102 - A Message Made From Bones

2

I lean against the tiny sink as he starts the shower and brings it to the desired temperature. The space is tight between the sink—which barely has a countertop—and the bathtub. Wood panels have peeled, and the floorboards are bowed from the exposure to humidity. An unlit pair of candles are set in sconces on either side of a mirror so dirty that I can barely distinguish the mirror film from what is on my skin, and the only source of light comes from a single privacy window.

I squint, trying to get a better look at my reflection in the mirror while he fiddles with the shower knobs, checking to make sure there are no crusties on my nose ring—it's clean, but given all the chaos at the church, I wouldn't have been surprised if it was crusted with snot. As expected, along with being swollen, the area around my eyes is mottled purple and red—they'll likely heal in a day or two's time.

I knew that I'd end up looking like this when I'd taken those punches from Quinn to begin with, but his strength was also infused with magick, and it did so much more damage than what I was prepared for.

My eyes fall to my body, seeing all the bruises in their inky beauty. Patches large and small are visible on every exposed inch of me, many already in the healing phases. I don't remember getting hit that much, that hard to warrant the bruises on my body; I've come out of larger nests nearly unmarked.

Some of them—the deeper yellow ones—I can account for, but there are dark olive ones in places where Quinn had magickally gripped me: my core, my shoulders, wrists, along my forearms. A bruising pattern coils around my legs in a lighter green.

I tug at the hem of the shorts, attempting to cover some of my ass with it, but then the waistband dips below my hips, flashing the bruises there.

I give up when Jay turns toward me, seeing his reflection in the mirror.

"See if this is good for you. I'll get you a towel," he offers, moving aside so I can test the water. We brush against each other as we swap places, and I feel the warmth of his body through his shirt. I'm hit with that clean, soapy scent from my dreams that makes me unintentionally pause for a breath.

The water is boiling—just the way I like it. But I know they consumed as little power as possible to keep costs low, which means... "How much time do I have before it's out?"

He's shuffling around in the barely-a-linen closet, his head obscured by the thin door. "Don't worry about it."

"Payment for saving your sister's ass?"

His head pulls back, a flat look on his face. "Time's ticking."

I offer a half-smile. "Thanks." The word is foreign on my tongue, and it surprises me to hear how genuine I sound.

Every muscle is tight and aching as I turn my back to Jay. When I attempt to slip off my shirt, a sharp pain twists my ribs before I can pull it over my head. I can't help the hiss that escapes me, my arms reflectively dropping to my sides.

If I'm to do this myself, it's going to be a slow, slow process.

A dark chuckle rumbles behind me. Jay sets a towel down and tosses a washcloth into the shower before he reaches toward me—then stops.

"May I?" he asks.

I cast him a brief look over my shoulder, scanning his face for any hint of danger. Wondering if I can trust him with the task despite knowing I can lay him out flat in two swift movements if need be.

With a small nod, I face forward.

The first touch of his fingers sprouts goosebumps along my skin as he brushes against my sides. He peels the shirt off by the hem with such careful tenderness, exposing my back to his warm front—though he maintains a respectful distance—and it is all I can do to not lean into it.