Made in Moonlight

Fourteen

The next night, I'm lying on my bed after a long day of training, when Blake's voice comes from outside my bedroom door.

"Clover," he says. One word that I'll never get used to off his tongue. My silver string is especially bright. He must be right outside.

I wait a second for my pulse to get under control before I scramble off my bed and pull the door open.

"Yes?" I ask.

He's dressed up tonight. A black button-up hugs his torso, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair is combed back, and my heart does a little stutter at the sight.

His eyes go from my face to my tousled hair, to my messy bed behind me. Self-conscious, I tug the door a little more shut, blocking his view.

"What were you doing?" he asks.

"Just resting," I say.

It's mostly true. I was lying on my bed, letting my muscles rest a bit, but my mind was far from relaxed. All I could think about were those chains and ropes that Blake has hidden away somewhere.

What if, when I transform, I run for the town, like Leyla did? I don't want to hurt anyone.

And that's only if I survive in the first place.

I blink, remembering that Blake is standing right in front of me.

"What do you want?" I ask. I wince, the question coming out harsher than I intended.

"Right." He swallows and his Adam's apple does a little bob in his throat. "I'm leaving."

"Oh!" I exclaim. "Okay."

"Leyla and Thomas are back from patrol," he continues. "They'll make sure you're safe."

I can't help but smile. I doubt I'll need any protection tonight, but I nod anyway. "Got it."

"Alright." He clears his throat and takes a step back.

"Have a good time," I add.

He blinks at me. I guess the words take a second to register, because then he nods wordlessly, though he makes no move to leave.

I stare at him for a moment longer.

"Did you need anything else?" I ask.

His brow furrows, and he blinks again. At his sides, his hands twitch.

"No," he says, shaking his head. "No. Just— Have a good night."

I frown. He's acting a little weird.

"Is everything okay?" I ask.

"What do you mean?" he replies.

I almost have to laugh. It's like no one has ever asked him if he's okay before. Well, whatever's bothering him, he clearly doesn't want to talk about it, so I pivot.

"How's your hand?" I ask.

He lifts his hand cluelessly and opens his fingers. There, on his palm, a scar marks the skin. It looks a lot better than before, with less swelling and bruising, but the skin there is an angry red and it looks irritated.

I hiss through my teeth and hover my hand over his. He flinches, ripping his hand back. I can't help the hurt that flashes through me.

"I'm okay," he says, not meeting my eyes.

I swallow drily and step back. "Right. Okay. Well, see you."

He nods once, still not looking at me, and turns to leave.

When he's gone, I let out a ragged breath. What was that about? My stomach is all twisted in knots, and I realize just how badly I wanted to touch him.

And how badly he didn't want to touch me.