Chapter 12 Hail Mary
HAIL MARY
AMARA
AS IF ONLY just noticing that his hand is on my shoulder, he pulls it back and glances around awkwardly.
“Everything’s fine,” I say, shaking my head and trying to hold back the rush of adrenaline and emotion.
I can’t tell if I want to cry or fuck or fight, but the past few minutes have gotten me so wound-up I think I might shatter.
“You need to lay back down,” I say, as I go to push his shoulder again, but the second my hand touches his skin, my body buzzes like I touched a fucking light-socket.
I pull my arm to my chest, nearly in a panic.
Noticing my reaction, his face softens, and he starts to reach for me again.
“Stop moving!” I shout. “You’re going to tear your stitches!
” I’m starting to crack, and I don’t know how to stop it.
My heart is pounding so hard my ears hurt.
My skin feels like it’s covered in Icy Hot.
I’m aroused past the point of reason. And every time I look at Vexar, I just want to curl up in his arms and sob.
“You’re hurt,” he whispers.
I shake my head, “I’m fine,” and push on his shoulder again, trying to ignore the way my body reacts to the contact. But no matter how hard I push, he doesn’t budge. It’s infuriating. Like pushing on the side of a building, and—
Wait. I didn’t say anything about my knee. “How do you know I’m—”
“Let me see,” he interrupts as he swings his legs over the side of the bed, caging me between his muscular thighs.
My breath catches at the decidedly inappropriate position we’re in, and I slowly bring my eyes up to his. From this angle, he looks even more dangerous than before. Dangerous, massive, and impossibly beautiful.
“Let me see,” he whispers, “please.”
I stand, and his eyes rake down my body until they land on my knee, where a superficial cut has started to bleed.
“See? I’m fine,” I say, motioning to my leg. He reaches down and squeezes the sore flesh, making me wince. “Hey,” I say, trying and failing to pull away.
“How long have you been bleeding?” he asks, hand still on my leg and eyes burning with a furious intensity.
“I’m fine, really.”
He glances up. “Why is there so much blood?”
“It’s not all my blood. It’s mostly yours.” I point at the floor where the blood I couldn’t mop up still sits in the deep pockets of eroded stone. “You made a bit of a mess.”
He lets go of my knee with a frustrated grunt. “Zar’vok, Amara,” he growls. He looks mad. Honestly mad. I open my mouth to speak, but he cuts me off. “Gauze and water,” he says, his voice calm but unwavering. I blink in confusion until he repeats himself. “I need gauze and water.”
I frown. “Are we really doing this again?”
“I am asking.”
“I get that you think you’re ‘asking’, but you're really ‘demanding’.”
He drags a hand down his face, but I swear the corners of his eyes crease with the hint of a smile. I almost smile too. “Can you please hand me some gauze and water so I do not have to stand?” he asks. “I would like to bandage your knee.”
I blink a few times. He’s joking, right?
In response to my shocked expression, he lowers his head so we’re eye-level, reminding me of our height difference. I’m standing, he’s sitting, and he still has to bow his head. “Please let me help. It is the least I can do,” he says gently.
A bit curious, I hand him the partial cup of water and a fresh roll of gauze.
“Your foot,” he says, spreading his thighs and patting the small triangle of mattress between them.
I hesitate, but he pats the bed again, and I relent.
He dips a piece of gauze into the water and slides his free hand under my calf.
An almost imperceptible gasp sucks through my lips at the contact, and an absolute disaster of confused emotion floods me.
I swallow. I’m just touch-starved, and he’s touching me.
That’s it. That’s all this is. He has a life of his own, and I’m a dead girl. I’m totally fine with that.
His eyes flick up to mine, and for a moment I swear I could sink into their depths and live there forever… Or not. Probably not.
Fuck, what is wrong with me?
With gentle, almost affectionate touches, he clears away the mixture of our blood and rubs his thumb in a small circle on my calf. I press my eyes closed, willing myself to stay calm.
“How did this happen?” he asks, as he starts to wrap my knee.
“The floor is sharp.”
He smooths the last piece of gauze into place before lowering my foot to the ground and meeting my gaze.
The hair on the back of my neck lifts.
His eyes are black. Completely black, no color or white at all.
I step back, surprised by the sudden change. I’ve never seen anyone’s eyes do that.
“Amara?” he asks, brows drawn in confusion.
There’s a dangerous venom behind those eyes, but it’s not frightening. If anything, it feels like it’s drawing me in. Begging me to—
Trust him, something whispers in the back of my mind.
“Why do you look like you want to murder someone?” I ask, noting the fact that I said “someone” and not “me”.
“The only thing I want to murder is this floor.” He lets out a huff of frustration before rubbing his hand over the back of his neck.
I cock my head. “You want to murder the floor?” Is this a mistranslation or something?
“It hurt you,” he says, the darkness in his eyes slowly contracting as his gaze runs back up my body, “right after I promised I would not let anything harm you.”
Ignoring the implications of that, I ask, “Why did they go black?”
“What do you mean?”
“Your eyes. Why did they go … black?” I can’t think of a better way to phrase it.
His lips part, but no sound comes out, and it occurs to me then that he doesn’t know it happened at all.
I frown. “How did you not notice? Does your vision not change?” It should, right?
He glances away with a strained expression and runs a hand over his chest again. “It has never happened before.”
“Well—” I stop, unsure of what to say. “Is it normal?” Because if it isn’t, we should probably figure that out.
With a concerned look, he asks, “Are you frightened of me?”
I consider his question and decide to answer honestly. “No. I probably should be, but I’m not.”
He hums. “That is good. And I apologize for my body’s earlier reaction. I did not mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“It’s fine,” I say, brushing the hair back from my face.
I swear, this has to be some sort of karmic punishment for past misdeeds.
He’s unreasonably attractive, and now that I know him better, the attraction is only getting stronger.
It’s distracting, and if I can’t find a way to shut it down, leaving this cell and walking to my death is going to be impossible.
Right now, I don’t feel like a rage-filled killer; I feel like a yearning teenager, and that’s not the mindset I need.
He tilts his chin down and asks, “How is your knee? Does it hurt?”
“Uh, it’s fine. Thanks.” Clearing my throat, I ask, “Do you want a few minutes to compose yourself, or …?”
“I am afraid a few minutes will not make any difference.” He looks at me through long, dark lashes, and a pained smile crosses his face. His meaning is clear, and it sends a new rush of heat between my legs. His boner is 100% because of me.
Damnit.
I rock back on my heels. “So what do you want to do? I don’t want to make this weird, but I’m not done stitching you up, and I’d rather not leave you like this.”
“Are you able to ignore my body’s relentless pursuit of your attention?” he asks in an earnest tone that only increases my desire to jump on his lap and find out exactly what sort of monster he’s hiding in those pants.
No, no, no! Bad thoughts.
But I can’t stop thinking them. Every time he looks at me, I get this feeling that he wants to protect and ravage me at the same time. And I want him to.
Nope. No. I am not going there. I should not go there.
But it’s more than just the way he’s looking at me.
It’s that deep pull in my gut; the fluttering in my chest; the way I can’t stop myself from looking at him.
It’s the way he takes all of my snarky comments and pointed jabs and seems to enjoy them.
It’s the way he wrapped my knee. It’s how he’s curious and gentle when I know he’s strong enough to rip my limbs off.
It’s his deep introspection on what he did in the arena, and his willingness to voice his regrets.
It’s the way he listens and actually hears me. It’s all of that, and somehow more.
Then again, I am about to die, and this could just be a natural reaction to that. People get horny and weird after any brush with death, right?
“I’ll be fine,” I answer, sounding anything but confident.
With a nod, he pulls a pillow from the bed and holds it out. “Please,” he says, “for your knees.” The gesture stirs up even more complicated emotions, and when I don’t take it, he lowers it to the ground, maintaining eye contact and barely hiding a grunt of pain.
The thrumming in my chest increases.
After another grunt, he’s lying back down and staring at me expectantly. “Is this position good for you?”
This is going to be harder than I thought.
The storm still rages outside, but it’s clear the sun is setting, and exhaustion has begun to take hold.
My arms ache, and with the frequent breaks and ongoing conversation, a procedure I thought would take an hour has stretched into nearly three.
Turns out, giant aliens with 20-inch-long jagged wounds take a lot longer to stitch than I thought, and now I have to wonder if the guards are going to come for me tonight or if they’re just gonna leave me in here.
“When do they normally bring you dinner?” I ask, standing to take a quick drink and grab another suture packet.
“I do not know. This is my first night.”
“Right.” Forgot about that. I rip open the packet and clumsily drop the contents on Vexar’s abdomen. Without a thought, I grab the little spool and watch his entire body tense. “Shit, sorry.”
“Do not be,” he says. “This is new to me, and I am still … adjusting.”