A Beautiful Torment

23. Trust

I tugged open the door to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom and stared unseeingly at the overabundance of supplies. I could feel the tell-tale pricks of a headache beginning to bloom behind my eyes. Inhaling slowly, I chose the first box that I could find – a first aid kit. My fingers fumbled with the clasp and the contents of the box would have spilled all over the floor, undoubtedly alerting my parents to the fact that there was something afoot in their house, if I hadn't caught the lid just in time.

When I finally worked up the nerve to face him, he was perched on the edge of the bath, his appearance closely resembling that of an apocalypse survivor, covered in blood and the shredded pieces of his shirt. His eyes were closed, his thick, black lashes contrasting starkly against the pale, white-hue of his skin. He looked drained – of energy, of blood. If it wasn't for the subtle rise and fall of his chest, he could have easily been mistaken for a corpse.

A tragic, beautiful corpse.

I ripped open an alcohol wipe packet with shaky fingers and approached him slowly.

I avoided looking at his face as I picked up his right hand, palm upwards. There were pieces of gravel and shallow, almost-healed cuts criss-crossing his skin, like he'd fallen a couple of days ago and hadn't bothered to clean the wound. Slowly, methodically, I picked out the pieces of gravel from the wound with my fingers and swiped over the fresh blood with the alcohol wipe.

When I finally worked up the courage to glance at his face, I realized his eyes were open and he was staring intently at me. My heart squeezed in my chest and my hand stilled over his.

"What happened to you?" I managed to croak. This conversation would be so much easier if he hadn't been lying on top of me a few minutes ago with his tongue in my mouth. I shook my head minutely, trying to dispel the image. "How did you even... get here?"

He slid his hand out of mine and replaced it with his left. "My uncle, he..." He swallowed, his eyes following the movements of my fingers as I removed the pieces of dirt from his hand and disinfected the wound. "I disobeyed him and he... he ripped my heart out."

I flinched. My eyes flew toward the marks on his chest, the half-moon shapes around his heart. Those marks had actually been made by somebody's fingernails?! "You mean he tried to?" I ventured, not quite believing what he was saying.

"No," Wyatt said coldly. "He succeeded."

"But..."

Wyatt flipped his hand, his fingers curling tightly around my wrist. It probably should have made me nervous – like a vice grip, his hand held me still, closing around me like a manacle – but it didn't. Instead, my breath caught and I met his gaze, a strange, electric feeling blooming in my stomach.

His voice was soft as he said, "I slipped right out myself again. Everything was dark and blurry, and I was in so much pain, and I knew I was dead, but... I could feel you." He paused as his hand loosened around my wrist and his fingers crept along my arm, curling around my elbow. It was like my brain had gone into overload. I tried to concentrate on what he was saying beyond the fact that his uncle had literally ripped his heart right out of his chest – that he'd died – but the feel of his skin against mine was making it increasingly more difficult to keep focus. "I can always feel you. But this time, it was stronger – more concentrated. It was like you were fighting for me – against the pain, against the darkness, against everything – and when I finally realized I was back in myself, I was lying on your floor and you were there, and..."

His hand had reached my shoulder. I held impossibly still as his fingers trailed the gentle curve of my neck, coming to rest on my pulse point. It hammered against his fingers, thump, thump, thumping harshly. A flush rose in my cheeks and I wondered if he could hear it as loudly as I could.