Page 24

“Hi,” I say softly.

“Hey.” His voice is rough. He shrugs out of his coat and kicks off his boots. That’s when I notice it–a dark red smear streaked across his forearm.

I sit up fast, heart pounding. “You’re hurt.”

He glances down, then shakes his head. “No. That’s not mine.”

I should feel relief, but I don’t. There’s been too much blood spilled lately. Too much pain. Too many people I care about are bleeding for this fractured kingdom.

“Your hands,” I whisper, climbing out of bed. Every time I see him, his knuckles are split open again, fresh and angry, unable to heal. Like he finds another pound of flesh he’s forced to take.

I reach for him instinctively, but he shifts away. That familiar tension crackles between us–the wall Hunter keeps firmly in place. He won’t touch me. Or can’t. I’m still not sure which, but it’s eating away at me. I want to be able to comfort him the way that I do Damon and Timothy, but that seems out of reach, and I don’t know how to bridge the gap.

“I’m going to shower,” he says quietly, already pulling his shirt over his head. His body is lean and tightly muscled, honed from every battle he keeps throwing himself into. He unbuckles his jeans and lets them drop, the hard V-lines of his hips disappearing under the waistband of his boxers. The tattoos give him a dangerous look, until you realize they’re based on science and math, not intimidation.

“Get some sleep, Nettie.”

He disappears into the bathroom. I try to settle down, but I can’t. The bed feels too big, too empty. I wait until I hear the shower turn off, then pad over and knock softly on the door.

“Yeah?” His voice is muffled through the wood.

“Can I come in?”

There’s a pause, then a grunt, which I take as a yes.

I push the door open. Hunter stands in the middle of the bathroom, wrapped only in a white towel slung low on his hips, while he runs a smaller towel through his hair. Water droplets cling to his shoulders and chest, tracing slow paths down the ridges of muscle and the faint scars he’s collected over the years. His hair is wet and messy, falling across his forehead. He looks beautiful and dangerous all at once.

“Sit,” I tell him, pointing to the closed toilet lid.

He hesitates, jaw tight, but eventually lowers himself down. I grab the medical kit from under the sink, the same one he’s used on me more than once, and kneel before him. Up close, the scent of his soap and clean skin makes my chest ache.

“Nettie, this isn’t–”

“I’m going to clean your hands,” I cut him off. “So whatever issue you have with me touching you needs to get turned off for a moment.”

He inhales sharply, but gives me a nod. I take one of his battered hands in both of mine and start cleaning the split knuckles with antiseptic wipes. He hisses softly at the sting, but doesn’t pull away. His chest rises and falls faster the closer I get, but I ignore it. I work slowly, gently dabbing at the raw skin, then smoothing antibiotic ointment over the worst spots before taping them carefully.

“Damon did the ritual tonight,” he says quietly while I work. “With the whole frat. The Lingua Veritatis–Forced truth.”

I glance up at him. “And?”

“Only Kendrick failed. He admitted he knew Mateo was up to something. That son of a bitch had been asking him for locations, schedules–where the King would be, where you would be. Kendrick claims he said no to helping, but he never spoke up either. He kept quiet.” Hunter’s voice hardens. “Just as bad, in my book.”

My heart hammers thinking of all the times I was in close quarters with Kendrick. What he’d seen and overheard between the King and me. Timothy trusted him–implicitly–and look where that got him. Got us. “Are you sure that’s all he knew?”

Hunter watches me tape the last knuckle, his gaze heavy. “I feel like I’m not sure about anything anymore.”

The confession lands softly between us. I finish wrapping his hand and rest my palms lightly on his knees, refusing to let him pull away this time. For once, he lets the touch stay. That’s probably what makes me feel bold. What makes me think that when I climb into the big bed, I can pat the space beside me and say, “Come here.”

Hunter stands at the edge of the mattress, towel still around his waist, water still dripping from the ends of his hair. He wants to. I can see it in the way his eyes linger on me, but he tips his head. “Not without Damon here.”

He doesn’t explain further. He just grabs a pair of sweatpants and pulls them on, then sits in the armchair across the room instead of the bed. I turn off the lamp. Darkness swallows the room, broken only by the faint glow of the hallway nightlight.

We lie there in the quiet for a long time, Ares snoring softly at the foot of the bed.

“Nettie?” Hunter’s voice is low in the dark.

“Yeah?”