This was different.
Hewas different.
Out there, in the cold air and pretty snow that turned into muddy puddles, I was scum. Forgotten. Here...maybe I had a chance to be something else. Was that crazy?
The back door slammed open and closed, and I stilled. Waiting like a goddamn lamb about to be slaughtered. Then I heard the door again and I could breathe, air pushing out of my lungs. The sink turned on and off, and I wondered if he’d moved the bodies so they weren’t in clear view.
He returned after a while, a first aid kit in his hands, as well as my backpack. He dumped the red bag on the table and opened it, while I grabbed my backpack and unzipped it. I glanced inside, finding stale bread, a holey raincoat, and a battered ID that one of the shelters had helped me get. With a sigh of relief, I dropped my bag onto the floor again.
“Thank you for getting this.” I pointed at the backpack.
He gave me a small smile.
I watched him work, unable to do anything else. He started with a few wet cloths, using them to wipe the combination ofblood off my face gently. I closed my eyes, savoring the sensation of warm water against my skin. When he pressed an alcohol wipe against one of my cuts, I hissed and my eyes shot open again.
He held up a palm toward me.
I frowned. “You didn’t answer me. Who are you?”
The stranger’s throat worked as he swallowed loud enough for me to hear aclickand he took a step back, searching the room. He grabbed a notepad and pen off the island. He wrote furiously on the paper with his left hand as he moved toward me and shoved the notepad at me. How was being left-handed so damned cute? Apparently, I thought it was. Maybe I had a concussion becausewhat the fuck?
I licked my dry lips, the aches and pains in my body a throbbing reminder of what had just happened. Nevertheless, I reached out and took the note.
Samael.
“Your name?” I asked.
I got a sharp nod in answer.
“That’s pronounced like Sam-eye-el, right?”
Another nod, before he snatched the notepad back and wrote on it again before facing it toward me.
“I’m Ezra,” I said before reading.
Let me help.
I stared at him, unsure what to do next. The whole situation was insane. The stranger—Samael—was acting as if he hadn’t just killed a man in his backyard. “You do realize you murderedsomeone? Or three someones, I should say. Wait. Are the others dead?”
Samael’s lips twisted, curving into an unapologetically amused grin. He definitely knew and didn’t give a shit.
The lack of guilt wasn’t the most surprising thing about the situation, though. That belonged to the fact that I didn’t seem to give a damn he’d killed those jerks, either. There wasn’t a sliver of remorse inside me for them. Their leader beat me up and took pleasure in my pain while the others watched. Maybe they deserved this. It was retribution.
An alcohol pad touched my cheek, and I clenched my eyes shut, exhaling through the pain. It took him a good half hour before he had my cuts cleaned. He didn’t say a word the entire time and curiosity ate at me.
“Do you talk?” I asked quietly.
He shook his head and pointed at his mouth.
“It’s not physically possible?”
Samael made a noise, then his throat worked until words came out. “No. Hurts.” His voice sounded like someone in pain—rough and deep and full of a kind of agony that made me wince.
“What do you mean?”
He wrote something again and showed it to me.
Can’t talk well. Damaged vocal cords.
