Phelps is up, standing in the doorway as we arrive.
“Hang on, Davy. You’re going to be fine,” Caden says as he lowers me to an exam table. He clings to my hand as Phelps comes over, snapping commands to Rhiannon. I don’t look at them, though. My eyes stay on Caden, darting, memorizing, loving his face, the angles and hollows, the slope of his dark eyebrows over his deeply set eyes.
He’s still too pale, and his eyes are bloodshot. Moisture gleams in the agonized depths. “It’s not so bad,” he assures me.
I choke a little on a weak laugh. “Still a liar.”
My hand slips from my neck, no longer able to hold on.
I always thought death would be something blissful, but it’s not. It hurts.
A piercing ringing stabs me in the ears. My body is one giant wound, every nerve expanding and contracting in agony. And then there’s my neck. It burns fire, and each time I turn my head the barest fraction it feels like someone is taking a hacksaw to my throat.
A moan slips past my lips, and I frown. That’s not right. Should I be making sounds? Moaning? Should I be feeling pain? Feeling anything at all? I inhale thinly, dragging air through my nostrils as I take in the aroma of astringent.
Should I be able to smell when I’m dead?
“Davy, Davy. Come back to me, Davy.”
Now that whisper, that voice, should definitely not be floating around in the land of the dead. I whimper, my head rolling to the side, and then gasp at the burst of wildfire that shoots lancing, blistering heat through my neck. The reason I’m dead at all is because I let Junie stab me. And I did that so he would be safe from her. Caden shouldn’t be dead.
And if he’s here, then he’s not dead . . . I’m not dead.
My eyes pop open and I gasp.
“Davy!”
My gaze flies around, squinting at the bright light, at the face above mine, his midnight-dark hair haloed in so much yellow. And that voice, saying my name.
I lift a hand to shield my eyes from the light and focus on his features. He looks gaunt, pale beneath the tan of his skin. A smile cracks his face. “You came back to me, Davy.”
I work my lips before managing to get out, “I’m not dead.”
He laughs hoarsely, the sound laden with relief. He smooths a hand over my forehead. His fingers catch on something prickly and sharp, and I wince.
“Oh, sorry, those are your stitches. Are you okay?”
I gingerly touch the one-inch row of stitches on my forehead.
“Might leave a scar,” Phelps volunteers, peering around Caden at me.
Caden shoots him a brief glance. “Doc?”
“Hm?” Phelps sends him a mild look.
“Can you give us a minute?”
Caden’s attention turns back to me as Phelps shuffles from the room. The door clicks after him.
He leans down, propping his elbow on the mattress, his eyes scanning my face, staring at me like he can’t believe it’s really me he’s looking at. “I’m so sorry, Davy.”
For what? Lying to me? Being someone I can’t possibly have in my life? Or does he mean the almost dying thing?
He presses his mouth to mine. I close my eyes at the warm texture of his lips. My mouth moves slightly in response. I can’t help myself. I cling to his bottom lip, savoring him, reveling in the taste that’s so innately him, something I know I would recognize in the dark—crisp, clean, faintly salty—even years from now.
I turn away, severing our kiss, even though the movement makes me hiss in pain. He stares down at me, searching my eyes, reaching, looking for something in me that isn’t there. Not anymore.
I work my throat and find some words. “How long have I been out?”
“Since yesterday.”
“I thought she cut my throat.” I cringe, remembering. Junie pressed over me. That knife arching high, bearing down, slicking through my flesh like butter . . .
“She did. Missed the artery. Doc stitched you up. You need to be careful. Stay in bed. No ripping those stitches.”
I do have a tendency to do that.
He takes my hand and brings it to his mouth. “So cold.” His warm lips move against my knuckles. He chafes my hand between his, working heat into my bloodless fingers. Suddenly he stops and closes his eyes. “I thought I lost you.”
You did. The words whisper through my mind, but I don’t say them. They seem cruel. And even though they’re true, I don’t want to hurt him. But it’s like he hears them anyway. He looks up from my hands, his amber gaze hot with intensity. He shakes his head at me, conveying what he thinks of this.
“I have to go.” I manage to get the words out, even as impossibly thick as they feel in my throat.
“No,” he says, still shaking his head. “We can send word to your friends that you’re staying—”
“Caden, I can’t stay with you.” I can’t be with you. “You and me . . . we don’t fit.” Me, a carrier. Him, passing for a carrier.
He moves so suddenly I think he’s going to climb up on the bed with me. Our noses almost touch as he thrusts his face closer, planting both hands on either side of me and looming so close I can count those flecks of gold in his eyes. “How can you look at me and lie like that?”
“Me? I’m not the one who lies.” My voice falls hard as flint.
“This is all because of a piece of paper you found?”
“It’s what it means.”
“What about what we mean?”