Page 27 of Sweet Nightmare

I don’t point that out, though.

Jude doesn’t say anything else as we climb the three flights of stairs to Aunt Claudia’s office, and neither do I. But more thunder booms above us, and a glance out the window shows the nearby trees nearly bending in half with the wind.

A tremor of unease works its way through my body at the sight, and for the first time, I start to wonder if this storm is going to be even worse than I thought.

Even though the door is half open, I think about knocking, but the room itself is dark, and Aunt Claudia is nowhere to be found.

“There’s no one here,” Jude says, whirling around like he can’t get away from the place fast enough. “I’ll come back later.”

But that just brings us face-to-face—or, more accurately, my face to his very large, very powerful, very naked chest. His warm, dark scent—cardamom, leather, and rich, hot honey—overwhelms my senses immediately. It makes my knees tremble and my heart beat way too fast. Even as I tell myself to move back, to get away from him as quickly as I can, I don’t move. I can’t.

Lost in memories, I breathe him in, breathe him deep. In that moment, it’s just like it used to be—when I actually wanted to be close to him.

And for a second that feels like a whole eternity, Jude lets me. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, doesn’t blink—just stands there and lets me remember.

But then he pulls away abruptly, and hot humiliation sweeps through me. I’ve had three years to build my defenses, to forget the ridiculous crush I used to have on him, yet one whiff of him has me all but melting at his feet again. It’s disgusting.

Especially since it’s obvious he has no such problem when it comes to me.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I answer, striving for a normal tone as I pull out my phone and text my aunt Claudia. “Those burns have to be treated before they get infected. Plus, I can’t even imagine how painful they are.”

“I can handle the pain.”

“Stop trying to be stoic,” I tell him.

He shrugs, like there comes a time when a person is in so much pain that more—no matter how small or great—barely registers, let alone matters.

But I’m done caring about his pseudo-martyr attitude. If he wants out of here before he’s taken care of himself, he’s going to have to get through me.

So I position my body directly in front of his, crossing my arms over my chest in a very obvious dare for him to try to get past me.

“Cleaning those burns with some shower gel isn’t going to cut it, and you know it.”

Normally, it wouldn’t work with him—the attitude or the dare—but Jude is swaying on his feet, so I press on.

“You need calendula and probably some aloe elixir. Maybe some curcumin ointment, too.”

He tries to slip past me again, but this time when he moves, his hand brushes against his pants. He lets slip the most infinitesimal flinch at what I know must be excruciating pain, and his voice is strained when he says, “Fine, whatever. But I can get it.”

“It’s cute that you think so.” I shoot a pointed look toward his very messed-up hands before crossing to one of the large, glass-front cabinets straight out of the 1950s that houses the magic-infused herbal remedies.

As I reach for the cupboard handle, my phone buzzes with a series of messages from my aunt.

“Claudia’s in the middle of helping Ember.” Jude immediately looks concerned, so I clarify, “Ember’s okay, but Claudia will be here as soon as she can.” Jude’s shoulders immediately fall with relief as I pull out the long, skinny bottle filled with calendula. “She wants me to soak your hands while we wait for her. She told me what to use to take the pain away and speed up the healing process.”

Jude sighs like my helping him is the biggest inconvenience in the world, but he doesn’t say anything else as I pull out a bowl and fill it with the mixture of water and herbal elixirs my aunt told me to combine for him.

When I’m done, I put the bowl on the old, scarred table in the corner of the room and gesture for him to sit in the battle-worn chair. As he moves to comply, the blanket slips from his shoulders, and I get my first good look at his back. I have to bite back my gasp of surprise. Because his entire back is covered in tattoos.

Like covered covered. Barely any of his skin pokes through the feathery, black, rope-like swirls that twist and turn in every direction as they curve their way over his shoulders and down his biceps.

Like Jude himself, the tattoos are beautiful but sinister, powerful but just as ethereal, and I can’t help staring. Any more than I can help the sudden urge I have to trace a finger over them—over him.

Just the thought has my cheeks burning, and I slide my hands into my pockets. Because they’re cold, obviously, not because I don’t trust myself not to touch Jude Abernathy-Lee.

But not touching him doesn’t stop me from wondering where he got the tattoos—and when. Because unlike most of the students at Calder Academy who come here sometime during their high school years, Jude has been here since he was seven. And—like me—he hasn’t left the island since. Not once.

Yet I’ve never once noticed them before. Not even when he ripped his shirt off in the chaos of the hallway just minutes earlier.

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