pro-beating heart humans and enemies among his own kind.
He leaned down to hit the diverter and adjust the temperature and I hissed as I got a better view of his skin. He straightened, absently brushing his hair off his forehead, and looked at me inquiringly.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Are you okay?”
I slid off the counter, one hand holding on so that I didn’t fall. He reached out to steady me.
“Am I okay? What about you, Malcolm?” I turned him around, pulling the ruined material away from the angry, red marks on his skin. “Look at this mess.”
“I know,” he said mournfully. “I really liked this sweater.” He reached up and pulled the remaining fabric away. I held my breath when he turned back to me, presenting smooth skin over pronounced muscle. I was already light-headed, and he smiled when he saw the effect he had on me. I flushed again, the steam filling the room making my clothes feel tight and unwelcome.
“I’ve shown you mine.” His eyebrows rose.
“I guess I’ll have to owe you one. There are towels under the sink.” I shuffled toward the door, then gasped when Malcolm caught my upper arms. I fell back into him, tears stinging my eyes.
“Sorry.” His arms dropped to my waist. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Somewhere in the distance my brain yelled at me to fight him off, or at least stop leaning on him, but all I could focus on was the feel of his fingers skimming my belly as he brushed the hem of my shirt.
“What are you doing?” I asked, my voice airy.
“I’m not sure how to tell you this,” he murmured into my ear, “but you smell like you were sprayed with Lysol and then tossed onto a tire fire.” I turned around, blinking rapidly when his knuckles brushed my navel.
“What?”
“The shower is for you.” He grinned. “Now, shall I undress you, or…” My nightly self-grossing up, plus the ferrous scent of fear, melted snow and a weird, antiseptic smell I must have picked up at the hospital, was bad. Normally I hit the shower the second I got home. But normally I was by myself.
“I can do it,” I said. Malcolm stepped back, leaning against the counter so that muscles popped in his arms. I looked away. “Alone, please.”
When had I turned into such a priss?
“Well, you did say please.” He pushed himself up and I watched the door close behind him, thinking that his back already looked better. I pulled my shirt off, cursing when it scraped against my stitches. I dropped it to the floor, my pants and underwear completing the pile. I tried not to look at my silhouette in the mirror, the red and blue marks ominous reminders of how close I’d come to losing—really losing—last night.
I stepped into the tub, curling my toes as my cold feet adjusted to the heat of the water. I aimed the showerhead up and turned around, closing my eyes and wrapping my arms around my middle, cold despite the warmth of the room. My breath hitched on a sob and I opened my eyes wide. None of that. I didn’t do crying.
Careful to keep my stitches out of the spray, I grabbed soap and a washcloth and scrubbed vigorously, brushing off the sweat and fear, the smell of my burning car and everything else I’d picked up along the way. The water ran red, partly from the dye running out of my hair and partly, I suspected, from blood. Washing my hair was an exercise in precision, and the back of my head was tender where I’d smacked into the open trunk. When Malcolm had grabbed me. When he’d picked me up, trying to save me. My hands stilled, lather dripping. I wouldn’t have gotten clear of the blast without his help.
Was that part of the job, part of Bronson’s orders that he watch over me? Maybe it was implied since I was, unbeknownst to me, a special part of the Master’s human stable. I rinsed, watching the bubbles running down the drain until the water cleared and my vision went blurry.
I turned the water off, dried numbly and slipped into my robe. My weary hand
He leaned down to hit the diverter and adjust the temperature and I hissed as I got a better view of his skin. He straightened, absently brushing his hair off his forehead, and looked at me inquiringly.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Are you okay?”
I slid off the counter, one hand holding on so that I didn’t fall. He reached out to steady me.
“Am I okay? What about you, Malcolm?” I turned him around, pulling the ruined material away from the angry, red marks on his skin. “Look at this mess.”
“I know,” he said mournfully. “I really liked this sweater.” He reached up and pulled the remaining fabric away. I held my breath when he turned back to me, presenting smooth skin over pronounced muscle. I was already light-headed, and he smiled when he saw the effect he had on me. I flushed again, the steam filling the room making my clothes feel tight and unwelcome.
“I’ve shown you mine.” His eyebrows rose.
“I guess I’ll have to owe you one. There are towels under the sink.” I shuffled toward the door, then gasped when Malcolm caught my upper arms. I fell back into him, tears stinging my eyes.
“Sorry.” His arms dropped to my waist. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Somewhere in the distance my brain yelled at me to fight him off, or at least stop leaning on him, but all I could focus on was the feel of his fingers skimming my belly as he brushed the hem of my shirt.
“What are you doing?” I asked, my voice airy.
“I’m not sure how to tell you this,” he murmured into my ear, “but you smell like you were sprayed with Lysol and then tossed onto a tire fire.” I turned around, blinking rapidly when his knuckles brushed my navel.
“What?”
“The shower is for you.” He grinned. “Now, shall I undress you, or…” My nightly self-grossing up, plus the ferrous scent of fear, melted snow and a weird, antiseptic smell I must have picked up at the hospital, was bad. Normally I hit the shower the second I got home. But normally I was by myself.
“I can do it,” I said. Malcolm stepped back, leaning against the counter so that muscles popped in his arms. I looked away. “Alone, please.”
When had I turned into such a priss?
“Well, you did say please.” He pushed himself up and I watched the door close behind him, thinking that his back already looked better. I pulled my shirt off, cursing when it scraped against my stitches. I dropped it to the floor, my pants and underwear completing the pile. I tried not to look at my silhouette in the mirror, the red and blue marks ominous reminders of how close I’d come to losing—really losing—last night.
I stepped into the tub, curling my toes as my cold feet adjusted to the heat of the water. I aimed the showerhead up and turned around, closing my eyes and wrapping my arms around my middle, cold despite the warmth of the room. My breath hitched on a sob and I opened my eyes wide. None of that. I didn’t do crying.
Careful to keep my stitches out of the spray, I grabbed soap and a washcloth and scrubbed vigorously, brushing off the sweat and fear, the smell of my burning car and everything else I’d picked up along the way. The water ran red, partly from the dye running out of my hair and partly, I suspected, from blood. Washing my hair was an exercise in precision, and the back of my head was tender where I’d smacked into the open trunk. When Malcolm had grabbed me. When he’d picked me up, trying to save me. My hands stilled, lather dripping. I wouldn’t have gotten clear of the blast without his help.
Was that part of the job, part of Bronson’s orders that he watch over me? Maybe it was implied since I was, unbeknownst to me, a special part of the Master’s human stable. I rinsed, watching the bubbles running down the drain until the water cleared and my vision went blurry.
I turned the water off, dried numbly and slipped into my robe. My weary hand
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