“We need to talk about what happened.”
“I know,” I say softly, eyes dropping to the sheet spread over my legs. “Can I clean up first?” I ask, voice shaky.
I hear a sound — half sigh, half curse — and then he’s there, sitting on the edge of the bed just inches from me. Without lifting my eyes, I can see his thigh, encased in black denim, so close I could reach out and stroke it.
He clears his throat harshly.
“Do you…” He breaks off. When I lift my eyes again, I see his hands are tight fists at his sides. “Do you need help? I can call someone. Lila, Gemma… Or I can…” He pulls in a breath. “I can help you shower.”
He’s trying to be considerate, but I gulp at the idea of Nate running his hands across my wet, naked skin.
“I’ll manage,” I say shakily, eyes on his.
He nods and rises to his feet.
“Bathroom’s through there.” He gestures at the door. “Fresh towels on the shelf. Some clothes you can borrow.”
“Okay.”
He disappears without another word.
***
“Drink this.”
He slides a glass of water across the butcher-block counter. It’s a thick slab of dark-stained wood, matching the other oak accents throughout his loft. As I drain my glass, I look around.
The space is an open plan — a former industrial building, most likely — with big glass-block windows, exposed brick walls, and matte-black painted air ducts crisscrossing the ceiling. The furniture is sparse — only his bed, a black leather couch, and some bar stools pulled up to the kitchen island, with a tiny bathroom tucked into the far corner. No photographs, no knickknacks, no clutter.
I’ve seen monks’ quarters with more personality.
Soft track lights illuminate the space. It’s still dark outside, which means I only slept for an hour or so before my shower. I should’ve slept longer, but my dreams were full of images that made me shiver awake.
I set the glass down on the wood counter and he quickly refills it.
“Another,” he orders, sliding it back to me.
I don’t protest — I’m thirsty. I drain the glass in a few gulps. When I finish, I catch him staring at my eye. I know it’s swollen. I saw it in the bathroom mirror after my shower and almost screamed. My eyes haven’t been this black since my preteen emo-punk phase.
“One more,” he says, reaching for the glass again and filling it to the brim.
“I’m good,” I tell him, feeling more myself. And bymore myselfI meannot in the mood to be bossed around.
“West—”
“Back to last names, are we?” I roll my eyes. “I’m not thirsty,Knox.”
He stares at me, eyes hard. “You spent twenty-four hours without fluids. You’re dehydrated.”
“I was in a damp basement, not the Sahara. I’ll live.”
His eyes narrow. “Where?”
“What?”
“Where was the basement?”
I sigh. “I don’t know. We ran for a long time, when we got out. Blocks and blocks. Over a mile, I’d guess.”