The moment the words leave my mouth, the window at the back of the room shatters. I instantly cover her with my body, letting the glass shards embed themselves into my back.
“Are you okay?” I ask, leaning my head back to look at her.
She glances up at me and I brush the hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear.
“I wouldn’t hate you,” she whispers. I open my mouth to say something, but she stops me. “Don’t. I don’t want to argue with you anymore. It’s not doing either of us any good.”
“Okay.” I drop my hold on her and she immediately starts ordering me to turn around.
“Next time, blow up one of the chair cushions instead.”
“I’ll do my best,” I say over my shoulder as she begins removing the pieces of glass from my back.
How easy it is for us to toe the line of overwhelming emotion. We’re like fire and ice. Both intense in our own right, yet somehow tamed by the presence of the other. Where she’s light, I’m darkness. Where she’s fiery, I’m glacial. Where she is the sun, I am the moon. Both meant to stand on our own, separate from one another. And yet, it’s almost as if we need the other in order to exist.
“That’s the last one,” she tells me, setting the blood covered shard on the table with the others. “Now, take your shirt off so I can clean the wounds.”
“I can do it myself.”
“It wasn’t a suggestion.”
I pull my shirt over my head, giving into her demand. “Is this the kind of bedside manner Henry has been teaching you?”
“Actually, we haven’t gotten to the lesson on how to deal with insufferable patients.”
“Ouch. Take it easy on me. I’m already hurt.”
“And whose fault would that be?” she looks up at me with a raised brow and motions for me to sit backwards on the chair I had previously pulled out for her. “I’ve gotta go get supplies. I’ll be back.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I watch her walk out of the room, determined to fix me up. Most people would just leave, but not her. She’s too stubbornfor that, just like she’s too stubborn to admit that there are parts of me that are beyond redemption.
Chapter 40
Reign
“Really?” I ask from the doorway of Ryder’s bedroom after finding him missing from the war room.
“I figured I’d save you some time.”
“A shower doesn’t actually clean wounds. I would think someone your age would know that by now.”
I do my best to keep my eyes focused on his face rather than his ridiculously chiseled abs or the deep V that his towel seems to be doing a terrible job of hiding.
“Fine, fine.” He waves his hands in the air and turns around. “Do whatever it is you healers do then.”
I’m far from being able to wear the title of healer, but it makes me smile thinking that maybe someday it could bemy future.
As I clean each wound, Ryder doesn’t flinch. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. I know he’s experienced far worse pain. I find myself wondering what scars lie below his snow-white skin. Though the surface leaves no trace, I know there have been hundreds, maybe thousands of wounds over the years.
How many came from his father? How many were from the victims he insists on reminding me of?
“It suits you, you know,” he says, interrupting my thoughts.
“What does?”
“Being a healer. I mean, despite your atrocious bedside manner, I think Agatha would be quite impressed.”
