Chapter 21 Mariella
Nothing is wrong with me. The thought bounces around my head the next morning as I return to Parker and Rose’s apartment with two cups of soup and supplies to bandage Parker’s wound.
My heart jitters at the thought of seeing him again.
It hasn’t resumed its normal pace since I woke this morning with a light chest and my head full of whimsical ideas about what my life could be like at Neurovida. With him.
When no one answers my knock, I awkwardly let myself in and cross the tiny living room, a trail of absconded soup dripping in my wake.
Rose is sitting up in bed, scowling at the blood-stained journal open in her lap.
Escaped strands of hair frame her narrow face, the dark circles beneath her eyes more prominent than ever.
She inhales on her vape, blowing apple-scented vapor toward the empty, unmade bed on the other side of the room.
“How are you feeling?” I ask from the doorway.
“Sore,” she says without glancing up. A silent moment passes between us before she spits out, “Thanks for your help last night.”
“You’re welcome.” I step into the room and place one of the soup cups on her nightstand. “I figured it might’ve been a while since you ate.”
Rose draws on her vape with glazed eyes, as if her mind’s somewhere else entirely.
I place the bandages and Parker’s soup on the desk separating the beds, sit on the swivel chair, and twiddle the charm on my necklace.
My muscles tighten as we sit in silence, words building in the back of my throat.
“I brought bandages for Parker,” I say, moments before he saunters shirtless through the doorway, navy chinos slung low on his hips.
“Is my shirt in here?” he asks, head bowed to button his pants. He pauses when he sees me, a grin creeping across his face. “Morning.”
Heat floods my cheeks as I take him in, momentarily lost for words. I spare one second for the wound on his upper abdomen, which looks less severe now the dried blood’s washed away. Then my gaze wanders over his bronze skin, glowing in the morning sun.
Mouth dry, I trace the veins decorating the prominent muscles of his forearms, the swell of his deltoids, and the muscular hollow below his pecs.
I look lower, down each perfectly ribbed abdominal muscle, to the deep grooves in his lower abdomen forming a V that disappears beneath his pants.
Anna calls them sex lines but, until this moment, I’ve never entertained the thought.
Rose hasn’t looked up, her nose still stuck in the leather-bound book. Has she become desensitized to the sight of Parker half-naked before her? How?
“I brought bandages,” I mumble, and he steps closer, stealing my breath as he towers over me. He leans down, remnant beads of water glistening on his skin.
“Thanks,” he says. He grabs a clean shirt from the bed beside me and turns to Rose. “Anything good in there?”
I bite my lip, dissecting the defined muscles in his upper back and the strong ridges of his shoulder blades. I want to trace the long, muscular indent that runs over his spine, down to—
The blood drains from my face. Parker has a tattoo on his skin, partially concealed by his pants. It looks like the sketch of the strange clock I found in my mother’s journal.
“Your tattoo,” I whisper.
“Parker, cover up,” Rose says with a sigh.
He turns to catch me staring. “Living up to your name there, stalker.”
Warmth flushes my cheeks, and my eyes shoot to Rose’s chest, to the concealed tattoo I glimpsed last night. “You have it too, don’t you?”
Rose and Parker eye each other, and Rose shakes her head.
“Please, tell me. I’ve seen it before.” I glance between them. “What does it mean?”
“We call it the Mark of the Time Traveler,” Parker says. “Every member of our group at Neurovida had it.”
“Okay, Parker, you’ve said enough,” Rose says through clenched teeth.
My heart stops. The Mark of the Time Traveler. And my mother had a copy in her journal. “Who designed it?” I ask.
Rose and Parker exchange another glance, and there’s a small crease between Parker’s brows when he turns to face me. “You did,” he says. “You—”
“Parker,” Rose yells.
He tightens his lips and reaches for his soup, sulking at Rose when his hand passes through the mug.
“Can I see it?” I ask Rose. I’d ask Parker, but only a quarter of the clock is visible above his waistline, suggesting the rest sits indecently low.
Rose hesitates for a moment, then lets out a loud breath as she scowls at Parker. “I guess you’ve seen it now.” She leans back, lifting the front of her shirt to reveal the same tattoo in the center of her chest, extending underneath her black bra. “Hurt like a bitch.”
I’m ambivalent about tattoos, but there’s something beautiful about Rose’s.
The subtle rise and fall of the clock with each breath, as if it’s in motion.
I study the intricate design, its curving lines and swirling clock with its six unique hands.
Vines with beautiful flowers and sharp, deadly thorns climb upward, over a backdrop of the sun setting over the ocean.
Far more detailed than the sketch I found in my mother’s journal.
Parker steps beside me. “What is it?”
“Are you sure time travel isn’t genetic?” I ask.
Parker nods. “We studied theory of time travel with McGregor at Neurovida every day for years. If it was genetic, we’d know. Why?”
A heaviness seeps into my limbs. “I found a sketch of your tattoo on a scrap piece of paper in my mother’s journal.”
“Okay?” he states.
“Why would she have it unless she was a time traveler, or she knew something about Neurovida?”
“Maybe in the future, you draw the clock and put it in your mother’s journal yourself.”
“I didn’t draw it.” Neither did my mother. Whoever drew the clock used a heavy hand and thick, hurried strokes to craft the circumference of the clock. Nothing like my mother’s precise, delicate penmanship.
“I think you need to entertain the possibility that you’ve got this around the wrong way,” Parker says. “Maybe you designed our tattoo based off the picture from your mother’s journal because it had sentimental value?”
“Maybe.” Another question to ask my mom when Parker takes me to see her.
“Plus, you designed the tattoo specifically for us,” Parker adds.
“Parker,” Rose warns.
“That’s why there’s little symbols—”
Rose throws the journal down. “Jesus Christ, Parker,” she cries. “Stop breaking your oath.”
Parker leans backward. “I’m not.”
“Yes. You are. And you’re being fucking careless about it. The Alphas would be ashamed of you.”
Parker hurtles to his feet and strides toward Rose. “You know what, Rose? The oath is a joke. It’s a set of rules Neurovida made up to control us, and the longer it takes you to realize that, the longer you’ll be living in ignorance.”
“How can you say that?” Rose demands. “The oath is to protect us.”
Parker’s laugh lacks its usual warmth. “And how safe have you felt these last seven months?”
“You’re unbelievable. It’s not about Neurovida, it’s about the Alphas. Respecting each other’s pasts. Protecting our memories. We took the oath together. All of us. It binds us, and you’re going to throw that away?”
Parker flings his hands out in front of him. “Throw what away?” His voice breaks. “There’s nothing left. And as soon as I have my powers back, you’re going to make sure of it.”
My back hits the wall beside their bedroom door. “I’m going to go,” I mutter, startling Rose.
Her eyes widen. “No. You stay, I’ll go,” she says, cringing as she swings her long, bare legs out of bed. “You can sort out his wound.”
I stare at her. “But I can’t touch him.”
Rose’s dark gaze snaps to Parker. “Wow, there’s something you didn’t tell her? I might die of shock.”
“Rose can let me interact with things,” Parker says. “It’s how I eat, and shower—”
“And stay alive,” she barks. “And it takes an extreme amount of mental exertion, which is why I can’t do it all the time.
Maybe you should act a little more grateful.
” She turns to me and says, “You can sort it out, Ella.” Her narrowed gaze slides back to Parker.
“I don’t want to waste the energy.” She storms into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her.
Parker releases a heavy breath and slumps onto the edge of his bed, dragging his fingers through his hair.
It’s grown in the weeks since he cut it, and the motion leaves dark blond strands sticking out at odd angles.
He remains with his head in his hands, the muscles in his neck taut.
After a moment, as if remembering himself, he lifts his head and his gaze flickers to me.
I swallow the lump in my throat. His lips are pressed together, tugged up at the corners into an apologetic smile.
My gaze snags on the freckle above his top lip and my chest tightens.
Mouths shouldn’t look like his—thought-dissolving, heart-melting, tongue-tying.
One glance at that sexy smirk and my mental capacity plummets.
I couldn’t string a sentence together if I tried.
I want to ask him more about Neurovida. But the words disintegrate on my tongue when I see the mattress indented under him, the weight of his body pressing into it. My stomach flutters, my heart rate spiking. I can’t believe it. I can finally touch him.
“Do you want to sit?” he asks, his voice rougher than before.
Cheeks on fire, I manage a small nod and move the bandages from the desk to beside him on the bed. I roll the desk chair forward and I sit, tucking my quivering hands in my lap.
I can’t bring myself to make eye contact. Not when he’s half-naked and the only time we’ve touched is in my fiery dreams. Especially not when hours ago I awoke from one of those dreams, discontented and wanting, my cold bed a stark contrast to his heated body pressed against mine moments before.