Chimera | H.S Mature

26.

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*Samantha's POV*

"Daniella is going to kill me" he sighed as we shuffled across town, packed so tightly against one another on the quiet street that our shoulders brushed together as we walked. Dusk was drawing in and around us streetlamps hummed into life, the blue sky faded to a pale orange above the rooftops, casting the streets in a warm glow. Harry and I had spent the rest of the day beneath the trees, comfortable in our surroundings and each other's company. Parson's had interrupted the moment, calling for a case update which I should have called in hours earlier.

"Yes, she probably is" I smiled as Harry steered us across the road and on to an even quieter street. He sighed, the back of his hand brushing gently with my own as it swung by his side. My skin tingled, small sparks of fire radiating from the point of contact to the pit of my stomach. I felt nervous. Nervous of Harry, nervous about the fact I had just opened up a very important part of my life to him, nervous about the fact that he could so easily hurt me again. But perhaps most importantly, nervous about the way he was making me feel. I couldn't deny the way my stomach had clenched when I had found him this afternoon, there was no fear, no anger, no resentment for what he had done, only pure, all consuming relief that I had found him, that he was there, sitting right in front of me, whole, pure, and only a little bit broken. He pulled his hand away from mine, stuffing it deep in the pocket of his jeans, a small frown settling on his lips. I felt cold at the loss of contact but focused on keeping my features neutral and unbothered.

"How's your throat?" he asked warily. It was the first time he had outright mentioned it, but I caught his concerned glanced throughout the afternoon as I rubbed it gently, trying to sooth the ache. My hand reached up subconsciously and touched the scarf around my neck, I had yet to remove it since this morning to assess the damage.

"Its fine, it doesn't hurt too much anymore" I said gently, placing my hand back by my side and glancing at him quickly, offering him a soft smile where our gazes met.

"But it still hurts?" he asked quickly, slowing to a stop beside me and encouraging me to do the same with a delicate hand on my wrist. My heart leapt.

"It doesn't hurt, just aches a bit" I said softly. Harry's eyes were pained, full of remorse and self-loathing. I resisted the urge to reach forward and smooth out the crease which had settled between his brows.

"Stop it" I said suddenly.

"Stop what?" he asked, confusion lacing his tone. His hand fell from my wrist to dangle limply at his side.

"Stop thinking whatever it is that is making you look like that" I said firmly. His eyes wavered between my own before falling to the ground where they fluttered shut. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, stray curls tousled in the breeze. His lashes fanned out over his flushed cheeks, red from the cold. He drew his lower lip between his teeth, chewing absentmindedly on the soft, pink skin. I looked away quickly as his gaze returned to mine.

"Can I see?" he asked softly, not waiting for a response before stepping forward and reaching his hand up to unwind the scarf from my neck. His movements were soft as he pulled the fabric away, exposing the bruised skin to the cool evening air. He said nothing, but the dark self-loathing returned to his eyes and I made a grab for the scarf to hide myself from him. But he moved it further out of reach and kept his gaze locked on my neck, letting the fingertips of his free hand dust over the bruised. He placed the pad of his thumb over a small spot and let it rest there. I could feel the slight nip of pain from the pressure he applied and I winced.

"You can see my fingerprints" he whispered, brushing his thumb back and forth over the same spot, "you can see where I had hold of you". His voice was hollow. He draped my scarf over his shoulder and raised his other hand, both now accessing the damage they had done with caution. For a moment fear rushed through my body, a brief flash of the way his hands had gripped me so mercilessly only hours before elicited a sudden panic on my body. But the sensation passed as quickly as it came, because the Harry who stood before me now was not the same as the one who had attacked me. His touch was so delicate, so cautious that I could feel myself melting into his touch. His fingers traced my neck like I was a fine piece of china that could shatter in his hands at any second.