Page 39 of What Remains

“Oh.” The word is so small, yet I still hear the sound of relief buried inside it.

I want to ask why she’s relieved, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Questioning and getting involved in her emotional state will lead to places I shouldn’t go. Not when getting her off this island safe and alive is all I should be focusing on.

“I wouldn’t blame you if something happened while pretending to be her husband.” She slowly faces me but doesn’t make eye contact. She seems more intent on studying the blood on my cargo pants instead. “You two are just alike.” She wrings her fingers together like I’ve only ever seen her do when she’s battling decrypting something. It’s one of her stress reliever go-tos. “You’re both badasses.” She shrugs, letting her hands fall to her sides again only to drum her fingers against that damn prison-orange.

I honestly can’t believe she’s thinking about this after what happened to her tonight.

“She’s smart and gorgeous as well. And you’re . . .”

I’m what? I don’t ask that. Of course I don’t. Because I can’t. She’s Wyatt’s daughter. Too young for me. Too sweet and innocent, even if that mouth of hers gets her in trouble and makes my palm twitch on occasion.

Full disclosure—my dick, too.

But tonight, she was almost . . .

Time to back away.

And yet, I don’t budge. Barely move a muscle, in fact.

Instead, I do something really stupid and volley back my own wrong-time question. “And Julian? Anything happen with him in the last month?”

When her eyes lock with mine, and she remains quiet, I take that as an answer in itself.

“You sure you don’t need Zoey up here to help you? I don’t want you falling or anything in the shower.”

As she approaches me, I realize I’ll never look at the color orange the same again. It sucks, given I have a fondness for sunrises and sunsets, which often have that shade in the mix.

“Jezebel shot me up with something in the hangar to counteract the cocktail of drugs they gave me on the plane. So, I think I’m okay now.”

I was so busy not showing my cards when Gwen walked into the hangar, I barely saw the syringe.

“I do seem to be mentally numb, though.” She begins to wring her fingers together again, and I do my best not to cover her hands to help ease her nerves. Contrary to what she’s claiming to be, no way is she numb. And with good reason, of course. “But no,” she whispers, lifting her eyes to mine, her hands unclenching, “I’m not with Julian. Nothing has ever happened between us.”

Before I can remember how to do that breathing thing I hear is good for people, she spins a finger between us. “Now, turn around and let me have a look at your back.”

I shake my head, blinking in confusion.

“Your back.” She lifts her chin as a command to move. “I was hugging you downstairs and forgot. I’m sorry.”

I curse under my breath. “No worrying about me.”

Too late. She doesn’t listen. She’s already circling me. Going for my shirt. Gasping.

Just great.

“My God, E.”

I love when she calls me by only my first initial. Of course, I love a lot of things she does. From the way she smiles, laughs, is sassy and sarcastic, and makes fun of me. You know, just to name a few of the hundred-plus.

“Who did this to you?” Her fingers move over my flesh, and my muscles jolt in response. Not because she’s hurting me, but because she’s touching me. I didn’t feel this way when Zoey was cleaning my wounds. I didn’t buck in response to her hand on my skin. “Are you okay?”

“Please don’t.”

“Who did this?” When she repeats her question, her voice is fire and ice all at once. An odd combination that somehow still makes sense to me.

“The same woman who took your laptop.”

Doubtful Jezebel is her real name. Definitely sounds made up. Or like someone I vaguely remember learning about during Sunday school back in the day.