Page 50 of The Gambler's Prize
Grimes and my father’s words merge into a hateful poem.
Why is it so fucking hot in Galbrava? Even with the window thrown open, the air in the room doesn’t stir. There are a couple of dead flies on the windowsill. I stare at them for who knows how long. I can’t jump out. I’d break my leg. There’s nothing to climb down. My vision starts to blur. I can’t feel my body. Can’tbreathe. My chest is a vise. It’s my shirt; it’s too tight. I claw my way out, throw it away. The heat is still stifling. Need to escape. Can’t. I curl into a ball on top of the bed. The world falls away.
**
When I wake up I have no idea where I am. My face is scrunched into dark fabric. I’m still shirtless. I try to move, and get nowhere. Strong, gentle arms clamp me in place.
“Shhh, it’s okay.” Grimes’ voice, so gentle. It must be a dream. “You don’t have to run.”
I shift my weight and realize I’m sitting in his lap. He’s cradling me like I’m a wounded animal. It feels so nice. I cuddle closer, twisting my hands in his cloak. He strokes my hair.Strokes my hair.Got to be a dream.
“Shhh,” he says again.
I open my eyes. The kitchen looks very real. And my arm is itchy. I’m never usually itchy in dreams.
Shit. Am I awake?
Everything rushes back to me: the restaurant, being dragged home, being locked in my room. Did Grimes come upstairs and catch me freaking out? I don’t even remember him coming into my room again. Was I already asleep? He must’ve carried me downstairs. I rub my eyes, which I’m just realizing are soaked with tears. Shame and embarrassment creep in, stealing my cozy calm. He saw me cry, saw me defeated by being locked in a room. I feel like a seashell lying on the beach, picked clean by gulls and scoured by the winds and tides. Utterly flayed and exposed.
“I didn’t take your shirt off,” he says. “You did that.”
“Yeah. I know.”
I can just about remember that. I try to rub my shamefully tearstained face and clamber off his lap at the same time, almost falling in the process. But he catches me and clamps me tight.
“Don’t run,” he says. “Stay.”
It sounds like an order, but his tone is soft. Being held like this doesn’t make me panic like being locked up. Because I’m not alone. Very much not alone. He’s got me entwined into his body, closer than we’ve ever been. I smell soap, a scent of sun-kissed skin. The scent of someone who works outside all the time, fresh and healthy and masculine. I’m too embarrassed to look up into his eyes. I just keep holding the front of his cloak, anchoring myself to the strength of his body.
“So what happened up there?” he says softly.
“I hate being locked up.” My voice sounds shaky and weak, but I have to explain. “My father used to lock me up. Sometimes for days.”
“Why?” he says.
“To stop me sneaking out to parties mostly. And because he thought I might run away from home.”
“He was worried about your safety?”
“Hardly. He’s a control freak. I’m his son, therefore his possession.” Shit. Now my nose is running too. “Can I have a tissue?”
Grimes rummages in one pocket, his other arm still holding me like I’m a horse that might bolt. The warmth from his huge frame is so comforting I could almost fall asleep again. Different from the airless heat in my bedroom. It doesn’t make me panic. I have no idea why he’s being so nice to me. I’m so strung out I have no energy to question it.
Doesn’t he think I’m even weaker and more useless than ever after a meltdown like this? Messy tears, total panic, stripping out of my clothes… Why is he being so kind to me? I risk a glance up into his face. The hood is still up, but his eyes are less guarded than usual. He traces a finger over a scar next to my belly button, making me shiver reflexively. I realize it’s the first time he’s properly seen my naked torso in daylight.
“Loan sharks?” he guesses.
I nod, ashamed.
“I’d like to get my hands on them some time.” His tone is casual. But his dark eyes burn into mine, anything but casual. For once, the rage isn’t directed at me. I have no idea how to react to that.
“Oh. Okay,” I say.
He strokes my hair like I’m a kitten. Surreal. No idea how to react to this either, but it feels damn good. He keeps staring at me. His eyes are so fucking intense. But they’re not scaring me right now. Hardly knowing what I’m doing, I reach up for his hood. I go slow, like I’m approaching a fearful animal, like he’s the vulnerable one here, giving him plenty of time to stop me. He just keeps watching me. I slide the hood down, my heart pounding. His head is shaved. He looks much more handsome without the hood. There’s a tattoo on the side of his muscular neck. Ugly, scratched letters that mean nothing to me. Red discolored skin stretches out around the tattoo, making it twice as large as it would’ve been when it was done. It must’ve gotten infected and never been treated properly. It looks like a prison tattoo. So this is what he’s been hiding from me. I didn’t think he would be the type to be ashamed of a criminal past. I thought he might even enjoy the intimidation factor it could bring.
“You were in prison?” I ask. I trace a fingertip over the tattoo and his eyes close. Grief crosses his face, a slight twist to his lips. Then his eyes open again.
“Yes,” he says.
