Flesh and Blood

He soundlessly appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Much better.’ And hungry again. But enough was enough. ‘I need to go home.’

‘You need more rest.’

‘Thank you, Doctor.’ Nice way to talk to the man who’d saved her life. ‘Look, I know I need more rest. I just prefer to do it in my own home.’ After a long, hot shower and one of Velimai’s steaks. Maybe two.

He nodded. Was that disappointment on his face? No, just a shadow. He should be pleased to get rid of her. Kubai Mata weren’t meant to be nursemaids. ‘I’ve got a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants you can borrow. Riding back on the motorcycle isn’t going to be fun for you.’

‘I’ll call for my driver.’

‘I don’t have a phone.’

‘Motorcycle it is, then.’ Even though the thought of being tucked against him that way unnerved her. She would have to wrap her arms around him, press herself against that branded back of his. Did he think she’d forgotten? How could she? A thing like that didn’t slip from your mind. It stayed there, layering itself over the image’s owner every time you looked at them so that they and the image became inseparable. Her glimpse of Creek was as branded into her memory as the words on his back.

He pulled some clothes off a shelf and set them on the bed. ‘Take your time. I’ll be downstairs when you’re ready.’

I’ll never be ready, she wanted to tell him. Instead, she dressed sitting on the edge of the bed, moving slowly as she pulled on the clothes he’d given her. His room was sparse. A side table, a set of shelves made from cinder blocks and boards, a few nails in the wall to hang things on. At the far end, a back alley window led to a fire escape. Surely the KM could do better than this? Or was it a cover?

Her supreme lack of energy brought that line of thinking to a quick close. Home. That was the only thing to be concerned with. Her shoes were nowhere to be found, so she padded barefoot down the stairs, holding on to the gritty railing with as much strength as she could muster. At the halfway point, she stopped, light-headed and breathless. While she rested, she surveyed the remainder of Creek’s home.

A massive chain and winch hung from the ceiling, and old metal presses and piles of scrap had been pushed against the walls, but in the center of the dingy, concrete-floored room sat a two-wheeled monster. Nothing about the motorcycle seemed remotely safe. In fact, with the matte-black finish and the chromed metal parts, it looked evil. Like something a Nothos might ride. Or Mal.

Mal. She dropped her head and groaned softly. She had no idea what had happened to him after they’d parted ways. Please, holy mother, let him be safe.

‘You okay? Need some help?’ Creek came into view, wiping his hands on a towel.

‘No. I’m fine.’

He gave her a suspicious look and stayed where he was, watching her.

She started down the stairs, gripping the railing. She made it to the landing, wincing only at every other step.

He threw the towel over his shoulder. ‘If that’s fine, I’d like to see what still-in-pain looks like. You should really stay in bed and rest.’

‘I will. In my own bed.’ Because being in his made her uncomfortable. Just like being in Mal’s bed had.

‘Suit yourself.’ He turned and walked into the makeshift kitchen. ‘Coffee?’

Pulling her gaze from his back was almost impossible. ‘No, thank you. I just need to get home.’ Finally, she looked away and, feeling worn out from her trip downstairs, sat on the landing to wait for him to be ready. She rested her head on her knees, unable to recall the last time she’d felt so exhausted.

‘Chrysabelle?’

She woke with a start, earning a punch of pain through her gut. ‘What?’

Creek sat beside her on the landing. ‘You fell asleep.’

‘I was resting my eyes.’

He bit the inside of his cheek too late to hide his grin. ‘Look, I know you don’t like me, don’t want to stay here with me any longer than you have to—’

‘No, no, I like you just fine.’ She did, actually. Except for the part where he might be a fringe serial killer. Which she still needed to ask him about. ‘I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. I’m very thankful for what you did for me. Saving my life and stitching me up and all that.’ It was nice to be around another human.

His dark, winged brows lifted fractionally. ‘But?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’ She knew exactly what he meant. She wasn’t comfortable with him because being around him felt like trying to stick the opposite ends of two magnets together. Too much push–pull. Too much dangerous attraction. One move in the wrong direction and the magnets stuck together like they were meant to be that way.

He leaned in, his blue eyes reflecting flashes of her signum. ‘Don’t you?’

It was wrong for a man to be that beautiful. ‘Don’t you think we should … ’ She pointed lamely at the motorcycle.

‘Uh-huh.’ He kept staring. Like he could see her lies. ‘You don’t feel at all uneasy around me?’

‘Don’t be silly. You’re human, I’m human – what’s to be uneasy about?’

Looking away, he picked up her hand as though he hadn’t heard a word she’d said. ‘You don’t have to feel that way, you know.’ His thumb stroked the curling gold vine that trailed from her wrist bone to her first knuckle. The dizziness returned with a vengeance. ‘I would never hurt you. It’s part of my directive to protect you.’ ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">