Page 49 of Moth
Chapter Ten
Ipeel my eyes open to pale, gray daylight streaming in through my window. It takes only a second for the memories to descend. What happened last night and after… The new monster in my bed, his scent flooding my small apartment—and the familiar phantoms still lurking in my wake. As I stretch out my sore limbs, I catch myself eyeing my phone, too wary to pick it up just yet even though my text alert keeps pinging.
Ping!
Ping!
Ping!
Instead, I enter the kitchen and rummage through the meager offerings in my fridge. Minutes later, I’m studiously frying eggs in what I’m sure is the only cooking appliance I own.
Golden light gradually floods in through the windows, and I can hear something stir from my bedroom. My one vain hope of Rafe deciding to crawl out via the fire escape during the night is dashed.
The only course of action preferable to facing that reality seems to be stirring the cooked eggs a few times and pouring a glass of water from the tap. Grim with apprehension, I carry both over to my bedroom door and peek inside.
He’s still on the bed, lying with his face obscured by a mound of crushed pillows.
“R-Rafe?” I cautiously creep forward and set the cup down on the nightstand before observing him in full. God, he’s too still… For a second, I consider the possibility that he’s dead. His skin is pale enough to make out the bluish veins snaking underneath. The bleeding from his leg has stopped, but there’s a sallow, grayish quality to the skin around the wound.
“Rafe?” Swallowing hard, I balance the eggs on one hand and nudge the edge of the mattress with my leg. “Are you awake—”
Without warning, his hand flies out and seizes my thigh, yanking me closer. The plate of eggs crashes to the floor, and I scramble to brace myself against the firmest surface within reach—his chest.
“Morning, bunny.” His voice is still hoarse, but his sly grin conveys anything but weakness. I lurch off him, staggering back.
Unconcerned, he turns his attention to the cup on the nightstand. “You cooked for me?” With a thoughtful expression, he eyes the food scattered over the floor. Then he pulls himself upright and shifts to throw his legs over the side of the bed, groaning all the while. At least he can move. His injured leg is bare from his thigh down, exposing taut muscle that doesn’t seem too damaged by the assault.
Wrenching my gaze away, I stoop for the eggs, scraping them into a pile. “Well, there isn’t any more, so—”
“Not so fast.” My arm is seized from behind, yanking me against a body that feels onlyslightlysofter than a brick wall. “You may have helped me out of the goodness of your bleeding heart, rabbit,” he murmurs into my ear, sounding partly amused, partly suspicious. “Or… your little boyfriend could be waiting out there to arrest me or some shit?” He inclines his head toward the living room. “What did you tell him, huh?”
The accusation takes a split second to land. When it does, I’m already whirling on my heel to face him. “Tell him?” My shrill tone makes him wince. “If I did that, I wouldn’t have let you sleep here all night! I wouldn’t have scrubbed your blood from my floor… I-I wouldn’t have made you eggs because I don’t know what else to do!”
“Alright,” he concedes with his hands upturned apologetically. I can’t tell if I imagine the genuine guilt in his voice or not. At least he isn’t laughing. “Alright. I’m an asshole. I get it.”
“You are,” I hiss, feeling my eyes burn ominously. Nothing I do keeps the tears at bay. They fall regardless. “You’re lucky you didn’t bleed to death. What the hell was that?”
“That?” He glances away, raking his hand through his hair. “Just boys being boys, bunny.”
“Stop calling me that!” My foot flies out, kicking the remnants of my plate across the room. I don’t know why I’m so angry. Why my breathing hitches as I take in the scarlet smears staining my sheets. Why the sight of his mocking, taunting smirk enrages me now more than ever. “You could havedied.”
His expression falls flat, and he groans, using my bed as leverage to haul himself to his feet. “Come here—”
“Get off me!”
His arms go around my waist regardless, drawing me in. The firmness of his chest conforms to my body, and there is no escaping it. God, he’stoofirm, encompassing me easily with his bulk.
“You saved my ass, bunny,” he murmurs. I’m alarmed to realize that his fingers are in my hair, stroking through the tangled strands. “I mean it.”
I glance up to find him staring down at me. He’s honest, even in his expressions. It’s so rare to someone who comes from a family where smiles are used to mask any unseemly emotion that might ruin the mood at the dinner table. Or obscure lies. Tears. A smile is a mere token in my world…
But he’s able to convey so much with only a frown.
In the face of such an expression, I feel brave enough to ask, “What did you mean last night? That I looked like you?”
He winces and turns his attention to his hip, flexing his injured leg. A grunt of approval resonates through his chest. “You stitched me up good, eh, rabbit?”
As if to keep me from asking more, his arms curve around me, making me a slave to his swaying, unsteady motions. In some sick way, they almost feel…comforting. At least until my gaze falls to his leg—and the pink thread holding him together—and I realize that the rocking is more a result of him fighting to stand at all than anything else.
