Page 25 of Glass Rose
“I can’t just—You said we need to be quick.”
His eyes soften slightly. “Five minutes won’t kill us. Five minutes to wash their blood off you.”
The way he says it—theirblood, not just blood—sticks like a needle in my heart. My parents’ blood. My fucking parents.
“I’ll keep watch and gather supplies.” He backs toward the door. “Leave it cracked so I can hear if anything happens.”
The door clicks not quite shut behind him. I strip the rest of my underwear and step into the bathtub. Pink rivulets swirl around my feet. Mom’s fancy lavender and vanilla body wash sits on the ledge, and I grab it, lathering my skin.
It feels like home.
“Sofia?” Gavin’s voice filters through the crack in the door. “You okay in there?”
I press my forehead against the cool tile, letting the water pound my back. “Define ‘okay.’”
“Still breathing.”
“Then I guess I’m fucking fantastic.”
The bathroom door creaks wider, and his silhouette bleeds through the plastic curtain. “You should get out.”
I shut off the water, droplets sliding down my skin. “Hand me a towel, please?”
Gavin’s arm extends around the shower curtain, holding out a fluffy blue one.
I wrap it around myself, tucking the corner between my breasts, and step out. The world still feels like it’s moving in slow motion, but the shower has cleared my head enough to function.
“Your turn,” I say.
He shakes his head. “We need to go. Now.”
“I got five minutes. You get five minutes.” I glance at the clock on the wall. “We have more than an hour before we need to be back. That’s plenty of time for you to wash off the blood.”
Gavin hesitates, the doorframe creaking beneath his fingers. “I’m fine.”
“When was the last time you had a real shower?”
His gaze drops to my bare shoulders, then back to my face. “Two minutes.”
“Five.”
“Three.” He takes off his shirt, and I can’t help the sharp intake of breath.
His torso is a roadmap of scars—surgical incisions, injection sites, what look like burn marks. Evidence of fourteen months of systematic torture carved into his flesh. But what catches my eye even more is the fresh wound along his left side—a jagged line that’s trying to heal but is angry and raw.
“Gavin.”
“It’s nothing.”
“That’s not nothing. That’s—” I trace it. “When?”
“Few hours ago. Happened at the facility. It’ll heal.” He unbuckles his belt.
I avert my eyes. “Tell me when you’re done. We’re stitching that up.”
“It’ll heal on its own.” The shower curtain rings scrape against the rod as he steps in.
“Not properly.” I gather my wet hair into a knot. “And I’m pretty sure rolling around in zombie guts qualifies as a fucking infection risk.”
