Cole stands in the doorway with a stunned look on his face. I didn’t even realize he returned, but he heard everything. I’ve been sullied and vindicated all at once. Sutton turns and sees Cole’s expression.
“Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve believed you,” Cole says.
“Are you sure about that?” I ask him in a hushed, cracked voice.
His eyes flash with anger and pain. I close my eyes and exhale as another hot tear spills over. I don’t care if anyone else on earth knows the truth about my sin—the two people who saved my life know the truth, and for the first time I feel free. Not free. I’ll never be free from the past.
I wipe the tear away and glance at Cole. He looks perplexed and I know exactly what he’s thinking about. He wonders what really happened to me, before I ended up here. Despite our differences, I owe my life to him over and over already. I can’t imagine what I’ll owe him for the lifetime of sacrifices he’s made to protect me. There’s no way I can ever repay him. Or is there? If he asks me for the truth, can I overcome my fears and tell him?
Sutton stands up, breaking the tension. “I’ll come by tomorrow to see how you’re doing. Right now, I have to get back to the hospital to check on my patients. If anything changes or you have any questions, please call me.”
“Is there any way I can shower? I have to get this blood out.” I pull a clumpy mass away from my head, showing him what I mean. A shower would cleanse my soul as well as my body.
“You should use Cole’s shower. It’s big enough for a chair. That way you can sit when you shower. Just don’t mess up your wound. I don’t want to staple you back together again. All it takes is one scratch in the wrong place and you can introduce infection. You’d be disgusted if you knew the germs we can carry under our nails.” He pats my arm and leaves the room.
Under my nails. I inspect my fingernails, holding them up before my face with disgust. The blood from the guard’s face is still fresh underneath them so I ball them into fists.
Cole stands with his hands in his pockets as he leans on the wall for support. He walks over to his safe, places his weapons inside, and removes his boots. He lies down on the mattress next to my bed. And we lay there in silence.
I pick between my fingers as they shake and see streaks of blood on my wrists. I rub them furiously. Sobs wrack my body, but no tears come—just anger. I slam my fists down into the bed.
“What can I do? Please tell me what I can do.” His words implore me. My fury builds into frustration as I raise my hands for him to inspect.
“Can you please just help me wash my hands?”
His eyes rest on my bloodstained fingers. He climbs up, goes to his bathroom, and starts the water. He returns with a warm, wet cloth and begins to wash my hands. I don’t want him to touch me, yet I do. I don’t want him close, yet his closeness is the only thing that makes me feel safe. We’re quiet again, and when he finishes drying my hands, he takes the cloth back to the bathroom.
He was doing his job when he saved me. He was doing what was expected of him. Yet, in this moment, it feels more intimate than that. He lies down, pulling a blanket over his shoulders. His face looks tired, a thousand years older than it is.
“Thank you,” I whisper as I roll away from him. I don’t want to hear his response or see his face.
The smell of frying eggs and bacon wake me up. My mouth is so dry, and my stomach twists with hunger.
“I made breakfast. You should eat. It’ll help you heal and regain your strength.” He stands next to my bed with a plate in one hand and a glass of water in the other. All of my senses perk up.
“Did I sleep all day and night?” I rub my eyes, then my pounding head.
“Yes. I tried to rouse you earlier to make sure you were okay, but you almost bit my head off.” He smiles, unsure.
“Sorry, I don’t even remember that.” I look for Zeus and see him lying on the floor gorging on bacon. “I’m a little hungry, I guess.” I lie. I’m starving.
He hands me the plate and glass. I inhale the water and scarf the food down like Zeus.
“Thank you.” My manners were horrid, but who cares. He picks up the plate and glass and washes it in his sink. I sit back and gaze out his window. Faint popping sounds echo up to his room from a few blocks away.
“Is that what I think it is?” I ask.
Looking over his shoulder, he answers, “Don’t get too close to the window. It sounds like a skirmish a few blocks away. People have been fighting in the streets more often lately. You’ve missed a lot the last few days.”
“Oh.” I raise my eyebrows but don’t ask any more questions.
“How are you feeling today?”
Is he really asking me that? My eyes grow wide and my hands drop to my lap. “I feel like crap. I don’t want to sit here all day. I’m going to go insane in this room if I can’t move.”
“Well, you heard what Sutton said. You need to rest,” Cole reminds me.
“Can I at least take a shower? I hate this.” I hold up my bloody hair. “I need to shower for my own sanity.” Something in my tone makes him pause. “Seriously, if you were in my shoes, you’d want to get this crap off too.”
His voice softens. “Okay. I’ll help you if you want.” His dark eyes shine with concern.
“I don’t want to take my clothes off.”
“I know. I’d never expect you to do that, but please let me help you.” He’s not being perverse. In fact, he actually looks afraid for the first time since we met. Fear is an interesting emotion for him to display when I’m the one who’s vulnerable. This is humiliating. It’s hard enough to know the condition he found me in, but it’s even harder to let him help me with something so personal.
“Okay, well, I’m not sure what to do next,” I say, feeling awkward.
“I’ll go warm the water. You sit here and wait.”
He flicks the light on in the bathroom and starts the shower. I unwrap the bandages around my head, grimacing as I pull them off. Then I push myself up with my arms and swing my legs over the side of the bed. My vision swerves like a car with no brakes and then darkens for a moment. I close my eyes to steady myself. My feet rest on the mattress below. He stands in the doorway, staring at me with apprehension.
Is he afraid he’ll hurt me? “You won’t break me if that’s what you’re worried about.”
He walks over, places one arm around my back, and lifts me from under my legs so they dangle. I feel like a baby. I rest my head on his shoulder and smell his fresh cotton shirt.
“After this, I’m not sure anyone could,” he whispers.
The steam from the shower coats the mirror and water droplets drip down the tiles, leaving streaks behind. He gently sets me down on the toilet. Reaching behind his head, he pulls off his shirt. I stare at the strength in his back, shoulders, and arms. I tear my eyes away and stare at the cream-colored linoleum floor. He places a rubber mat in the shower and then the chair.
“I’m making sure it won’t slip.” He steps into the shower. His arms flail as he loses his balance and falls over the chair with a thud.
I burst out with a laugh. “Are you okay?” I ask while stifling a giggle. My ribs ache from the exertion of bruised muscles.
He lifts his head. “Well, you don’t want to step in front of the mat. At least we know that.” We laugh together, but I stop because the stabbing pain darts from my ribcage all the way up my spine. He reaches for my hands and I hesitate. “Blood doesn’t bother me. No worries,” he says as he meets my gaze. “I promise I won’t let you slip.”
Again, my mind flashes to how I must’ve looked to him when he discovered me covered in blood and half-naked in the basement of the hospital. I shake my head to block the thought and take his hand. Then he helps me over the side of the tub and seats me into the chair. He stands in front of me, and tilts the showerhead so it barely hits my back.