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He’d barely slept at all that night just from the thought of her soaking in the steaming water of that tub.
So much had changed between them since then. Perhaps there was no need, but Harte forced himself to stay at the window. Still, he couldn’t stop thinking about Esta behind that door. Removing the mangled overalls. Stepping beneath the steaming spray of the modern shower.
With an exhausted sigh, he slipped off his soaked shoes and filthy jacket before sinking into the velvet club chair in the corner. He still felt far too filthy to lie on the bed, but the chair was deep and plush. He couldn’t help but rest his eyes—just for a minute or two. Just until he could help Esta with her wounds.
When he opened his eyes again, he wasn’t sure how much time had passed. Outside, day had turned to night, and the city lights seemed brighter than ever. Esta was standing over him, touching his arm gently to wake him.
“Harte?” She was frowning at him like she was worried.
“I’m fine,” he said, trying to shake off the sleep that had overtaken him so soundly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to drift off.”
Esta had wrapped herself in a thick white robe. As she moved, the front gaped a little, exposing flashes of her smooth, tawny skin. Her dark hair tumbled about her face, only barely damp from her shower.
“I waited as long as I could to wake you,” she told him, lowering the sleeve of her robe to expose the soft curve of her shoulder.
He felt his gut go tight at the sight of her bare skin, clean and flushed from the heat of the shower. Without thinking, he stepped toward her, but he stopped short when she lowered the robe farther to expose the angry gash on her arm where the bullet had torn away skin. The wound had already started to fester and rot. Its ragged edges were a worrying shade of nearly black, and the skin around it was turning an unnatural gray. He didn’t miss the brush of cold energy that sifted through the air when the wound was exposed.
He took her arm and examined the puckered, darkened skin. “You shouldn’t have waited to wake me up.”
“You needed the sleep,” she said with a shrug.
He only glared at her, because he didn’t trust himself to say anything else.
“My whole upper arm is starting to feel almost numb,” she admitted. “It’s like my blood and skin are turning to ice. And I think it’s affecting my magic.”
He looked over at the desk, where he’d placed the gun he’d taken from the clerk. “It must have been the bullet.” His chest tightened at the thought of how much worse it would have been if the bullet had done more than simply graze her. What if it had actually gone through her arm?
“You’re going to have to cut it out,” she told him.
Releasing her arm, Harte stepped back. “There has to be some other answer. Maybe the Book—”
“It’s spreading, Harte. I can feel it. Every second that passes, it gets worse,” she said with a small shudder. “I could try to do it myself, but I’m not sure I could get everything.”
“Esta, no—”
She’d already pulled the sleeve of the robe back up and turned to the pile of things he’d left on the table. When she found Viola’s knife, she pressed it into his hands. “Please, Harte. You have to. Before it gets any worse.”
Harte stared down at the glinting blade, horrified at the thought. “You know what this is capable of.”
“I do,” she said, turning her attention to the basket of supplies they’d taken from the store earlier.
“I could cut too deep,” he argued. “What if I hurt you, Esta?”
“You won’t,” she argued. But she wasn’t paying attention to him. She was too busy laying out clean towels and supplies. Gauze and some kind of ointment. A small sewing kit with the name of the hotel emblazoned on the case.
“You don’t know that.” He was staring down at the silvery blade, but all he could see was Esta broken and lifeless on the station floor. And then that was replaced with the thought of Esta bleeding to death there in that room. “I can’t. I can’t hurt you again—” His voice broke as the memory of her dying crashed through him, and he looked away, focusing on the swirling design in the carpet at his feet.
He sensed Esta stepping toward him, and when she was standing in front of him, he finally forced himself to look up from the floor. To meet her eyes. The fear and pain that had been in her expression a moment before had softened. She brushed the hair back from his forehead, but guilt turned his entire body cold. He tried to look away again, but she gently took his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her. “You didn’t hurt me. She wasn’t me, Harte.”
He tried to pull away, but she stopped him.
“She wasn’t me,” she repeated, more forcefully this time. “You knew that.”
“Did I?” he whispered as doubt took the place of certainty.
“Of course you did,” she told him.
“I didn’t even try to find another solution.” Nibsy had offered him an out, and he’d taken it. Had he really known it wasn’t Esta? Now that they were out of danger, now that he could really think, he wondered if he’d been lying to himself. Maybe he’d just wanted to escape, like he always did.
