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The bathroom turns pitch-black.
There’s a loud screech, and a sharp pain erupts across my bare back like searing hot blades slicing through my skin. I can't help but let out an agonized scream that reverberates across the marble. It feels like there’s something clawing its way onto my back.
“Stop!” I shriek.
"Nina!" Rhode's voice echoes through the door, and there’s a pounding on the other side. “What’s wrong? Open the door!”
The lights flick back on, and in the mirror, I see Chicken clinging to me, scraping his claws down my back.
The relentless pain intensifies, and I let out another piercing scream until, at last, the cat relinquishes its hold and patters away, leaving little droplets of my blood on the marble tile.
“Open the damn door!”
Rhode sounds murderous, and I’d be terrified if my skin didn’t feel like it was on fire. I try to respond, but all that comes through is a quiet sob. He bangs again.
Once.
Twice.
The door handle jiggles. “Fuck it. I’m coming inside."
12
NINA
“Watch out, Nina!” In a burst of frantic energy, Rhode barrels through the door, breaking the lock.
The metal pings against the wall as he rushes into the bathroom. I clutch his sweatshirt tight against my bare chest. He's panting heavily, his face etched with concern as he attempts to process the chaotic scene.
Rhode’s eyes go wide in the mirror. “What happened? You’re bleeding.”
“Your cat,” I gasp, wincing as my skin throbs like someone scraped a cheese grater down me. “I think the thunder scared him, and he jumped off the cabinet and clawed me.”
“Fuck.” He rushes to me as I hunch over the sink.
An expression that rivals the storm raging outside settles over his face. “Yeah, he does that. I’m sorry. It’s like he forgets he has claws.”
“It’s okay.” I wince. “You did warn me he doesn’t like thunderstorms.”
“Do you always stand up for the little guy?” He squeezes my bare shoulder, and his gentle touch is so warm, so inviting, that I lean back, seeking more of his comfort.
He drops his hand.
Goosebumps prickle on my drafty skin like an invisible handprint. “You’re not little, and I stand up for you. You should hear my trash talk when I watch your games. I’m getting good.”
His lips twitch, but his frown remains in place. “Let me get the first aid kit. He really got you bad.”
Rhode digs through the cabinets until he pulls out a heavy-duty medical-grade kit, laying the materials out on the counter while I cling to the sweatshirt.
He doesn’t seem to notice I’m topless as he treats me with the care of a pediatrician. I really need to stop imagining him at night, and in the morning, and okay, that one time at lunch.
He brushes my hair to the side with the lightest of caresses, and goosebumps spring back to life under his soothing touch.
“Charlie,” he whispers.
I go rigid at the name etched on my shoulder. His callused fingertips scratch the mark that feels more like a scar than a tattoo.
“Who’s Charlie?” he repeats with a dark edge to his voice I’ve never heard before.
