Great question. Patching up Cody’s arm won’t patch up Simon’s guilt.
Simon braces himself to resist the scent of blood. He’s not a fledgling, but he’s not a saint either. “I can clean the wound for you.”
Cody’s brow dips, skeptical. “No need. It’s already healing.”
A sealed antiseptic wipe crinkles in Simon’s hand. The polite rejection stings, and he feels foolish for offering. Even more foolish for being disappointed. Of course, werewolves heal fast. Simon had just forgotten how fast.
He snaps the kit shut. “Never mind, then.”
“Fuck.” Cody scrubs his hand over his face and takes one step into the bathroom. “I could use help getting the jacket off. The lining is stuck to the blood.”
Simon should have been a jester. His relief at doing something reaches new depths of foolishness. After a lightning-fast assessment of their relative heights, he hops onto the counter.
“Very well. Come here.”
Cody hesitates understandably. Then he draws closer and turns his wounded arm towards Simon. “Thanks. I could rip it off, but I like this jacket.”
Simon holds his breath, which barely lessens the rich scent of Cody’s blood. He grips the back and shoulder of the jacket, towards the damaged right side. The leather is warm with Cody’s body heat.
Gingerly, Cody twists his good arm out. The movement brings him closer. He grabs the cuff of the bloody sleeve, and together he and Simon ease the jacket off. Fabric pulls against tacky blood. Fine hairs audibly tear from Cody’s arm.
It’s all so mortal. Physical. Undignified. Simon’s fingers clench like claws in the warm leather, guilt and hunger warring for his attention.
The bullet hole is a new, pink scar in the meat of Cody’s triceps. Rivers of darkening blood cake his arm to the back of his hand. Not nearly as sweet as it would be fresh from the vein—but Simon wants it.
Maybe he’s starving after months of bottled blood. Maybe Cody just smells too damn good. Simon imagines lifting Cody’s wrist and lapping the bloody traces from his bones.
Instead, Simon offers the torn jacket. “I can havethis cleaned.”
“I’ll take care of it.” Cody takes the jacket, leaving Simon’s hand colder. “The lining is probably ruined, but I’ll just get it replaced.”
The man’s competent self-sufficiency is galling.
Simon wants to clean the blood from Cody’s arm too, but he can’t pretend that it’s to assuage his guilt. Not with the way his cold heart trembles with Cody’s proximity.
The guilt isn’t that Cody got hurt protecting him.
The guilt is for wanting to be protected.
“I should thank you,” Simon says softly. Maybe words will be clearer than gestures. “You didn’t have to do this.”
Cody cocks his head, clearly assessing. “It’s my job.”
“You still didn’t have to,” Simon says, sharp and defensive. “I’m grateful you did.”
In the dim bathroom light, Cody looks older than his years. Something shifts in the air, as if Simon’s hesitation places Cody on steadier ground. Cody turns to fully face him, close enough that his hip nearly brushes Simon’s knee.
“It’s my job to keep my principal out of harm’s way. Even if I hate them.” Cody grins. “But I don’t hate you as much as I expected.”
The words are unbelievably fond.
Simon inhales. He needs the breath to speak, and taking in the scent of Cody’s blood and sweat is a dizzying side effect. “I suppose you’re tolerable as well.”
“I need to report this incident to Tobias,” Cody says, his words quiet and his gaze almost tactile in its intensity. “But there’s one thing… Do we need to revise that no-touching protocol?”
He offers his unbloodied left hand, palm up.
“I would permit that,” Simon says, the honesty prickling like sunlight through a silk curtain. He places his fingers in the molten cup of Cody’s palm.
