Condemned

18 | Jael

Bryony, the vampire bane of my existence, actually leaves the house. She told me to go fuck myself, pretty much word for word, and I watched her superspeed off, into the dark of night, mere moments later. She told me that my blood makes her stomach turn and she'd rather gouge out her own entrails than subject herself to my sorry state.

Pretty typical, really. And Sam called it. If I ask Bryony for a favor, she'll do the exact opposite.

Still, I thought the whole reverse psychology bit only worked on children. And I never thought I'd be lucky enough . . . to get Bryony out of the house . . . when I need it most.

I couldn't have asked for a better outcome. After turning off the front-door camera from my phone—Halloween is a busy night at the manor and hopefully no one notices—Sam and I just go upstairs, step by noisy step. I rely on her support more than seems fair, considering our size difference and the explanations I've offered, evasively at best.

There's no playing it by ear, making up excuses on the fly. She simply guides me to the bathroom and fetches the needle-nose pliers from my toolbox. Within minutes, the shower is running and we're behind a locked door.

What did I miss? I wonder, letting the shirt over my shoulders drop to the floor. There has to be a catch...

Sam turns around and removes the oversized white T-shirt she borrowed from me. She's back to the skin-tight leggings and flimsy black bra, except now, there's actually light.

I don't blink, absorbing every detail of her backside every instant I can get away with it.

It isn't a big bathroom. There are few other places to look. Still, I make myself try. As soon as her head swivels toward her bare shoulder, my eyes flick to the shower curtain. I get in, wisely or regrettably, with my jeans still on. It's too soon to tell. At the foot of the tub, Sam follows me in there, still somewhat clothed as well. For now, I'll vote wisely.

Her scent, in this enclosed space, hits me immediately. The Tierney residue has faded beneath the dirt, sweat, and blood—mine—but surfacing above all that, is the lingering, fresh, fruity scent of her hair, and the intoxicating chemistry of her body. She hasn't yet bled in my company—I would have noticed—but I'm almost certain she will soon.

She takes a step closer to me, her forearms shielding her chest out of modesty or to preserve heat. I turn toward the showerhead and rinse off some of the blood, dirt, and debris, hoping, all the while, the chill will sink in where it matters most.

Unfortunately, until the bullets are out, the water has to be cold. We are both feeling that, and it's something fierce.

When I pull the dime from my shoulder, it's the second blow to my desire. I bite back the urge to keel over and vomit and turn to face Sam with a wince.

She's shivering, too. I can feel it when she brushes against me. She struggles to keep her hand steady as she picks at my shoulder wound, trying to fish out a bullet from a hole that keeps resisting.

There should be nothing racy about this moment. I can't detach it from our interaction, though. My senses are sharpening, dulling, drowning, freezing and on fire, depending on the instant, what she's doing, where she's looking—the wound—and touching—my lower back for some support and leverage.

She doesn't seem receptive, in that way. Not today, anyway. And certainly not now. When I tally all the reasons I've given her to turn that off for good, it's no surprise.

I shouldn't be receptive either, but this is an extreme situation, and, well, a certain uninjured part of me seems immune to the surrounding pain and overwhelming uncertainty.