“Caitlin,” he murmured, “he’s a demon. I know you don’t like that word, I know you don’t believe it, but you’ve seen him now. You have to understand that he has means of persuasion beyond your control.”
“I don’t care about him. I care that I almost got you killed,” I whispered.
“No,” he said tightly. “I almost got you killed. Twice.”
“I let him into my house.”
He met my eyes levelly. “You were waiting for a plumber. A plumber came.”
He blinked, and swallowed tightly.
“Did you get enough?” I asked, nodding at the empty IV bag.
“Yeah,” he muttered, voice rough and thick. “We should get cleaned up.”
I looked tiredly at the hall, which led to the stairs, which led to another hall.
“I don’t think I have enough blood pressure to make it that far.”
He put his arms around me, lifting me off the stool. I listened closely to his heart as he carried me up the stairs to what had sort of become my bedroom. He nudged the door open with his foot, walked across the plush carpet into the bathroom and turned the lights on low, then set me on my feet. Reaching into the medicine cabinet, he pulled out two brand-new toothbrushes and a tube of toothpaste. We stood, trembling, at the dual sinks and brushed our teeth, not making eye contact.
He finished first and went to the giant claw-foot tub and began to fill it with hot, foaming water. When he came back, he frowned, perhaps really seeing me for the first time since we’d gotten to the house.
“You’re covered in blood,” he said bluntly.
“Yeah, well, it’s all yours,” I replied. “And his. And you have more of it on you than I do.”
“I also have more of yours in me than you do,” he muttered to himself. “Are you awake enough to take a shower?”
Honestly? Probably not. I nodded, though.
He looked around, pointed at the towels as if to say, “Hey, there’s towels,” and then actually said, “I’ll be right outside.”
I almost let him go. But the thought of being alone again after everything that had just happened, even for a moment, was out of the question. He turned to leave and I caught his hand. He stared down at it for a long moment before looking at me. I wasn’t really thinking, just moving on instinct. I pulled him with me into the shower, turning it on without letting go of his hand. His face was a question mark even as I closed the glass door behind us. It was big enough to fit six people, but with just the two of us, it somehow felt impossible small. It must have looked kind of funny, both of us standing fully clothed in a giant marble shower, covered in blood. I kicked my shoes into the corner. Already the steaming water was running in little red whirls toward the drain.
I let go of his hand to reach for the hem of my blood-drenched shirt, but I was so weak I got it halfway off and it got stuck. After a moment, I felt Adrian’s fingers brush my skin as he pulled it the rest of the way off. For the second time that day, I was glad I’d worn my cute bra.
A long moment passed. Adrian’s lips were parted, his eyes dark and silver. Beads of water clung to the ends of his hair, building and falling, building and falling. I reached for his shirt, but before I could do more than touch it, he put his hand over mine. I flinched, waiting for the inevitable rejection. Instead, he ran his hands lightly up my arm, a pained look crossing his face as his fingers slid over the black-and-blue bruises that littered my skin. After a moment, he grabbed the shirt himself and tugged it slowly over his head, tossing it in the corner with my shoes.
Even in the clearing, I hadn’t been this terrified.
He kicked his shoes into the corner with the rest of our things. I looked slowly up from the waistband of his jeans, up, past the dozens of raw scars on his stomach and chest and the field of purple-green bruises, up to his eyes. He was staring somewhere past my shoulder, and he was perfectly still, as if trying to hold himself together by force of will.
Blood was caked in his hair, on his neck, his chest, his hands. I reached up and dragged my thumb lightly across his jaw, rolling away a gunky strip of blood. He closed his eyes and turned his cheek into my palm. I wasn’t thinking, really. I just wanted to wash everything away. I wanted to start over.
“You’re too tall,” I murmured.
He looked at me a moment, then sank slowly to his knees, arms hanging limply at his sides as he looked down at the blood-tinted water swirling down the drain between us.