Page 219 of The Mortal Trials

He says something that sounds like shoot and hurries away. I hear the creak of the trunk’s hinge before he jogs back. “Can I open the door and throw them in? I won’t look, I swear.”

I smile. “That’s fine.”

When the door opens, his eyes are covered with one hand and he blindly tosses the underwear in my general direction before closing it again.

I fight the urge to laugh, then my insecurity rears its ugly head. “Hey, August?”

“Yeah,” he answers, still waiting outside the door.

“Do you want me to wear my prosthesis? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“Why would that make me uncomfortable?”

My mouth opens and shuts. “Some people just are.”

“I won’t be.”

My shoulders relax. “Okay, then, would you care to be a human crutch for a minute?” I grab my feather as the door opens.

August, who’s proved himself to be a true ally yet again tonight, strides to my side and helps me to the bed.

“I can sleep in a chair or on the floor,” I protest.

His head ticks back. “No, you won’t. You’ll sleep here and I’ll sleep there,” he says, pointing to the other side of the bed. “We’re adults.”

He’d pulled the blanket back while I was showering. I perch on the edge of the bed and cover my lap with the quilt.

August sees my residual limb but doesn’t say anything. “I’m going to shower. Yell if you need me.” He grabs a folded pile of clothes and enters the bathing room.

His second chair is wedged under the handle of the front door, making a lock of sorts. I lay down and burrow under the blanket, getting comfortable, staring at the wall until his fresco calls to me again. Curling forward, I study it.

It’s like the concert Carina and I went to when we were girls, but I bet most of his shows look like this. Nothing stands out about the venue to distinguish it from any other. A stage, his band, their instruments, amplifiers, bright lights, and him.

The gods wouldn’t have dragged him into this just because we went to hear him sing, would they? I toy with the fringed edge of his blanket. How would that have angered them?

It must be his talent. They’re famously and ridiculously jealous of the gifts they bestow on us. Especially if we use them well.

After a while, August’s shower water shuts off. I hear him move around. He brushes his teeth. My toothbrush is lost in the mess next door, and I didn’t find an extra one in his bathing room. I just pray my breath isn’t horrible and that it won’t be in the morning.

“Callalie?”

“Yeah,” I rasp.

“You want me to wear a shirt?”

I prop myself up on my elbow. “What?”

“Are you good if I don’t wear a shirt to bed?”

I throw an arm over my eyes. Seeing August Aymes shirtless? Not a hardship in the least. “Do what you want. We’re adults, right?”

He chuckles.

My voice is hoarse. The skin on my throat is getting sorer by the minute now that the hot shower water isn’t easing the bruises.

A shirtless August Aymes opens the door and steam follows him from the room. Blue shorts hang low on his cut hips.

I clutch my quetzal feather tighter.