Chapter Thirty-Seven Tatt-Me, Tatt-You
“You don’t have to wait—” I start.
But he interrupts me. “I’m not going anywhere, Pomelo.”
“Pomelo? Seriously?” I try to joke, despite the fact that my entire body is in agony now. “That’s the best you’ve got, Rocky Raccoon?”
“Would you prefer blood orange? Maybe bergamot?” he asks.
“Would you prefer Lucy in the Sky with—” I break off as the pain and heat overwhelm me.
Jude curses softly, then takes my hands. “Look at me, Clementine.”
This time when he says my name, it doesn’t sound so bad. In fact, it sounds almost tender. So I do as he asks. And even with the pain tearing through me, even with the heat feeling like it’s going to melt me from the inside out, I can’t help but get lost for a few moments in the intensity of his eyes.
As if on cue, Taylor Swift’s “Look What You Made Me Do” finishes and “The Ancient Art of Always Fucking Up” starts streaming from the forgotten phone on the admin building’s steps. My breath catches in my throat as my entire body yearns toward Jude as Lewis Capaldi sings about mistakes and breaking your heart over and over again.
At least until he steps back and orders, “Take your shirt off,” for the second time today.
I don’t take it any better now than I did the first time. “I really don’t think my wounds from the monsters matter right now—”
I break off as he suddenly reaches back and grabs his collar before yanking both his shirt and hoodie off in one fell swoop.
My mouth, already dry, turns into Death Valley. Because Jude’s strong, muscled, beautiful chest is now covered by those same black tattoo things that are all over his back and arms.
Every. Single. Inch.
Covered by looping, swirling, black feathery ropes…it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. Jude is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen—between the tattoos and his heavily muscled pecs, his lean stomach and the tiny trail of hair that disappears beneath the waistband of the worn jeans he changed into earlier…
I saw him without a shirt on after he helped Ember. And I know his chest wasn’t tattooed then. His back and arms were—and are still—but his chest and stomach weren’t. And I know that earlier they started creeping up his neck and face, but they disappeared as soon as everyone’s powers got locked back down.
So why didn’t they disappear from Jude’s chest as well? And should I even care when he looks so damn good?
It makes me wonder just how much of his body is covered in them now…and which parts.
The heat inside me ratchets up another notch, but this time I’m not sure it has anything to do with the venom streaming through me.
“Are you going to take your shirt off or what?” he growls.
I gape at him. “I didn’t think you were serious.”
“Because I’m known for my sense of humor.” He grabs my hands again, and this time he strokes his thumbs over my knuckles. “Do you trust me?” he asks as the wind howls around us, rustling the trees and blowing strands of his black hair into his eyes.
Without thinking, I reach up and brush them away, then immediately wish I hadn’t as he traps me in his burning-hot gaze. “Answer me, Clementine. Before it’s too late. Do. You. Trust. Me?”
With my heart, no. Not in a million years. But with my life? I lick my too-dry lips, try to think past the inferno raging inside me. “I think so,” I finally whisper.
He makes a sad sound in the back of his throat. “I guess that’ll have to do.”
And then he reaches down and yanks my shirt straight over my head before pulling me tightly against him.
“What are you—?” I gasp out, shocked as much by the fact that we are suddenly skin to skin as I am by the chill of his body against my own.
“Wrap your arms around me,” he orders, and now his voice is even more growly than mine.
When I don’t immediately move to do as he says, he does it for me—twining his arms and his body around me.
And somehow, even in the middle of all this pain, nothing has ever felt so right.
I take a deep breath, pulling the spicy, honey-and-leather scent of him deep inside me even as instinct has me sliding my arms around his waist.
In response, he pulls me even closer until my cheek rests against his heart.
It’s beating nearly as fast as mine.
I breathe him in again, memorizing this moment—memorizing Jude—as the coolness of his skin quenches just a tiny bit of the heat inside me. Because I know whatever he’s doing, it’s not nearly enough.
But right now, wrapped up tight next to Jude’s heart, I can think of a million worse places to die.
“Close your eyes,” he whispers as he lowers his head, and his cool breath brushes against my cheek. A shiver that has nothing to do with temperature works its way through me, and embarrassed, I start to pull away.
But Jude is immovable, his body sheltering as much as holding me close.
“Wait.” Again, his words brush over my skin. Again, shivers slide down my spine. “Trust me.”
And so, just for this one, beautiful, terrible moment, I do.
Minutes pass while Jude holds me, and at first the pain only gets worse. My lungs start to burn, and it grows harder—so much harder—to take a breath.
But Jude doesn’t let me go. Instead, he pulls me closer and slowly—so slowly I barely notice it at first—the conflagration inside me starts to ease.
It begins with just a sliver of ice sliding over my shoulders. But then it moves lower, circling my biceps, gliding over my back and ribs to my spine. From there the chill waterfalls into me, seeping through my skin and cascading down my veins and arteries to my heart, my lungs. My brain.
Inch by inch, cell by cell, the agony begins to drain.
And Jude holds me through it all, his strong, powerful body somehow—in some way—saving mine.
When I can finally breathe without total misery, I open my eyes. Then gasp at what I see.
Because Jude’s tattoos—those sexy, black, feathered bands—aren’t just on his skin anymore. Somehow, they’ve crept over to mine.
Now they’re sliding down my arms, twisting around my waist, swirling in the very air around us. And every place they touch, every brush of them against my body, lightens the heat and the pain a little more.
“I don’t understand,” I whisper. “What’s happening to us?”
But Jude doesn’t answer. He just bows his head and holds on to me like his life—not mine—depends on it.
And so I hold him back the same way, my fingers pressing into the lean, resilient muscles of his back as I burrow even more closely against him.
More time passes—seconds, minutes, I can’t begin to fathom a guess—as the venom continues to drain from me one slow drop at a time and my wounds continue to heal. And when it’s done, when I can finally breathe without bleeding, I whisper, “Thank you.”
My hair is falling out of the bun I stuck it in what feels like days ago, and it’s Jude’s turn to brush it out of my face. As he does, he bends his head so that our eyes—and our mouths—are aligned.
I breathe him in, the cheerful, lemon scent of his breath filling up the barren, empty places inside of me. And for the first time in a very long time, I can believe that Jude really is made of dreams.
Even before he whispers, “Don’t you know I could never exist in a world without you in it?”