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“Better?” he asks me once I’m done.
I nod. “Yes. Thank you. How long did I sleep for?”
“About four hours. Zig here was starting to lose his mind.”
“Not you, though?”
“No, I knew you’d be okay. You’re too badass not to be.”
I jolt at his words, warmed by them. “Badass?”
Zig huffs behind me. “You survived a cartel prison and a plane crash, and single-handedly saved both me and my brother. Damn fucking straight, you’re a badass!”
I bite my lip as they stare at me, waiting for the barrage of questions.
“Are you sure you’re okay? You look a little pale.” Oz slides a finger across my cheek, making me squirm.
“I’m fine. Healing takes a lot out of me, but food and sleep help me bounce back without any lasting side effects.”
His hand moves from my face to my arm, where there is a gash that’s about the length of a nail file. It stopped bleeding a while ago, and now the edges have begun to knit together.
“You don’t want this to get infected. Do you have enough energy to fix it?”
I shake my head, confused. “No, I can’t heal myself. You guys are taking this really well.”
“What do you mean you can’t heal yourself?” The man whose lap I’m sitting on barks, making me jump. He curses and smooths his hand up and down my uninjured arm.
Oz smirks. “He also eats small children for breakfast.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing. Never mind.”
Oz stares at me as if trying to find the right words.
“Just ask already. I want to know why you’re not freaking out. People are all too happy to get healed until they recover, then they start crossing themselves and keeping their distance.”
My anger is pushing me, but I know they hear the hurt in my voice when Zig tightens his hold on me.
Oz scowls. “People are assholes.”
I shrug. “It is what it is. I’m used to it.”
He cocks a brow at me.
“Fine. I’m mostly used to it. But I’ve never known it to be any other way. I’ve wished for it, sure. But wishes and dreams are for little girls who don’t know any better. My mom named me Salem as a reminder of what happens to women like me. She wanted me to remember the consequences of trusting too lightly. People are afraid of what they don’t understand. Does it hurt to see people run from me or call me names under their breath—the same people who run to me when someone they love needs help? Of course. I go from being a savior to a freak again.”
“Hey.” Zig slides his hand under my jaw and turns it so I can see him. “Don’t call yourself that.”
“Why? Everyone else does.”
“I don’t give a fuck. You are not a freak. A little different, sure. But that just makes you special.”
I snap my mouth shut at that. I don’t know what to make of this man. Either of them, really, though Oz seems a little easier to read. Regardless, neither of them has given me any reason to feel threatened. Quite the opposite, in fact.
Just sitting in Zig’s lap should send me into a spiral, but I feel oddly safe, which is utterly ridiculous given the circumstances. Still, I’ve known them for a minute. I won’t be letting my guard down anytime soon. I’m tired of putting my trust in people only to have it ripped to shreds.
If you touch a flame, you’ll get burned. Touching it ten times doesn’t make the flame any more dangerous because your burns are more extensive. It just makes you more of an idiot for expecting a different outcome.
