“Only around you.” I pull another shard. “I’m lucky you aren’t that girl fromNemowith the braces yelling FISHY! WAKE UP!”
He drops his gaze to his lap, and the strip of his smile is so white against the shadows that it almost glows in the dark.
“Why didn’t you just tell me?” I ask, keeping my voice low. I don’t know if I’m asking about the house, or Billy, or his plan to help me through the trials.
Nico pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, and I know before he goes quiet that he’s not going to answer.
I focus on pulling the big shard. The squelching sound makes me curse, and Nico slams his head back against the wall with a grunt as more blood runs out.
“I’m sorry,” he grits out. “For saying those things to you. I didn’t mean them.”
“I’m sorry for doubting you,” I say.
He shakes his head. “I gave you every reason to.”
I finish wrapping his other foot and tap his ankle, letting him know I’m done. “This should be enough to get you to the lightbulb,” I say. “I’m going to need it to see if there’s anything else in there.”
His leg slides out from between mine, and he draws his foot back toward himself as he tips his chin at me. “Your turn,” he says.
Can he even grip anything with his hands? Before the trial, he couldn’t grip a bottle cap or untie his shoes.
But he has that determined look in his eyes that tells me if this argument were a trial, I’d be the one left on the pole, so I let him guide me until I’m leaning against the column.
By some stroke of luck, I avoided smashing my face into any huge shards. Most of the pieces that ended up in my cheek and jaw are small, and the wounds are shallow enough that Nico can use his sleeve to coax them out.
The ones that won’t go as easily are so small that Nico can’t grip them in his state. He has to guide my fingers to each shard. I can’t bring myself to ease them out slowly, but every time I try to yank one out fast, my fingers slip.
Nico hooks his wrists around my raised forearm. “Grip it tight.”
I pinch as hard as I dare. There’s no point in taking it out if it’s going to end up in my thumb.
Nico wrenches my arm so fast I have no time to yelp. Blood drips onto his hands. It’s out.
We do that four more times.
He picks up one of the T-shirt strips and holds it out to me, nodding at my cheek. “Put this on your face.”
I press the cloth to my cheek where I can feel the sting, all the tension draining out of me like my body finally believes it can stop fighting for five seconds because someone else is handling it.
Nico examines the big shard still jutting from my kneecap. He forces his hand to close around the bottleneck that is now angled sideways from me crawling on it, and he grimaces as he pulls it out with one hard tug.
A searing pain knifes through my leg. I whimper, clutching my calf.
“I know,” he says, wrapping a strip of my T-shirt tight around my knee. “I’m sorry.”
It’s strange watching his tattooed fingers fighting him while he works. I’m not going to act like a baby after he showed about as much pain as someone with a couple of frustratingly deep and stubborn splinters. I focus on his face. It’s easier to look at him now that he’s not looking at me. My eyes roam around the line of concentration marking his forehead, the dimple in his chin, the tender curve of his mouth, and the wide bend of his Cupid’s bow.
Nico rips off another strip of bandage with his teeth and ties it off sluggishly. “What’s your favorite color?”
The randomness of the question gives me pause. “What?”
“Your favorite color.” He pulls another shard of glass from my heel, and I have to swallow back a yelp. “Tell me.”
“Yellow,” I manage.
“Why?” He moves to the next piece of glass, but it slips through his swollen fingers. On the third try, he makes this frustrated sound and stops for a few seconds to rub his fingers against his leg.
“Sunflowers,” I say.
