Shame courses through me. I don’t know how to help him, but I do know his hands must be cold, so I wrap my sweatshirt around them. He’s in too much pain to protest.
I tell myself he’ll be fine with rest and circulation restored, but it’s hard to believe when his bundled hands lie in his lap.
He lets me bring the bottle to his mouth, tilting it so he doesn’t choke. He downs half before telling me it’s my turn. The water tastes like plastic, but it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever had, and it’s hard not to drain the entire thing in one go.
I examine his feet, carefully peeling away the blood-soaked cotton. His cuts have reopened, and fresh blood mixes with the pus building around the edges of it.
“I don’t want to get ahead of myself,” he says, “but judging by the look on your face, I’m guessing it’s great news.”
“You’re so perceptive,” I say.
I go for sarcasm, but it comes out too serious and monotone, although I guess that’s Nico’s usual delivery so he probably got it.
The bleeding in my feet has mostly stopped. Walking around barefoot in this place is asking for trouble, so I manage to gently maneuver my swollen feet into my boots. Any movement sends little bolts of pain up my calves, but at least now there’s a barrier between my raw skin and all the debris on this floor.
I use one of the pieces of glass from yesterday to cut off the hem of my sweatshirt. More bandaging won’t help Nico’s infection, but I need to do something. My stomach churns as I wrap the fabric around his foot, both from the sight of hiswounds and from the hollow ache in my own gut. When was the last time either of us ate? Yesterday morning? My mouth tastes like copper and stale air, and there’s this weird floating sensation behind my eyes that makes the room swim when I move too fast.
Getting Nico’s boots back on over the bandages is harder. I’m painfully aware of how much I’m hurting him, but I get it done.
I unwrap the other half of the chocolate bar and break off two squares for Nico.
“So,” I say, sliding a square into my mouth. “You’ve looked better.”
I honestly don’t think Nico is capable of looking bad. Our time here over the past couple of days has left him with stubble that makes him look rugged and less put-together. I don’t know how it’s possible that he’s been tortured for multiple days andstilllooks good.
His eyes gleam, and there’s a knowing look in them like he knows exactly what I was just thinking. “Have I?”
“You know what I mean,” I say. “I’m telling you, politely, that you look like shit.”
“You’re so good at being polite,” he says.
“I try.”
He leans his head back against the column, eyes closing. “Youhave never looked better.”
“I didn’t know not brushing my teeth for two days was such a turn on for you,” I say.
His smile opens the slit in his lip. “You learn something new every day.”
Everything inside me twists and tightens. “You’re delirious.”
“Probably,” he says. “But my eyesight’s working fine.”
The flutter in my chest is so strong it feels like a pair of wings might burst through my ribs,Alienstyle.
“If I’d known this was how to get your attention, I would’ve showered much less,” I say.
“Trust me, Eden,” he says. “Getting my attention has never been your problem.”
A clang echoes through the building. Our heads both turn toward the sound and find that a door has cracked open. It’s the biggest door in the room, and the one located directly under the electronic timer, centered on the far wall.
An object slides through. The overhead light catches the gleam of sharpened steel.
I look to Nico, but his eyes are locked on the door. He’s doing that counting thing again, but this time he goes longer than ten.
The speaker crackles to life.
“Twenty-three,” Nico mumbles, almost imperceptible.
