Page 30 of Sweet Nightmare

This time, though, nothing comes out. Thank God.

“Okay?” Jude asks, and I know he’s talking about what happened earlier, not my injuries.

“Okay,” I answer, reaching in and pulling out the first bottle my fingers come in contact with. “But I can take care of myself.” I infuse the words with as much power as I can manage.

Which, admittedly, isn’t nearly as much as I’d like.

“That’s peppermint elixir,” is his answer. “Unless you’re planning on puking, I don’t think it will do you any good.”

Jude pries the bottle out of my numb hand before grabbing another one off the shelf. I try to take it from him, but he holds it out of my reach. “Turn around.”

“I don’t need your help.” But even I can hear the lack of conviction in my voice.

“Give me your arm, Clementine.” This time, his voice brooks no argument. Neither does his unyielding gaze.

For one long, interminable moment, our eyes lock, my heart beating too fast and my breath coming in jagged little pants I can no longer control.

I longingly wish for the floor to open up and swallow me whole, but when that doesn’t happen—when nothing happens save Jude making an impatient sound deep in his throat—I finally give in. Ungraciously.

“Whatever,” I mutter and extend my arm.

When he finally takes a small step, I consider the fact that I don’t immediately run out of the room a small sign of personal growth.

“Thank you.” Jude’s words are so low and growling that I can’t say for sure that I haven’t imagined them over the pounding of my heart.

Several awkward seconds pass as he shakes the bottle and flips the cap open. But then his fingers are on my skin.

A shiver works its way down my spine, but I ruthlessly control it. I’ve already embarrassed myself in front of Jude enough today. No way in hell am I doing it again.

My resolve lasts until he starts rubbing my cuts with the antiseptic-soaked cotton ball like he’s trying to work out a stain.

“Ouch!” I yelp, pulling away to glare at him. “There are nerve endings attached to that, you know.” I hold out a hand. “Just give it to me.”

“I’ve got it,” he says, and the hands he places on my arm are so soft that his touch is like a whisper.

This time when he starts to clean my wounds, he’s so gentle I barely feel the cotton ball at all. Which is a new problem altogether, because now all I can think about is the brush of his skin over mine as he moves from wound to wound.

It feels good—dangerously good—and it takes every ounce of willpower I have not to pull away. Not to run away. But I refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he still affects me.

So I stay exactly where I am, forcing myself to concentrate on the sting of the antiseptic, on the physical pain of it all instead of the empty ache deep inside me.

It’s no big deal. It’s no big deal. It’s no big deal. The four words become my mantra, and repeating them over and over again becomes my salvation. My breathing levels out. My knees stop trembling. My heart remembers how to beat properly.

I take a deep breath and blow it out slowly. Tell myself one more time that this really is no big deal. And I almost believe it…right up until Jude releases my arm and places a hand on my shoulder to spin me around so that my back is facing him. My shirt looks like Swiss cheese, so I know he sees the myriad of bites that pepper my skin. His fingers move to the wound on my lower back as he says, “I think you’re going to have to take your shirt off for this one.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CLEAN CUTS

AND RUN

Of all the things I’ve ever imagined Jude would say to me, that honestly has never been one of them. At least not since freshman year, when I let myself dream—

I cut the thought off abruptly and focus, instead, on the here and now. And mainly on the fact that Jude just suggested that I undress in the middle of my aunt’s office. I will not make myself even more vulnerable than I already am. “What did you just say?” I demand, turning to him with incredulous eyes.

For what might very well be the first time in Jude Abernathy-Lee history, there’s a faint pink blush across his high, stubbled cheekbones. “Or maybe just pull it up? There’s a cut on your lower back and you don’t want it getting infected.”

“Excuse me?” Somehow, he’s made the request sound even worse.

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