Chapter Eleven
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Ily
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AIRY, BUBBLY, FLOATY...
Uh-oh.
I blinked as my fingers dug into the exquisitely soft bed, clinging tightly as if gravity would let go of me at any moment, and I’d drift around the room like an untethered balloon.
The mental picture of me bouncing off the ceiling and rolling down the curtains made me giggle.
Oh God—
Slamming a hand over my mouth, I tried to stop the rapid rising of inappropriate humour. My arms throbbed where they bent at my elbows, a reminder that bruises covered most of me.
I hadn’t dared look in the foggy mirror to see how bad I looked. Then again, the soft spinning in my head didn’t really care.
The sharp savagery of agony had gone.
Buh-bye...won’t miss you...don’t come again.
Dropping my hand, I sighed into the sugary softness of peace.
I liked this room.
No painting of that demonic goblin murdering a unicorn. No four-poster where Henri almost bound me with his tie. No wall where he’d kissed me and punched me right in the stupid, traitorous heart.
I rubbed my chest, needing to delete that first and worse contusion.
The whole organ was black with pain. The arteries and veins blue from his kiss. Every pump was a reminder of the ache in my soul every time he looked at me.
He scolded me.
The way he yelled at me downstairs...the emptiness in his eyes...the nastiness in his voice.
God—
Okay, so the pain wasn’t completely gone.
The cluster of bullets Kyle had fired where my bullseye used to be, shared their pain directly with the very thing Henri had pulverised.
Even when he’d cut me and commanded me, he’d never spoken to me that way before.
I hope he’s okay...
I frowned.
He was mean, and you’re worried about him?
The room swirled as I nodded.
Krish sometimes used tetchiness in lieu of pain. His anger came from an inability to express whatever feelings consumed him. When words failed him, he sank deep within.
I hope Henri’s not sinking...
My fuzzy eyes locked on the closed bathroom door.
He’s been in there a while.
Maybe I should check.
I flinched.
He’ll just yell at me again...
The urge to curl into a little ball came swiftly, followed by a morbid giggle.
Keep it together, Il.
The fuzz in my head cleared a little.
I sighed.
God, what a mess.
What an awful, agonising mess.
The giggles were back.
I snorted.
I snickered at how absurd everything was. How I was a thing not a someone. How I’d almost died in a cave today.
I helped toss a body over a cliff—
A loud laugh spilled free.
Oh no.
Henri appeared from the bathroom. His left side looked like a scribbly, abstract mess—as if an artist had squirted every pigment of purple and blue onto him, then decided it wasn’t worth the trouble to paint.
A few other smudges marked his bare chest, leading my eyes down to the white towel clinging valiantly to his narrow hips.
The V of his cut muscles pointed directly to the bulge between his legs.
My stupid heart fluttered.
My greedy body hummed.
He’s so pretty.
Pity about his soul, though...
I scowled.
He’s not ugly inside.
At least...not all of him.
I swooned against the pillows.
He carried Peter all the way home.
He stabbed someone for me.
He protected Mollie and Rachel.
I wanted to hug him.
He’d done all that while bleeding and hurt.
And then, he yelled at me.
I huffed and blew hair out of my eyes.
My gaze landed on his face. On his hollow severe cheeks, clenched jaw, and thick black eyelashes.
It isn’t fair.
He was like a Venus flytrap.
Dressed up with pretty petals but with poison waiting deep within.
I laughed as I pictured myself as a hapless fly, landing on his petals for an innocent sip of nectar, only to be devoured.
Good grief, I thought this stuff wasn’t supposed to make me hallucinate?
Henri shot me a sharp look as he padded closer toward the bed. His eyes searched mine as if making sure I was okay. But he didn’t say a word. Not a single one.
His unspoken question echoed in my ears; I answered him anyway.
“I’m feeling great!” I nodded sharply, confidently. A slight twinge all over but nothing like before. I never wanted to feel that way again. The excruciation of so many bruises. The needling pain in my side.
No, thank you.
Another wave of softness descended as Henri sat carefully on the bed.
The mattress rocked a little under his weight, making it feel as if I lay upon a giant fluffy marshmallow.
My heart squeezed as I studied his drawn face. No light in his eyes. No aliveness or awareness or need.
He’s not sinking...he’s drowned.
Raising my arm, it hovered on its own accord. So light. Featherweight and flimsy. I tried to reach for him. To give him touch. To give him something to cling to.
But he reared back as if I’d tried to strike him.
I recoiled, wincing in preparation for another scolding.
When nothing came—when he merely opened a tub of cream and shifted closer—I let my stupid heart guide me. Just like I always did. Just like I probably shouldn’t.
With a quick breath, I pressed my hand on his thigh.
My fingers burned with his strength.
The towel around his hips slightly damp and cool.
So many things surged through me.
Needs, fears, desires, trepidations.
I laughed because I didn’t want such feelings.
I giggled because my feelings were absurd, and everything about this was crazy.
He cut you.
Stole you.
He’s hurting...
I squeezed his quad. “It’s okay...”
He stiffened and sucked in a tattered breath.
The tension in his leg turned to granite.
I snickered as I squeezed him again. “You’re made of stone.” I poked at his rock-hard stomach. Cold. Unyielding. “Actually, I think you’re an iceberg.”
His eyes remained locked on mine, cataloguing my every move. Yet he still didn’t speak.
An image of the Titanic floated into my head. I was the Titanic. I crashed bow first into the iceberg that was Henri. I sank into crystal-blue water where penguins swam and polar bears dived and cute fur seals—
Stop it.
Swallowing hard, I blinked past glittering icicles and refocused.
The fantastical images in my head left, but the soft candyfloss feeling remained.
I like this feeling.
Henri needs some.
It’ll help...
“Here.” I threaded my fingers through his on the tub of cream. “I don’t like that you’re unhappy.”
He shot to his feet. “Merde, you really don’t handle your drugs well.”
Finally...he speaks.
I smiled and nodded.
That was the key.
The only way he could come back from the shadows in his eyes.
“Come back.” I opened my arms. “Talk to me. You’re usually so chatty.”
His eyebrows swooped up; a flush covered his neck.
Swallowing hard, he scooped some goo from the tub and gingerly sat beside me. “Remove your towel.”
I shivered.
Couldn’t help it.
A lash of heat.
A lightning fork of need.
It bolted down the energy line from the top of my head to the base of my spine. It simmered unwanted in my core.
Oh no, no, no...
I could cope with spacey. I could handle a few daydreams. But uninhibited desire? Elevated sex drive?
No way.
Squirming a little, I shook my head. “You know what? I think I’ll stay wrapped up. I’m fine like a burrito. See? Burrito is my new identity.”
He looked borderline unhinged as his gaze dropped to my chest and his teeth ground together. “You’re not fine. You look like a morbid Christmas tree. Open your damn towel. That isn’t a request.”
God, why?
Why did his curt command rush through me like the worst kind of aphrodisiac?
It shouldn’t.
It really shouldn’t.
But it did.
And it always had, and if the spacey feeling just faded for a moment, I’d have enough strength to crawl onto his lap, remove both our towels, and kiss him.
I moaned and licked my lips.
A kiss.
Yes...I’d like that.
He owed me one after scolding me so meanly.
“Why did you yell at me?” I asked, tears suddenly brimming. “You’ve never been that cross with me before.”
His nostrils flared.
I waited for him to answer.
He didn’t.
I hated his silence.
I hated his pain.
I hated that he’d drifted to a dark, dark place I couldn’t reach.
With a sharp inhale, he reached for the folded ends of my towel and spread them open.
“Hey.” I batted his hands away.
Too late.
Cool air licked my highly sensitive skin.
Another flush of peculiar numbness and want.
I relaxed into it.
My body floated down and down, spiralling deeper and deeper until I hit a shadowy, silky bottom.
Sleep cloyed at my eyelashes, sudden and immense, making me smile with relief.
Sleep was better. So, so much better than lust.
“That’s it, just...relax,” Henri whispered.
I sighed as something comforting soaked into my skin. The barest-there strokes. The gentlest touch. The way he touched me reminded me how Krish would hold his drink at dinner if Mum forgot and gave him a glass cup instead of his preferred plastic one.
He’d hold it as if he’d break it just by breathing.
He’d cradle it as if it were the most precious, wonderous thing. Nothing else existed for him. Just him and that cup—half terrified of breaking it, half mystified by its fragility.
That’s how Henri’s touching me.
Like I’m a cup.
I giggled for no apparent reason.
“Jesus, that stuff is strong,” he muttered under his breath. His fingers traced over my ribs, adding a thick layer of cream.
My entire body turned ticklish.
My giggle became a laugh. “Stop. God, stop!”
“Fuck.” Ripping his hands off me, he shook the bed with his horror. “I didn’t mean...” He sighed heavily. “I’m sorry. God, I’m—”
“For what?” I frowned.
“For hurting you.”
“Hurting me?” I shrugged. “No, you tickled me.”
That seemed to make him worse.
His face flushed.
His pulse pounded in his neck.
He spiralled; I reached for him. “Hey...it’s okay. Talk to me...”
Swallowing a groan, he leapt to his bare feet.
He paced and refused to look at me.
I’d felt many things for this man. Most of them were not very nice, and some far, far too intense, but in that moment, all I felt was panic.
The stranger from the cave kept smothering the man who’d asked me to play along with him. The man from the bar who’d made my very soul shiver drowned beneath a blackened murderer. “Henri...”
“Don’t,” he hissed.