Page 63 of Beautifully Wounded

“The weather is so stifling. Don’t you get hot wearing it?” he asks, and I shrug.

“I like the heat. I’ve felt cold for so long. I can’t seem to get warm enough, but when I’m wearing it, I feel comfortable.”

A frown flickers across his expression before he hides it.

I’m not sure how my words made him react that way until he speaks.

“My ma once told me that when someone is anxious, their brain is never at peace, so instead of the heart focusing on pumping blood throughout the body, it focuses on pumping most of it to the brain because that’s the part of the body that needs the help.” He shrugs, his eyes going distant for a moment before returning to meet my gaze. “I don’t know how true that is, but it could be what’s happening here.” He gestures to me, and for a moment I can’t speak.

That statement is so profound.

Ringo clears his throat, taking a deep breath.

“Can we swap it out for another?” He points to the hoodie and my brows shoot up.

“Swap it?”

“Yeah.” He finally releases my chin and turns to the wardrobe, finding another hoodie, this one green. “How about you put this one on instead?” He holds it up. “And give me that one so I can wash it.”

“I thought you said the Doxy girls will wash it.” I frown.

“I did, but I can do it if you’d rather?”

Ringo doing washing?

Now there’s an amusing thought.

“Maybe I can help? If you show me where the laundry is, I can wash our stuff.”

Our stuff.

Shit.

Why did I say it like that?

There is noourorwe.

I’m a damn guest, or prisoner.

“I mean… you know… if you’d like me to wash your stuff.” I quickly add, waving a dismissive hand, my eyes darting around the space, avoiding his face.

Really smooth, Abbey.

“I’d fucking love it if you washed my things, Angel.”

My eyes dart to his, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“So what do you reckon? Swap this hoodie for that one?” He gestures his head down at my body, and I consider it briefly before nodding and snatching the clean hoodie from his grip before spinning and rushing into the bathroom.

His chuckle floats through the closed door as I shut myself in, pressing my back to the thin timber separating us.

I wait until I hearhim open the external door and leave before I strip off and take the much-needed shower. I have to admit, it feels good to have the warm water rushing over my skin, rinsing away the sweat that’s built on my skin from days of keeping myself hidden away.

I peel off the now soaked bandages on my hands to see the cuts are healing well enough that I can probably go without them now, and I take extra time, washing my hair and shaving my legs with the disposable razors Ringo left for me days ago.

By the time I get out and dry myself, I feel more human than I have in days, and manage to nibble on the bread roll when I re-enter the main room, fully dressed in clean underwear, clean red bike shorts, and a white tee underneath Ringo’s green hoodie.

When I step outside the room a few minutes later, my gaze lands on the lady that was sprawled out in front of Ringo on the table in the President’s room the other night. I think her name is Wendy, and as I take her in, I can see her sights are clearly set on Ringo as she stares at him across the courtyard.

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