Chapter 29 #2
I can’t move, nor see anything other than Deacon’s focused expression above me. His clenched jaw, the splatter of pus-like yellow venom that’s all over his neck and white shirt. The way it’s melting the cotton, searing into his skin—
The venom.
I’m covered in it. That’s why he’s wincing. From carrying me.
I try to say Put me down, but all that comes out is another moan and spittle flying from my lips.
He maneuvers us through the bathroom door and my foot hits the corner. The vibration sends a new wave of flames through my toes, ankle, and up into my thigh. I cry out like a wounded animal.
Deacon sets me down inside the shower before ripping off his shirt with his own muted groan of pain and crouching down before me. “You’re going to be an adult about this,” he tells me through gritted teeth. “And so am I, as much as it pains me to do so.”
Is he about to bathe me? I’d honestly rather die. Let the venom eat my flesh. Leave me a rotting corpse for Finn’s next henchmen to find. I try to tell Deacon as much, but the only noises I am capable of making at the moment are wretched gasps of pain.
Deacon ignores my feeble protests and pulls the glass shower door shut. A moment later water sprays down on us both, cold and cutting. I can’t tell if it’s making the pain worse or better.
Deacon kneels before me and slides his enormous hands beneath my ruined shirt.
It is—or it was—a loose black button-down, untimely cropped when I used it to make Ward’s tourniquet.
Deacon doesn’t take the time to undo a single button.
He lifts it over my head in one easy motion, pulling up my arms with it.
The movement of my arms against the fabric of the shirt sends spasms of pain through my skin only rivaled by the time I was implanted with the syrabraxa.
I scream until tears fall from my eyes, but shocking to nobody, Deacon is unmoved.
He lifts me, his hands cradled beneath my arms, and tries unsuccessfully to get me to stand. Undeterred, Deacon leans my entire weight on his bare chest and undoes the button of my linen pants as icy cold water drips from his body and cascades down my forehead and cheeks.
The pants don’t fall the way wet, unbuttoned pants should. They’re stuck to my skin with patches of cauterized venom. Deacon tries to pull one leg down while still holding me up, but the pain is too great. I scream again, digging my nails into his back and arm where I’m gripping him for dear life.
His muscles stiffen beneath my palms as I touch him. “You’re okay,” he grinds out. I almost don’t hear him over the rush of water. “The worst is over. Ready?”
I shake my head like a kid before a shot. No, no—
“You’re okay,” he repeats. “One, two—”
He never makes it to three. With one hand he rips the pants clean off me and I scream again as some of my flesh goes with them.
“Done,” he breathes. “All done.”
To my utter shock, Deacon brings his hand to the back of my head and holds me against his chest as I catch my breath.
He brushes my hair from my face in slow, soothing motions, combing the wet strands behind my ears.
Finally, I can put a little weight on my feet.
When I lean back a bit, he slips my bra straps from my shoulders and unhooks the clasp in the back, allowing the garment to fall to the shower floor.
Exhausted and weak, I stumble forward against his chest and remain there, trying to breathe.
The cold water rains down on us as he holds me in my tiny, crappy, cramped shower.
His fingers stroke gently down my back. Soothing, avoiding the scar along my spine.
We catch our breath in tandem, my only focus the pain that continues to crest and fall across my skin.
I shut my eyes and try to weather the storm.
When I feel like I can stand on my own again, I gingerly pull myself free from Deacon’s chest and cover my breasts with my lesser-burned arm. I’m in white cotton panties that thankfully had no venom on them but are surely completely transparent from the water.
But Deacon’s eyes haven’t dipped an inch.
They hold only my face, roaming the length of my nose, the drops of water in my lashes, the wetness of my lips, until finally, after what might have been a lifetime in this infinitely small, wet, silent space, I whisper, “Why am I the only one who’s naked?”
“Are you asking me to get naked?” His voice is like gravel.
“I’m asking why you’re still in here.” If he’s not rushing to get his pants off in agony, he doesn’t really need to be.
The venom only appeared to have gotten on his torso and arms when he picked me up.
Now I can see the blotches of raw flesh across him, already healing much faster than my burns will, alongside his patchwork of tattoos.
He nods once, as if conceding to my point, and then steps out of the shower, water pooling on the floor from his soaked jeans and shoes.
When Deacon leaves the bathroom I examine my skin. Welts cover my chest and neck and arms. My legs are even worse, likely because I hesitated when he tried to take my pants off. I realize that if Deacon hadn’t moved so quickly, I’d probably be dead.
That thought is enough to sober me right up. I slide my panties off with a wince, turn the knob to warm the water just enough to feel less like an icicle, and, despite the pain, scrub every inch of my skin, watching the yellow venom swirl down the drain.
I wash my hair twice until I can smell only vanilla and rose, and then I wrap myself in a towel and slip into my room to change into the most full-body-coverage sweat suit I own—a ski mask too perhaps. A parka, if I have one.
But Deacon is lying on my bed, still shirtless, eyes closed.
His pants and boots have soaked my bed through, and he’s turned on the gossamer string lights that hang over my bed and opened a window to let in the chilly night air. My teeth are beginning to chatter, but it feels divine on my burns.