Page 35 of Life Or Death

“Get out,” I shriek.

Lucifer lifts his head, and a bewildered expression flits across his face as his eyes lock with mine. “Jess⁠—”

I shake my head. “I need you to leave. Now. Please.”

Lucifer’s jaw ticks, and he opens his mouth to respond, but Sandy quickly intervenes.

“Mr. Holland. Why don’t you give us a moment?”

Something flickers across Lucifer’s face before he gives a tight nod and turns to leave. The door clicks shut behind him, and I finally allow myself to breathe.

Sandy’s hand finds my elbow, and Marcus moves to my other side.

“Let’s get you back to bed,” Marcus says gently.

They guide me the few steps back to the mattress, and the moment my weight leaves my legs, I collapse against the pillows. The tears come fast and hard, streaming down my face as sobs wrack my chest.

Sandy murmurs something to Marcus, and he steps out of the room. She sits on the edge of my bed, her hand finding mine.

“Hey, what’s going on?” she asks softly. “Talk to me.”

I press my palms against my eyes, trying to stem the flow of tears. “I didn’t want him to see me like that. My legs—the grafts—they’re hideous.”

“Jess.” Sandy’s voice is gentle but firm. “I don’t think he cares.”

I drop my hands and stare at her. “What?”

She sighs softly. “I’ve seen the way that man looks at you, and it’s not with pity or disgust. It’s something else entirely.”

I don’t know what she means by that, but she doesn’t give me a chance to ask either.

“The first night he showed up, he looked deranged, like he was on the verge of killing anyone who stood in his way of getting to you, but once we let him into your room, everything about that man softened. He was at peace, and something tells me a man like your husband doesn’t find peace all that often.” Sandy studies me for a long moment. “What if we made you feel more like yourself?” She pushes off the bed and crosses to the cubby where Tori stored all my belongings. Things I haven’t touched since she unpacked them. “I could brush your hair, and I spotted a makeup bag in here somewhere. Would that make you feel better?”

I stare at her. “Makeup?”

“Trust me.” She pulls out a small zippered bag and holds it up. “I always feel better when I get dressed and do my makeup. Even if I’m just sitting around the house. There’s something about looking in the mirror and recognizing yourself that makes everything a little easier to handle.”

I don’t have much hope that a ponytail and some lip gloss will fix how I’m feeling, but I’m desperate enough to try anything.

“Okay,” I say reluctantly. “But nothing over the top. I’m not trying to impress anyone.”

Sandy’s mouth quirks into a knowing smile, but she doesn’t say anything. She helps me sit up against the headboard, then retrieves a brush from the bathroom. Her fingers work through my tangled hair, gathering it into a high ponytail.

Next, she unzips the makeup bag and pulls out a compact of blush and a tube of lip gloss. The blush is light—just enough to add some color to my pale cheeks—and the lip gloss is sheer pink, the kind I used to wear to work every night. She applies both with a careful hand. When she’s finished, she holds up a small mirror.

I stare at my reflection, and for the first time since the fire, I recognize the woman staring back at me. The stitches in my forehead have long dissolved, but the puckered skin from the scar is still very visible—a raised, angry line cutting across my forehead. It’s not pretty, but I fight the urge to pull my hair from the ponytail to hide it.

I lower the mirror, and my gaze cuts back to Sandy.

“Thank you.”

She smiles brightly. “Of course.”

Then she turns back to the cubby, rummaging through the clothes Tori left. After a moment, she pulls out a pair of baggy gray sweatpants and holds them up.

“Think you can manage these?”

I eye the pants, then my legs. “I don’t know.”