“Hungry.” One shoulder, gleaming in the lamplight, lifted in a shrug. “Otherwise fine.”
Hmmm. “Even your neck?”
“Still stings a little.” He flipped a dismissive hand. “Some blood and another hour or two will take care of it.”
“Let me have a look.” She began untangling herself from her cocoon of blankets, tossing them aside carelessly. “If it’s closed up enough, we can take off the—”
Her can clanged as it hit the wooden floorboards. Her fork landed somewhere near his knee. One piece of not-falafel rolled gently until it hit the side of the rug.
“Um.” Her gaze surveyed the room, studiously avoiding the rug and anyone who might happen to be sitting atop said rug,but she could still sense his eyes on her. The heat of his glare should have singed her skin. “Maybe I should wash my hands before touching your wounds. I’ll just—”
“Edie.” His voice was a furious, gravelly rasp. “What thefuck.”
Turned out, her shit was decidedlynot together, despite her earlier attempt at gathering it into a neat, manageable pile. At the anger in his voice, his chiding tone, all her repressed emotion broke over her head like a wave, filling her lungs until she couldn’t seem to catch a breath.
She threw her hands in the air, her sinuses afire. “I wasstarving, asshole! It was an exhausting, shitty day, and you were unconscious from having your godsdamn neck nearlyclawed the fuck off, and I didn’t have any internet to distract me, and I was painfully hungry, okay? So sue me for not waiting when I had no idea how long you’d be out, dickwad!”
“Edie,” he repeated, much more softly.
“And you know what makes a human womanespecially fucking hungry?” she spat out. “When she’s forced to watch someone she cares about fighting a fuckingzombiewithout letting her fuckinghelp. Risking his life to protect her, even though that’sthe last fucking thing she wants happening ever again. And then, when he’sbleeding the fuck outbefore her very eyes,thenshe gets to spend an hour or two with a fucking cleaver clutched in her sweaty fucking hand, bracing herself for the possibility that he might turn into a fuckingbrain slurperand she might have to fuckingmurderhim, even though she l—”
Cutting herself off just in time, she gave a frustrated growl and slapped the moisture from her cheeks. “I checked the security footage before going anywhere and brought my fuckingknife, asswipe. I was fuckingvigilant. I’ve been taking care of myself for years, and I’m not a godsdamn moron. So fuck you, fuckingGaston. Don’t youdareyell at me, you Beast-tormenting French jackass!”
Snarling and muttering to herself, she bent down to reclaim her can and her fork and stabbed at her missing sphere of not-falafel on the floor. After shoving it in her mouth, she plopped back onto the couch and chewed belligerently, all while glaring directly into his eyes. Even though she couldn’t see him that clearly through her angry tears.
The good news: The salt from those tears added a necessary bit of extra seasoning to the starchy not-falafel. The bad news: More salt seemed to be arriving by the moment, and she was going to choke to death if she kept hiccupping as she chewed.
Silently, he handed her the pomegranate-lime juice box, which had apparently fallen to the floor with everything else. While she coughed and sputtered and tried to wash down her mouthful of food, he cautiously perched beside her on the sofa and circled a soothing hand between her shoulder blades.
She was too exhausted and dispirited to jerk away from him. Besides, the Beast-tormenting French jackass gave a good back rub.
After another minute, he scooted closer, then closer again, until he was pressed tightly to her side. His arm wrapped around her shoulders. Then his other arm encircled her too, gently turning her to face him. And then her can and fork were neatly set aside on a nearby table, she was on his lap, and he was tucking her against his chest, one broad palm stroking up and down her spine while the other cradled her head and urged her face into his bandaged neck.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I’m sorry, my Edie.”
She sniffled and wiped her wet nose on his shoulder. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I know you didn’t.” He paused. “Other than using my skin as your tissue just now.”
“You deserved that.” For good measure, she did it again.
“I suppose I did.” He kissed her hair. “Although, and I feel this must be noted—”
“No, it mustn’t. You can shove that note right up your bethonged ass.”
“—there are torn strips of exquisitely woven cotton literally an arm’s length away. Ones you could have used as a handkerchief. Both times.”
“Your fancy shirts can go fuck themselves for all I care,” she grumbled.
“That’s fair. Not to mention logically possible.”
Try as she might, she couldn’t entirely stifle her amused huff. His shoulders lowered a fraction at the sound of it, and—his mission achieved—he let the conversation end there.
He began carding his fingers sweetly through her hair, detangling it strand by strand. Her scalp tingled with each tiny, painless tug. She sniffled loudly at the tenderness of his touch, its patience and consideration, and he rocked her a little in response.
Eventually, she managed to stop crying again. Which was when he spoke quietly into her ear, as humble and solemn as she’d ever heard him.
“I was angry at myself, ma puce, not you.” Even once her hair slipped smoothly through his fingers, he kept playing with it. “When we entered my house, I was inattentive and careless with our safety. Because of that carelessness, I put you in a positionwhere you had to relive your worst memories and watch me get injured, and I put myself in a position where I had to extract a terrible promise from you. Thereby upsetting you to the point where your sweet face got blotchy and swollen and your pretty eyes turned red from crying. Then, to top it all off, I found out I was incapacitated when you needed food and protection, entirely due to my own stupidity.”
