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I took him past Prentice Hall—it was closer, but I didn’t want to bring a Prince into my dorm room—and brought him up to Clarendon. When we reached it, I fished his key out of his back pocket and opened the door.
His dorm was messy like always. He winced when I flicked the overhead light on, so I turned it back off and switched on a lamp in the living room instead before drawing the curtains on the windows shut. I helped him sit on the couch, and when he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, little droplets of blood dripped from his nose onto the hardwood.
“First aid kit?” I asked.
“Bathroom. Under the sink.” His voice was thick and low, and he didn’t look up.
Right. Each of the dorms came stocked with a little kit, although I was sure these weren’t at all the kinds of injuries the Oak Park staff had assumed the students would be patching up.
I walked quickly to the bathroom and retrieved the kit and a washcloth, trying not to notice the way Elijah’s oak and sage smell permeated the space or the small comb resting on the edge of the sink—all the little things that made this his space, that made him seem too human for comfort.
It was easier to hate the Princes when they were just the untouchable children of gods.
Elijah hadn’t moved by the time I got back, and there were several more droplets of blood decorating the floor. I snagged a box of tissues and used one to wipe up the little red blotches. Then I pushed the coffee table a little farther from the couch and sat on the end of it, facing the boy with light brown hair.
“Tilt your head up.”
He slowly did as I asked, and when I got a good look at his face in the light, I sucked in a breath. His nose was dripping blood, and it had smeared across his face during the fight. A large red bruise was already visible along the line of his cheekbone on the left side, punctuated by a cut near his temple, and the skin under his eye was dark purple.
He didn’t react to the sound I’d made, just watched me steadily as I finally gathered myself together and dug into the first aid kit. I used a little washcloth to wipe away the blood on his face, going easier on the spots where he winced at the contact. He had some bruises and scrapes on his back and shoulders from rolling around on the ground, but I didn’t think he’d gotten hit anywhere else.
Mason and he had both been going for the face.
I pinched the bridge of his nose until the bleeding ebbed, keeping my attention on my task even as his hazel eyes tracked my every movement. When it finally stopped bleeding, I grabbed a small bandage from the kit and pressed it over the cut on the side of his face.
As I worked, smoothing the bandage down, his hand mirrored mine, rising up to ghost gently over the side of my face, his fingertips running over the curve of my cheekbone, the line of my jaw, burning little paths of fire everywhere they touched.
“You’re so beautiful, Talia.”
The words were a pained whisper, and when my gaze finally jerked up to meet his, the look in his eyes made it hard to breathe.
I pulled my head back, escaping the soft, too-sweet touch. “Don’t.”
His eyelids flickered, but he dropped his hand. “I’m sorry.”
I swallowed, pulling a disinfectant wipe from the kit. “It’s okay. I just need to—”
“No.” The fingers that had brushed over my cheek now covered my hand, stopping my movement. “I’m sorry.”
It hit me all of a sudden what he meant, all of what he meant, and against my will, tears welled in my eyes. I drew back again, trying to fight down the rising tide of emotion. “Don’t.”
He shook his head, and when I glanced back at him, his hazel eyes burned with sorrow and determination.
“I have to, Talia. You don’t have to accept it, and you can hate me forever if you want, but I have to tell you. I’m so fucking sorry.”
Chapter 15
No.
This isn’t right.
My plan was vengeance.
My plan was to wreck the Princes, to burn their lives to the ground and walk away.
No part of my plan had involved Elijah looking at me like this—like guilt was eating him from the inside out. Like he’d never seen anything more precious or beautiful in his life.
I tugged my hand away, pulling it out from under his. His touch was too gentle, filled with the same emotion that churned behind his eyes, and I couldn’t take it. It hurt and soothed at the same time, making me itch to flee. To escape this confined space where the air seemed too thick to breathe.
