It hurts, but I sit up anyway, resting my back against the pillows. The movement sends another jolt of pain through my ribs, and I bite down on my lip to keep from gasping.
I look under the blanket and see that my dress is torn. The fabric is shredded along one side, exposing the pale skin of my thigh, and there's a dark stain, blood, maybe on one side. I reach up and feel debris in my hair, small pieces of plaster and glass. I pull them out one by one, letting them fall onto the duvet.
"I tried to get them all out," Octavian says. "Sorry about that."
I glance up at him. His expression is a mix between unreadable and relieved.
"What the hell happened?"
"There was an explosion."
I nod, closing my eyes for a second as the memories start to filter back in again.
I feel Octavian grabbing me, pulling me against him. Then fire and heat. Screaming. And then it just ends.
I open them again. He's still looking at me.
The room feels smaller with him in it. Safer, maybe. Or just harder to lie to myself.
"Anyone else hurt?" I ask.
His jaw shifts, a tiny betrayal. "Yes, but I don’t know how many."
I nod, and rub my fingers over the bridge of my nose.
The quiet that follows feels personal, like the room's waiting for us to say something we shouldn't.
And I do what I always do, I throw a joke at it.
"So, when you save someone's life, do you hold it over their head forever, or just for special occasions?"
His mouth twitches, not quite a smile. "Keira I would never. It's my job."
The words hit harder than they should. Like all the warmth in the room just left with them. I almost hate him for saying it.
"Of course," I say as I pick at the edge of the blanket. Maybe I'm just worked up over the blast. Maybe I'm tired of being treated like a mission. "The job.”
Something shifts in his face, regret maybe, or understanding, but he lets it go.
A sleeve of his jacket peeks out from beneath the duvet. I pull it free; smoke and his cologne cling to the fabric, sharp and warm.
I grip it for a second before holding it out to him. "You'll probably want this back.”
He studies it like it's a question. "Only if you don't need it anymore.”
"I don’t."
He doesn't move right away. When he does, his fingers brush mine, not an accident, not entirely.
We both hold still.
I look down at the jacket. "Guess it did its job too."
He huffs a laugh. It’s low and rough.
"Guess so."
I could ask him a hundred things: why he pulled me out first, why he looks at me like that, why he can be both the calm in the fire and the reason it starts. But I don't. He's made a career out of not answering questions, and I've made it clear I won't ask the ones that matter.
