Before Beasts, There Was Fire--Book 2

Pre-Owned

He didn't come back until night. By the time he stumbled in, his ribs were burning up a storm and blood had seeped to his shirt. Since they were use to him vanishing, no one had waited up for him. He would have been disturbed if they had.

The bathroom light hurt. Streetlights had been soft in comparison.

Turning on the water so it could get warm, he stripped off his shirt and took a look at himself in the mirror. The blue paint on his face had started to smudge on the edges, as it always did after he had sweated more than usual.

"Stupid muggy Japan," he muttered in a hiss of Russian. He pulled out a washcloth from the drawer and got to work peeling off the bandages on his torso. Old scabs pulled away with the gauze. "Disgusting." Really, he couldn't see what was so attractive about the human body. She shouldn't look as appealing as she did. She was just a blood bag of flesh and ooze, just like everyone else.

The door creaked. Speak of the devil.

Ayah stood in the doorway wearing a knee-length blue night gown. Her loose hair nearly reached just as far as it did and swathed her shoulders in gentle white-gold curls.

He couldn't help but feel just a little triumphant when her eyes trailed along his bare chest and widened. But whatever satisfaction he had vanished as she closed the door behind her and he found himself alone in a small room with her, with no one else conscious enough to even know they existed.

She slipped the rag from off the counter and ran it under the now steaming water. He tried to glare her away—that worked for most people—but she ignored it and reached out to wipe the blood from his side. He dodged it.

"Pardon?" he growled.

She didn't glare at him. She didn't pout. Nor did she flinch. She just looked at him, as though to stare down a jittery dog.

Being no dog, he yanked the cloth from her hand and set to work on himself, doing his best to hide back the wince as lifting his right arm stretched and aggravated the wound. She shut off the facet then and sighed.

"I want to call you names," she whispered, or rasped. "But I know you're far to use to them and will probably just insult me right back or ignore me."

He snorted. "Stop pretending you know me. Go back to bed."

In response, she poked him in the chest. He slapped at her hand with the bloodied rag.

"Go. A. Way."

"I will if you let me help you." If she kept wheezing like that, her throat would never get better.

"I thought you weren't supposed to be talking. Why do you care anyways?"

"Because I like you, and you're in pain."

That answer stunned him more than it should have. He had given her no reason to like him. In fact, she hadn't even the time to decide whether or not she liked him. Perhaps she was like Tyson in that regards and simply suffered from poor judgment and a naïve trust in strangers.

While he had stood there, shocked, she stole the rag back from him and had stepped about him to reach his side. When her cool fingers wrapped about his bicep and lifted his arm, he started to protest, but chocked on the words as she suddenly ducked her head to his side.

He reflexively recoiled, just to back into the wall. "Aren't you supposed to be mute? Coughing on blood and all that?"

"I don't need my voice that much," she whispered, than took up his arm again, this time keeping eye contact until she ducked down. Her hair against his skin felt just as satin smooth as it had in his dream. Heat boiled up from his stomach, heavy and opening every pore on his body. If he looked down, he'd be able to see her lips puckered up as though for a kiss, just as they had over Ray's fingers.