Page 85 of Moth
But now?
I can’t feel anything but the warm fingers smoothing the hair from my face. He dampens a paper towel and applies a cool liquid to my cheek next, holding it there despite how I flinch.
“Don’t move,” he warns. “You don’t want this to get infected.”
He continues to apply more liquid with a familiarity that makes me suspect this isn’t the first time he’s patched someone up like this. Bonnie? No. Something in his stern expression triggers the memory of what he said to me the night he was stabbed.You looked like me. Those scared bunny eyes…
“You need to take off your shirt,” he commands, drawing back. He stands and exits the room, seemingly expecting me to comply on my own.
I stare down at my sweater, speckled red in places, but I can’t seem to make my arms move. By the time he reenters the room, I haven’t budged.
But he’s already stripped off his bloodied shirt, leaving his chest bare. Dangling from his arm is a clean one, but he brings it to me rather than put it on.
“Lift your arms.” His tone carries an authority that I’m too exhausted to argue with. Or follow.
In the end, he sinks into a crouch and tugs at the hem of my sweater, dragging it over my head himself. He swaps it for the oversized one of his, which hangs on me loosely, pooling over my waist as he tugs off my skirt.
Wary, his eyes meet mine, brimming with confusion as though he’s contemplating some complex puzzle. “Get up.”
To leave. I’ve already made peace with that inevitable outcome. I try to stand. Gingerly, I brace my feet on the floor, but when I attempt to rise from the couch, my muscles refuse.
He has to grab my arm and haul me to my feet. I stagger, forced to cling to him for balance. “Come on.”
My fingers grip his forearm, but he sweeps his hand around my hip, keeping me upright. Then he lifts me entirely, taking me into his arms as though I weigh nothing. Instead of the stairs, he carries me down the hall, deeper into the apartment’s layout. When he reaches a closed door, I can feel him hesitate before he finally pushes it open.
A spacious bedroom lurks behind it, one accented with navy walls and pops of scarlet. His sheets are red, his comforter black. Apart from a black wooden dresser, he doesn’t have much furniture, leaving the space almost utilitarian. Somewhere he sleeps, savoring his time alone.
Time to read the battered book I spy on a nightstand as he sets me down on the wide mattress, double the size of mine. I’m too stunned by the feel of the blankets to fully process the action. This whole room smells like him, a haven of smoke and coconut. But my observation is cut short when he pushes me down.
“Sleep.”
He turns, leaving the room and closing the door behind him.
Even now, he’ll bend his rule, but he won’t break it.
