Page 138 of The Girl Who Should Be Dead

“Well, I unconsciously did a lot of this,” Ambramurmurs, poking at the edge of the skin and almost blacking out at the shock of pain. “Not bad.”

This breaks him out of his direness, and he rolls his eyes.

“Can you get me a shirt?” Ambra asks, taking another deep breath and reinforcing the veins, smoothing them over. “I never want to wear a hospital gown again.”

Without even bothering to go to the closet, he pulls out one of his extra shirts from the backpack, shaking it out.

It’s the sky blue one she picked out on their very first attempt to shop, all that time ago. It’s a bit wrinkled, but he places it around her shoulders like it’s the finest of cloth, adjusting it so she can easily worm her arms through it.

It’s been washed since he wore it, and it smells of his detergent, a scent she hadn’t yet been aware of. That her entire existence, she hadn’t contemplated that specific of scent.

She clutches it closed, then tilts her head up to him, sending another tendril of power to the wound. It resists her, the bespelled gun doing the damage it needs to.

But eventually, even the wound relents, knitting back together, the skin stretching fragile over the bullet hole.

The effort leaves her fingertips trembling, so she eats more of the protein goo under his watchful gaze.

It’s dark outside the tall windows of the apartment, snow striking it softly, and he looks, exhausted.

“I think that shirt looks better on you than it does on me,” he murmurs, like he’s aiming for sarcastic and missing it completely, coming out on this side of earnest. His face twists, at the frustration of expressing himself, something Ambra understands completely.

“You’re thinking something,” she whispers into the stillness of the room. “You’re thinking something and I can’t interpret it.”

Slowly, in a heartbreaking moment of peace, he sits next to her on the bed, folding his legs underneath himself, but still doesn’t say anything.

The bed even creaks with his weight, louder than her beating heart.

“I—”

Loud, his phone rings, and they both flinch.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, shoving his hair away from his face and digging it out of the pocket of his—actually fitting—pajama pants, before he freezes.

It’s an unknown number.

“Nobody should know this number,” he says, grim. “It’s unlisted, it’s protected, only people who I give it to should have it.”

Ambra shakily grabs one of the dates. She’s going to need more power, more stability in her limbs.

There’s a detached fear sitting in her stomach, underneath the cursed food he’s feeding her.

“I don’t know when he’s going to grab me,” she says, trying and failing to keep the tremble out of her words. “But you should get dressed and have some food and be ready.”

He leaves the phone, still ringing, on the bed next to her, and it rings twice more as he changes into a pair of his pressed slacks and the deep maroon button up, drawing the color to his complexion. It rings again as he grabs a protein bar and one of the five-hour energy shots, a grim determination fitting over his face like armor.

Gone is the rumpled, soft Gurlien, and now it is the Gurlien who is ready for battle.

“I still think you should have the gun,” she says, as he flips the phone onto silent.

“Is your phone somewhere in Paris?” he asks, and she nods. “Good. I don’t want him hacking that either.”

“We’ll go get it after,” she says desperately, “and I’ll take you to the library and anywhere you want to go.”

It rings again, now a soft vibration against the bedsheets, the surface lighting up.

“Why call you instead of control me?”

“Two things,” Gurlien says, holding up his fingers, “one, he thinks I can do more than I can, or two, he wants to intimidate me.”

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