Ghost Silk (Ghost Perfume, Book 2) | ✔

18 - Dance with me - Part 1 (Michael)

Michael

My lady in bandages was waiting in the living room.

I'd hurried home as fast as I could. It was time to take the bandages off. Time to throw out the last lingering reminder of the teeth of the worm. 

I had thought she'd take more days to recover, but she continued to heal faster than the average mortal, and in the two days since we got home, her cuts had closed well and the inflammation had all but disappeared.

When I came into the living room, though, I saw immediately that a pensive mood prevailed with her. She'd been moody yesterday – sometimes her usual energetic self, but at other times lapsing into silences that could rival Alexander's.

I didn't completely understand the mood swings, but I'd given up on explaining her every expression. That was the way to go mad.

She was wearing loose linen. A simple halter-top and skirt that ended halfway down her thighs. Her eyes tracked me as I came in.

A small voice told me that her attention was too watchful. Too awake. I squashed it. I was far too happy in this moment to listen to the endlessly critical voice in the back of my head.

"Hi," she said.

"Ready? I want you to continue resting at home for a few more days, but it should be alright to remove the bandages."

She nodded. "I could have done it myself, you know ..."

That didn't merit a response. I directed her to stand.

I knelt at her feet to unwrap the bandages from her calves.

When I'd held her in the car on the long drive home from the beach house, I'd been unable to stop thinking about her composure against the cult. How she wanted to help me take out the bullet. Her authority with the revenants. How quickly she'd returned with Lukas to save us and, in her mind, to fight for us after she'd been eaten by the worm. And not a word of complaint about her injuries.

She may have been born a priest, and I would continue to respect it, but she had all the makings of a great mediator, too. I wished ...

My hands moved higher, unwrapping the bandages from her knees, brushing up to reveal her thighs, still smeared with the healing gel over where the worst of the injuries had been.

"Turn around for me."

I checked her skin for scarring. There was none.

Since our return I'd found myself wishing to confess every part of the truth, not for her sake but for mine: so I could have my fifth, to rely on, to consult with on the problems in our territories. My selfishness knew no bounds. Perhaps that was why I tried to convince myself that the questions in her eyes had grown too numerous. Perhaps I was looking for an excuse to come clean.

I unwrapped more of her thighs, forcing my eyes not to stray upwards; but unwrapping her made me think of wrapping her again, tighter, in strings of diamond or chains of silver, or rough hard rope that would leave a mark.

She shifted and exhaled. I let the bandages drop to the floor.

"Any pain or sensitivity?"

She shook her head, blushing, but she always blushed when I treated her. "Feels okay."

Her phone buzzed, though she didn't react to the sound.

"You'll be able to wash the gel off as soon as we're done," I said. "Please tell me you're going to check your messages soon."