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CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Harlow
Fleur drops me home that evening, and ridiculously, I’m hoping that Nico is still there. It would be unusual for him to have stayed all day when no one else was in, but you never know.
I rush into the apartment and stop short when I see Sawyer standing against the counter.
“Oh, hey.” I feel like we haven’t seen each other alone sincethe discussion. He’s definitely been avoiding me.
“You okay?” he asks with a slight frown.
“Yeah, I just wasn’t expecting you to be here,” I say.
“I do live here, remember.” His tone is light, but his eyes seem kind of melancholy.
“Could’ve fooled me.” He doesn’t reply, so I skip over it too. “It smells amazing in here.”
“That’ll be Nico’s doing,” he says as he passes me a note from the side table.
Gone home, thank you for having me.
There aren’t any out, I promise. I checked before I left.
I’ll see you at work tomorrow—I have a feeling my alarm will go off this time.
x Nico
I roll my eyes at the note. He definitely needed at least one day off to heal, and I’m sure he can’t guarantee when the Guards are and aren’t on the streets. He’s just trying to reassure me. There’s also some heating instructions for whatever smells so delicious.
“Do you wanna shower? I’ll heat this up,” Sawyer offers, and I gladly accept. I feel like I’ve run around nonstop for the last eight hours, and I probably smell like it too. Showering, drying, and dressing in sweats and a T-shirt, I go back to the kitchen, where Sawyer is dishing up.
“It really does smell good,” I say.
“He’s made enough to feed an army.”
We sit down and eat, but it’s not our usual companionable silence. It hangs over our heads like a deadweight. He scoffs his food and is taking his plate to the sink before he speaks again.
“How was your day?” he asks. Is that it?
“Shitty, but over. It must’ve been national asshole day or something, because each customer seemed grumpier than the last.” This is normally his cue to ask me if I want ice cream or a movie night, but he doesn’t, and I hate this gulf between us. I’m about to ask how his was when he turns back to me and frowns.
“What’s on your neck?” Shit, how did I forget about that? It must be the angle he’s looking at me from now, and my wet hair making it more obvious. “Is that a bruise?” I don’t know why I feel reluctant to show him now. I’m still happy I got it, but it seems like showing him will reveal a vulnerability that should be protected. Just goes to show how far we’ve drifted apart in such a short amount of time. I should’ve known that Sawyer would notice. He’s always been observant, especially when it comes to me.
“Oh—”
“Are you letting guys rough you up again?” he interrupts before I can explain. The disgust in his voice and on his face instantly gets my guard up.
“That’s none of your business. You don’t even know what happened last time.” I didn’t tell him that I ended that hookup as soon as the guy had gone too far, but I don’t owe him an explanation. If I’m into that, then he shouldn’t be judging what I like in the bedroom anyway. It’s not like he has any interest in that with me, so he doesn’t get an opinion on what I consensually do with anyone else.
“Then what is it?” he asks. I can tell by the lift of his eyebrow that he thinks he’s calling my bluff, but he’s so far from the truth, and he doesn’t even know it. I don’t have the words to explain anymore, so I hold my hair up in a ponytail, move it away from my neck, and spin around on my seat to show him.
There’s no immediate reaction from Sawyer. Only silence. For a moment, I think he’s going to ignore it completely, but when I go to drop my hair and turn back around, one of his hands keeps mine up on my head while his other strokes the back of my neck. His fingers are soft against the slightly raised and slightly tender skin, and his touch sends goosebumps down my spine.
“Angel wings.”
That’s all he says, and I don’t reply. There’s no need to. He knows what the wings mean. He also knows the placement—he kisses me there all the time. Well, he used to. Now I realize those kisses didn’t mean what I thought they meant. The wings start at the base of my neck and extend up my nape. You can’t see them when my hair is down, and when it’s up, they’re mostly hidden by a ponytail. They’re just for me. I don’t move, because the feeling of his fingers skating along my skin is exquisite. His touch is almost reverent. “Does it hurt?” he whispers.
“Not really.” I’m not sure why we’re whispering, but it feels appropriate in the moment.
