Page 112 of Undertow

When I shut off the water, the silhouette straightens, grabs a towel from the rack, and slings it over the top of the stall.

“Thanks,” I say.

I run the fabric over my hair, then pat at my body with careful precision. The pale-yellow cloth is quickly tainted with splotches of brown and red. It’s always fascinated me how blood tells time with its coloring. So many things do.

I secure the towel around my waist and open the stall door.

Julia’s gaze passes over me in the silence, and this time there’s no question about her thoughts. She doesn’t even try to hide the desire burning through her. Part of her may hate me now, but a bigger part still wants me.

Allof me wantsheras she studies me with conflicted hunger.

“Here,” she says, waving at the toothbrush. “I’ll wait.”

She scoops up the supplies on the counter and steps into the hallway.

I feel her potent stare sliding over every inch of me as I brush my teeth. When I finish, I straighten and step away from the sink.

“The rest of your clothes are in the living room.” Her voice is strained. “I don’t need to cuff you, do I?”

I blink away drops of water sliding from my wet hair. “No.”

“Good. Move.”

She motions for me to exit the bathroom in front of her, then follows behind at a safe distance.

By the time we reach the living room, the air-conditioning has painted my wet skin with tiny bumps. My body tenses from the chill, especially after days of roasting in the sweltering shack.

“Sit,” she says, nodding toward the couch.

With her vigilant stare locked on me, she drops the medical supplies on the coffee table and backs toward my suitcase. She pulls out a pair of clean boxer-briefs and tosses them at me. I capture them against my chest.

“Put that on for now. I want to look at a few of those injuries before you get dressed.”

I swallow and obey, letting the towel drop once I’m covered.

Now that we’re past manipulative games, it feels good to lower myself to the couch without the weight of lies bearing down on me. There’s a new freedom in letting my mind and body do what they want instead of what they have to.

She perches on the coffee table in front of me, hesitating just a second before tipping my face to examine each side.

“Idiots,” she mumbles. “I don’t know what Mama H was thinking leaving them alone with you.”

“If you’re going to take your operation to the next level, you should invest in some interrogation training for your team,” I say.

She frowns and drops her hand to sift through the supplies beside her.

“That’s not funny.”

“I’m not trying to be funny.”

Her gaze slides back to me. “I suppose as an RLC soldier, you’re the expert?”

I shrug. “You think that was the first time I’ve been chained up and tortured? At this point, it’s weirder when I’m not.”

She flinches, and maybe I regret my confession. “That’sreallynot funny.”

“The truth rarely is.”

Something works its way across her face as she applies ointment to a cotton swab.

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