Page 76 of On Dry Land

“I’ll drive. You sleep. Talking can wait for tomorrow.”

Dryden doesn’t say much as we drive toward Siren’s Point. I drift, waking up when headlights swoop through the windows from passing cars before dozing back off once more. I jolt awake once when the car hits a pothole, sitting straight up in my seat, heart pounding as I look out the window into the dark.

“Almost there,” Dryden murmurs, so I sit back and watch the dark shapes of trees flash by. I don’t remember closing my eyes again, but I must fall back asleep. The next thing I know, I’m being gently coaxed awake by a hand on my shoulder.

“Where are we?” I ask, before remembering. Taking a deep inhale, I let it out slowly. Dryden’s glass monstrosity of a house looms ahead, headlights glinting off the reflective surfaces. Instead of parking out front like he usually does, he veers off over the yard, driving slowly over the lumpy grass. I chuckle when I see the Land Rover parked by the guest cottage. The actual winter vehicle, despite what Dryden might wish.

He looks tired as he turns the ignition off on the Porsche and runs a hand over his face. Neither of us moves to leave the vehicle, what now hovering in the warm air between us.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him, and this time, it’s less because he had to drive so far to get me and more because I’m just generally apologetic. I’m sorry for leaving, and I’m sorry that I made him think there weren’t any other options. He sighs.

“Actually, I’m the one who’s sorry. Tomorrow, though. Come on, I want to get a look at you.”

I close the passenger door carefully, the headlights flashing as Dryden locks the doors. The interior of the cottage is dark when he presses a palm into the center of the door and holds it wide for me to enter. Nerves multiply in my stomach. Not fear, like the first time I walked through this door, but trepidation, a bit of nervous excitement. The first step down an unmapped road.

I feel the press of Dryden’s palm against my lower back as I walk in—firm for a moment and then gone, like it was a gesture he hadn’t meant to do. Light floods the cottage as he flicks the switch, and I blink rapidly, pretending to myself that it’s the sudden brightness that’s causing moisture to prick at my eyes.

“Hey, little one,” I whisper as the kitten wakes up and meows, blinking sleepily at us from where she’s lying on the rug. I crouch down to say hello, and she stretches her legs out as straight as she can, toes separating. I rub a hand down her side. “Oh, big stretch!”

I look up as Dryden passes me, watching as he flicks on the bathroom light and bends to retrieve something from the cabinet. He’s so beautiful. Even fully clothed, there’s no hiding the strong curve of his shoulders or the flex of muscle in his legs. It strikes me, sometimes, how healthy he looks. Like the kind of person who doesn’t ever have to question whether their body is capable of anything.

I stand up when he approaches me. It’s the first time in days we’ve stood face-to-face and looked one another in the eye, and I can tell by Dryden’s expression that I’m not looking nearly as lovely as he is. He breathes strangely through his nose—a sharp inhale followed by an aborted clearing of his throat. When he speaks, his voice is so calm it sounds fake.

“Have a seat, Spencer. Please,” he adds, waiting for me to sit on the end of the bed before approaching. Demon winds her way between my boots, arching her back and rubbing against me. Dryden surprises me by scooping her up and depositing her on my lap. She purrs, kneading her paws directly into my crotch.

“Healing,” he explains, which burns like a mouthful of fire. I told him that.

“It looks worse than it is,” I tell him about my face. I’d probed gently with my fingers, pressing against my cheekbone and working my jaw, touching my nose and palpating my throat. It hurt, but it wasn’t agonizing. Nothing is broken. Bruises and cuts always look worse than they actually are.

The moment Dryden’s fingers touch my face, I remember how grimy I am. It’s been five days since I’ve had access to clean water. I wince, thinking about my dirty pants and my butt firmly planted on the clean bed.

“Sorry,” Dryden says, and I shake my head.

“It wasn’t you. I probably shouldn’t be on the bed, though, Dry. I’m filthy.”

“Sit still,” he replies, frowning, thumbs gently testing the structural soundness of the bones in my face. “I think I need to go up to the house and get the full first aid kit. This one is just a small one.”

I close my eyes and do as he asked, sitting as still as I can while Demon digs her claws into my leg, purring loudly. He doesn’t end up going to fetch anything from the house, cleaning the cut on my chin with something that burns enough to have tears springing to my eyes. He’s gentle, but he’s also not messing around. When I flinch and pull away, he tells me that if I stop fidgeting, this will go quicker.

“What is that, acid?” I mutter, blinking at him and scowling.

“Is it just your face?” he asks, ignoring me. I shrug.

“Yeah, pretty much.” Dryden stares at me, hand under my chin so I can’t look away, black eyes locked on mine. He frowns.

“Show me.”

So I do. I slip out of my coat, wincing when Dryden picks it up and immediately fingers the tear in the shoulder where the knife ripped through the fabric. I strip until I’m in nothing but boxers, dirty clothes piled on the floor in front of me. Dryden reaches for the thermostat, increasing the heat, and I flush with pleasure. He’s so sure of himself in so many ways, yet woefully unaware in others. I can’t imagine how he’s convinced himself that affection isn’t something he’s able to give when he does things like that.

“Thank you,” I murmur, nodding toward the thermostat when his eyes flick upward to mine from where he’d been staring at the bruise on my ribs.

I suck in a sharp breath, hissing through my teeth when he touches my hand after I’ve sat back down on the bed. I don’t think it actually hurts that bad, but I’ve never quite learned to treat that arm as just another part of my body. It’s an alien appendage, prone to periods of numbness and flashes of pain, half of which I’m certain are fragments of my imagination.

“Your hand might be broken,” Dryden tells me, looking down at my spread fingers, held in place by his palm against mine. I shake my head.

“I have full range of motion. I think it’s just badly bruised. Someone stomped on it.”

Dryden does another one of those angry inhales but doesn’t say anything. It makes me want to hug him again. Overt displays of emotion can sometimes be frightening, particularly if that emotion is anger. Self-control isn’t a skill most possess.