Steps toward me instead.
I can’t resist anymore. I have to look at him.
Our eyes meet across the empty gym. My breath catches somewhere in my throat. Those bottomless brown eyes pin me in place, and for a second I’m back on the mat with his weight above me, his breath on my skin.
“Your left shoulder is stiff,” he says. “You’re holding it weirdly.”
I glower at him, even though he’s right. The joint aches like hell—probably from when Cas threw me into the wall yesterday.
“And?”
“You need a cold compress on it. Stay here.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he disappears through a side door. It’s only a couple of minutes before he’s back again, compress in one hand, a canvas bag in the other.
I’m confused. I could have just gone and gotten one from Evander myself. But I hold my hand out for it. “Thanks.”
He makes a tutting sound. “Sit down. It’s an awkward angle for you to hold it.”
Sighing, I resign myself to my fate and lower myself onto a mat. The oil lanterns scattered around the room are burning low, casting flickering shadows that dance across the walls.
“Shirt off,” he commands, and I almost make a joke, but the words stick in my throat.
I pull the fabric over my head and toss it aside. The gym’s cool air hits my bare chest, raising bumps across my skin. Marco kneels behind me, and I feel the cold compress settle against my shoulder blade. The ice numbs the ache wonderfully.
“Better?”
“Yeah,” I reply.
His free hand rests on my other shoulder, thumb tracing small circles against the muscle. His touch burns despite the cold pressed to my other side.
“And… while I’m here.”
I hear him rummaging in the canvas bag, then feel cool oil being drizzled across my back. The scent of eucalyptus fills the air.
His palms spread the oil across my skin, working it into the knots of tension. Strong fingers dig into the muscle, finding every point of pain and working it loose. I bite back a moan as he hits a particularly sore spot.
“You’re very good at that.”
“I was trained young,” he says with a chuckle. His hands never pause in their work, kneading the base of my neck.
His touch explores my skin, mapping every scar and imperfection. When his fingers trail across the tiny birthmark on my left shoulder, they linger there.
“You’ve spent most of your life outside, haven’t you?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Your skin, for one. You glow. You’re sun-kissed, with a smattering of freckles.” His fingertips trace lines across my shoulders. “But mainly the way you carry yourself here. Like you’re a caged bird.”
I glance back at him sharply. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Whenever we’re in the pit, you look to the sky as if you wish to take flight. You turn your face to the sun at any opportunity, like you’re trying to remember what warmth feels like. Your body remembers freedom, even if your mind tries to forget it.”
His hands work lower, pressing into the muscles along my spine. The compress has gone warm against my shoulder, but I don’t want him to move it. Don’t want this to end.
“And what about you?” I manage. “Five years in a cage and you act like you own the place.”
His hands still against my skin. “I do not love this cage. But I have learned how to survive in it.” He clears his throat before I can reply. “Your hair is covered in knots.”
