“What?” He snaps this word out and it’s true. I’m making him nervous.
I suck in a deep breath, then slowly let it out. He watches me do this, his brow furrowing again. Then I look around, spy a shallow wooden dish filled with sponges, and walk through the water towards it. I pick up a large sponge that looks like it was harvested directly from the ocean floor this morning and didn’t come from a mall store filled with skincare products.
There is a cake of soap too. And I take that with me as I walk back over to Paul. He doesn’t say anything, just accepts the cake of soap in his palm when I offer it. Then I dip the sponge in thewater, rub it against the soap, and look up into Paul’s eyes. “Turn around. I’ll wash them for you.”
He clenches his jaw, but then relaxes it and does as I ask.
Now that I can see them up close, I realize the skin around his emerging wing bones is very red, so I am careful when I touch the sponge to the scabs. He flinches when this happens. Just his skin, though. The way a horse might flinch when bitten by a fly. But he doesn’t protest or tell me to stop.
I dip the sponge in water, apply more soap, and gently rub the scabs until they melt away and begin to bleed. Not a lot, and it’s mostly mixed with water, so I’m able to control my urges. But the desire to lick him is still fairly strong.
“Well?” Paul breaks our silence. “Are you going to tell me why you’re here?”
I continue to gently clean his wounds—which is a good word for what these wing bones look like—as I answer him. “I don’t know why I’m here. It just happened.”
“Where do you come from?”
“The future.”
He looks over his shoulder at me. “How far in the future?”
“Couple thousand years, maybe?”
“Am I there, in your future? Do you know me?”
“Unfortunately, I do.”
My answer makes him chuckle. “Are we not friends?”
“We are not.”
“Are we enemies?”
“We’re…” I sigh. “I’m not sure.”
“Why are you serving me then?”
“Servingyou?”
“Cleaning my back like a slave.”
“I don’t think it was my idea.”
This makes him go quiet and this quiet lasts for nearly a minute. I simply continue to gently wash the wounds until finally, I have to stop when he turns to face me.
The cut where he bit his lip has already healed, but just the memory of the blood when I look at his mouth is enough to make the cravings start.
He reaches out, wrapping his fingers around my wrists—not tightly, but definitely with intention. My gaze slides up to meet his.
“What did I do to you? To make you hate me?”
I shrug. “I’m not really sure.”
“Whatareyou?”
I shrug again. Just one shoulder this time. “I don’t know.”
“A Black witch?”
