I close the door. Lock it.
She stands in the middle of my living room, dripping, arms wrapped around herself. Shivering.
“Bathroom’s down the hall,” I say. “Take a shower. Get warm.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re soaked and shaking. Go.”
She doesn’t move.
I sigh, walk past her to my bedroom, grab a towel and one of my shirts from the closet. When I come back, she’s still standing there like a drowned cat.
“Here.” I hold them out.
She hesitates.
“Or do you need my underwear too? I don’t think it would fit.”
She snatches them from my hand and glares, those eyes darkening.
“Bathroom. Now. Before you catch pneumonia and die on my floor.”
“Would be nice,” she murmurs.
She disappears down the hall. A minute later, I hear water running.
I head to the kitchen, pull out my phone. Three missed calls from Vaska. Two texts from Angelo. Nothing I need to deal with right now.
I pour myself vodka. Straight. Let it burn down my throat.
What the fuck am I doing?
I should’ve let her walk. Should’ve locked the door and gone to bed. Instead, I’m playing host to a girl who dug a bullet out of my side and shot a gun out of a window like a pro.
Reckless.
The water shuts off.
I down the rest of the vodka.
She emerges a few minutes later, wearing my shirt. It hangs to mid-thigh on her, sleeves rolled up past her wrists. Her hair’s damp, pushed back from her face. Bare skin and those dark eyes that watch me too closely.
She’s such a plain girl.
“Better?” I ask.
“No.” She tugs at the hem of the shirt. “I don’t want to be here.”
I scoff.
“You hungry?”
“No.”
“You like that word.”
She glares at me, but there’s no heat in it.
