TORTURE, SUPERNATURAL

ꜱɪx. ʙᴀʙʏ

I wake with a whimper.

The sound scrapes raw against my throat, brittle and embarrassing, like nails dragged across porcelain. Every nerve feels bruised. A sharp ache pulses through my neck the moment I sit up. I wince and press trembling fingers to the skin, brushing over swollen, angry bruises.

The Djinn yesterday was faster than I'd expected. Smarter too. I should've slit her throat when I had the chance—but I didn't. And this is the price.

Outside the window, the sky hangs like wet cement—thick, grey, and suffocating. I grimace. Rain. Of course. I've never liked it. Something about storm clouds pressing in from all directions makes the world feel smaller. Too quiet. Too close. I miss the stars. They remind me that there's more than just this job, this blood, this mess.

I glance sideways.

Dean is still asleep in the next bed, snoring softly, arms wound around a pillow like it owes him money. At some point during the night, he ditched his shirt. His bare torso rises and falls with each slow breath, muscles flexing subtly under tanned skin. I catch myself staring and immediately roll my eyes. Typical. Even in sleep, the man manages to be smug.

But when I shift my gaze toward the other bed, I freeze.

Sam is gone.

I bolt upright, ignoring the flare of pain in my neck. Bathroom? Empty. Kitchenette? Nothing but a half-eaten sandwich from yesterday and a coffee pot older than sin. My heartbeat claws up my throat as I move to the window.

Then I see it. Relief crashes into me.

The Impala glides into the lot, black as oil beneath the overcast sky. Sam's in the driver's seat. He steps out carrying three cups of coffee like some divine emissary of caffeine. I press a hand to my chest.

And that's when last night slams back into me like a wrecking ball.

Sam's nightmare. His hands on my shoulders, gripping me. The heat between us. The near-kiss.

I barely know the guy. Met him yesterday morning. And yet... there's something. Something magnetic and dangerous and impossible to ignore. It presses under my skin like a bruise. I know I should push it down, bury it deep, but there's a part of me that already feels like he could be the end of me.

My body hums with anxiety and tension. No time for this.

Before he makes it to the door, I snatch my duffle and duck into the bathroom like a coward—or maybe just someone smart enough not to start fires they can't put out.

The door opens behind me just as I shut the bathroom one.

I take my time in the shower. The water is hot, nearly scalding, and I scrub myself with a lavender-scented soap I forgot I packed. It's the first time in weeks I've smelled like anything other than sweat, blood, and gunpowder.

Still, the mirror's reflection is grim.

My neck is a canvas of purples and blues, raw and ugly. I touch the worst of it gently, hissing under my breath. It'll heal. Everything heals. Eventually.

I blow-dry my hair, leaving it loose to hide the bruises. Functional. Strategic. I dress in black athletic shorts and a fitted shirt. I'm not one for fashion—if I can run, fight, or jump off a rooftop in it, it'll do.

When I open the bathroom door, someone's already knocking.

Sam stands there, mid-motion, his fist hanging in the air. His eyes flick up to meet mine—dark lashes, dark thoughts, and something unreadable behind them. The hallway between us turns electric.