Page 27 of Warrior

“Yeah.” I shift my weight.

“You don’t have to stand in the entryway like a stranger.” The accusation comes gently.

But I still don’t like it.

“I’m not.” I force my legs to carry me farther in. My hands flutter at my sides, and the urge to cover my pocket climbs. “A movie?”

“Just one,” he promises.

A movie in exchange for breathing room.

With a slight nod, I sit on the opposite side of the couch. He has the remote, and I don’t even care what he picks. I slump lower and cover myself with one of the blankets on the back ofthe couch. I stare at the screen, although my brain shuts off at some point.

“That was good.”

I blink hard and sit up. The end credits are rolling, and I didn’t watch a single minute. I nod my quiet agreement. He only glances at me, then away.

“Goodnight, Reese.” I get up and hurry into my bedroom.

Lock myself in before Saint can arrive home.

I take the syringe out and set it on my nightstand. I strip out of my clothes, replacing my shirt and sweatshirt with my sleep shirt, leaving my legs bare. I change the bandages covering the stitched-up stab wounds, smearing an antiseptic across the heated skin.

I can last a while longer yet. It’s like a game at this point.

Climbing into bed, I try to close my eyes.

But as soon as I do, they open again.

It’s the weirdest thing.

I roll onto my side and watch the clock. It goes from 8:01 to 8:03 before I blink. Then it’s 8:10. 9:32. 10:45. 1:13. 4:29.

When it clicks over to six a.m., I throw back the covers and get out of bed.

I stumble. Somehow, overnight, my body must’ve gone through a meat grinder. Or been run over by a freight train. I catch myself on my nightstand, and my pinkie brushes the syringe.

Ready.

Waiting.

I don’thaveto take it.

In fact, I shouldn’t. I rub the crook of my elbow absently, shuffling across the room to gather things for a shower. It’ll distract me…

But first, I hide the syringe under my pillow. Just in case.

The shower, if you’re wondering, was uneventful. I hold myself mostly out of the water to keep the stitches dry, my body trembling with how I contorted. But my hair is clean, and that feels like a win.

I towel off and dress in the bathroom, mindful that Reese, sleeping on the couch,mightbe awake andmightcatch a glimpse of my ass.

I keep my hair wrapped up in the towel and exit.

And nearly slam into Saint.

He catches my arms, and his familiar scowl appears. “Careful,” he chides.

I yank my arms out of his grasp and cross them over my chest. My fingers cover the marks in the crook of my elbow, although they can’t fully block the yellowish bruising.

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