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"Come on," I say when he remains quiet. "Let me take care of you." I gently take his wrist in my grasp, and when he doesn't pull away, I tug, indicating I want to bring him to the sink. He reluctantly lets me lead him, and I park him next to the sink and indicate he should stay, then I grab the stool from our table and drag it over. I want to chide him for not telling me about his wounds, but if he's self-harming, of course he's going to hide it. He's not going to declare it to me.
It makes me want to cry, but I can't be weak. I need to be strong in the best way I know how. So I put on my Happy Bee smile, wait for him to sit down, and then I get to work cleaning his wounds. "We'll get these fixed up for you," I tell him in a chipper voice. "It's a good thing we have that ointment I brought the other day."
Victor just grunts.
That's fine. I don't need an answer. Perkily, I tell him all about the time I raced my bike as a schoolgirl and collided with the neighbor's garbage can. "They had a rock garden, too. It was the worst place for me to fall, so of course I fell there." I chuckle. "I had skinned knees for weeks, and my mother used a cleaner called Betadine that makes the wound this bright, ugly, orangey red. It was very distressing for me as a child, because I liked to wear pretty dresses and put bows in my hair. From the knee up, I was adorable. From the knee down, I was an orange-red, skinned mess." I smile at him as I dab the ointment on the cuts. I don't know what made them, but I'm going to guess that it has something to do with his claws. Maybe someday he'll feel enough trust to tell me what he did and why. "If you'll wait here, I'll get some bandages from the med center—"
"Stay." The word is low and warm. He looks at me, and with him seated, we're practically the same height. "Please."
"Oh." I'm a sucker for a good “please.” "All right, then." I look around for something I can use as a makeshift bandage. I don't see anything, though, so I improvise. I hold out the long hem of my tunic—it's a basic blue tunic with a flaring skirt that goes to my knees and is belted at the waist over leggings. Mine is faded, since it's a hand-me-down from another woman, but the material is soft and absorbent. I gesture at the hem, approximating a three-inch section. "Can you use your claws to cut this here, to here?"
Victor shakes his head. "I don't want to ruin your clothing."
"Then let me go get bandages for you from the med center," I chirp. "I'm happy with either."
He hesitates and then sinks a claw into the material, tearing it. I glance over at the guards in the window, giving them a chipper thumbs up so they don't panic. "At least this way, I'll smell like you," Victor murmurs. "I'll sniff my hands all day long."
Oh my god.
That simple, quiet statement should not make my body flood with awareness. Heat throbs between my thighs as he finishes ripping the bottom off my tunic, and I turn slowly in place so it'll tear evenly. I keep thinking about his words, the only sound between us the steady tear of the fabric.
I'll sniff my hands all day long.
Biting my lip, I take the length from him, tear it in half again lengthwise, and then take the first strip and begin to carefully wrap it around his wounded hand. "I hope this feels better," I whisper. "Now that they're taken care of."
"Bee," Victor says my name so low I wonder if I'm imagining it. "I can smell your arousal."
More heat spreads through my body. I ignore it, attentively wrapping his hands. "I know."
"I love the smell of it," he growls. "Love it."
I suck in a breath, both charmed and overwhelmed at his statement. "I know."
Victor watches me with intense eyes. "I'm the only one you get wet for. Me and me alone."
I don't answer that. It feels like too much. I finish wrapping the one hand and then focus on the other. He stays still, letting me tend to him, and when I'm done, I run my thumb over the palm, making sure it's covered and no ointment seeps out. His claws are angled toward the ceiling, toward my face with his hand turned like this, but I'm not afraid in the slightest. I'm more worried he'll hurt himself again. Like there's too much boiling over inside him without an outlet.
I glance over at the guards in the hall, but they're not paying attention to us. They're talking about something, munching on the cookies I brought. So I decide to be a little bold. I lift Victor's hand higher and kiss the tip of his thumb, letting my lips skate over it. "Promise me you won't hurt yourself tonight," I whisper. "I can't bear it."
