Page 5 of Absolution

“I need help.”

“With what?”

My cheeks heat up even more, and I suddenly feel as if I’m intruding. “It’s nothing. Go back to sleep.” I turn to leave.

I jerk when she grabs my wrist. “With what?”

“I need help getting my shirt off.”

Her silence is deafening, and I’m surprised when she gets up. “Sure.”

I stumble to the table by the couch and sit on it. I’m dizzy and nauseous. She could overpower me easily right now because I’m a wreck. I can only hope she won’t notice. I look up at the woman before me. She is pale but looks calm and as spent as I feel.

“My shoulder hurts… it’s stiff and swollen and I can’t get this shirt off. It’s wet still and—”

“I see you’ve tried. You’ve ruined it completely.” She plucks at the strips that hang over my chest.

I nod. “It wouldn’t budge. I can’t get my arm up in the right angle to get it off. It’s too strained. It’s ridiculous.”

“It’s okay. I got it.” She pulls the right shirt arm off behind my back, yanking at the material that almost sits like one with my skin. Then she carefully peels off the left one the same way.

I shiver when her fingertips touch my skin as she works the shirt.

“My God, Christian. You’re burning hot.”

“I’m cold as hell, Ker.”

“Yeah, your arms are, but up here you’re so warm.” She touches my left shoulder, and her fingers leave traces that burn hotter than any fever. “Your dragon is scorching,” she says with a short laugh, her fingertips resting on my tattoo.

“Thanks,” I growl and suddenly need to pull away. There’s clearly one part of me that isn’t tired. At all. I want to pull her to me and…

Do what? She’d scream and beat me.

“How does your wound look?” To my great surprise her voice is suddenly laced with worry.

“It’s fine,” I snap. I don’t need her hands on me again.

“Let me have a look.”

“What for? It’s fine.”

“Christian! You stubborn cretin. Let me.”

“All right. Whatever.” I shrug, feigning indifference, the indifference I should be feeling.

She pulls at the makeshift bandage that has covered the wound since yesterday. “Why did you let your hair grow so long?” she asks as she works the strips, her eyes darting up to meet mine, then back to focus on her task.

Layer after layer comes off.

“Why did you cut yours short?” I reply. “I don’t like the black. It’s not you.”

She pulls at one of her short choppy tresses, twisting it around her index finger. “I didn’t want to be me anymore.”

I nod. It stings, because I think I understand why. “I stopped caring. It grew.”

She stops and regards me. “Hmm. I’d have figured you as vain.”

I scoff. “Vain?”

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