the red assassin or her brothers that matter. They’re mere puppets. It’s their master I want.
Iwillavenge Ben’s death, but I need to focus on the now. I can’t do shit if I’m dead. I’m a target—that much is certain—so I have to stay on the move. What about Ethan? His best chance for survival is to dive under the radar and stay the hell away from me.
“Will you go away if I ask you to?” I glance up at him, knowing my chances are slim. If he were the sort to run from the terrifying unknown, he wouldn’t have jumped into the fray to save my ass from the creepy woman in red.
He arches a single brow, holding my gaze. “No.”
“I didn’t think so.”Arrogant bastard.
I wince as I reach under the couch for my sword belt and strap it on, loving the feel of the aged leather hugging my waist. It’s been years since I’ve worn it. I can’t exactly walk the streets nowadays with a short sword strapped to me. I inch my butt off the sofa and straighten up. Nausea rises to my throat, but I don’t pass out, and I walk over to pick up my hwando. Swinging it in a smooth half arc, I sheath the sword in a single motion. There’s no need to clean it.
The red assassin didn’t leave a single drop of blood.
CHAPTER FOUR
We’re heading toward the highway in Ethan’s Jeep, and the silence is stifling. I wonder what blows his mind more ... The terrifying assassin who turned into red dust when I stabbed her through the heart? Or the fact that I’m sitting next to him scrolling through his laptop instead of bleeding out from my shoulder wound?
I sneak a peek at him. My gaze lingers on his arresting profile before I take in the rest of him. He grabbed a T-shirt from a duffel bag in his trunk, so he’s no longer half-naked. I’m relieved. Of course I am.
I continue studying the fully clothed man next to me. Other than the slight tension in his shoulders and the hard set of his jaw, Ethan appears collected and cool. While I admire his stoicism—hysteria is the last thing I need—I can’t shake off the pestering thought that a human shouldn’t be able to calmly process this kind of exposure to the Shingae.
But what do I even know about him other than the fact that he is aggravatingly arrogant and stupidly brave? He must have developed nerves of steel over the last eight years. What hasn’t changed is his kindness. I recall his gentle touch as he tended my injury and note his patience now, as he holds back the million questions he must have.
“Where to?” He breaks the silence, making me jump a little, but keeps his eyes on the road.
“Northern California,” I say matter-of-factly, pretending to be engrossed in the autopsy report. I have a vague plan that I don’t want to put into words yet.
He nods and adjusts our route toward the I-15, then resumes brooding. I have a feeling he’s mentally compiling a list of questions to grill me with once he deems me well enough. He isn’t too happy I’m not sleeping like he suggested when we first hit the road.
I’m too wired to sleep. I feel a restless energy crackling between us, waking up every nerve ending in my body. Maybe it’s just me. But being in such close confines with him makes it difficult to concentrate, which is ridiculous since it’s just Ethan. I know him. No, Iknewhim ... This man isn’t the sixteen-year-old I abandoned in the dead of night.
I try to take a deep breath, but it feels as though my lungs have been knotted in half. I’m much too attuned to his every movement ... to the heat coming off his body. I keep finding myself listing toward him as though I’m yielding to a powerful magnetic pull.
Maybe my body is malfunctioning because I kept my distance from people—both emotionally and physically—for too long. Plus, the news of Ben’s murder and the death match with the red assassin—the grief shot through with adrenaline—must be messing with my head. That has to be it. But what about my visceral reaction to Ethan when he first showed up at Roxy’s? Before I knew about Ben’s death? Before the rest of the shit happened?
I clear my throat and focus on the laptop perched on my knees. The autopsy report, like Ethan said, doesn’t reveal much, but I’m more interested in the photos. I lean closer to the screen when I spot the faded purplish tints on Ben’s fingers and toes, just above his cuticles. His lips have the same tint to them, even when the rest of his features are dull and gray. My heart thunders in my ears.
“Weird question.” I lightly run my fingertips across the keyboard, not disturbing the keys. “What did Ben smell like when you found him?”
