Page 21 of Jayson
Turning back toward the stairs, I nearly collide with Nina. She’s a blade in velvet: silver hair twisted tight, an immaculate black dress, cane gripped like a command baton.
“Borrowing my towels?” she asks, one brow arched.
“For the girl,” I mutter.
“She has a name.”
I grit my teeth. “Keira.”
Nina’s gaze drifts to the bundle in my arms, then to my face, reading every crack in the façade. “Soap and sympathy won’t erase what she saw.”
“I’m not trying to erase it.”I just don’t want it festering.
“Good.” She taps the cane once, sharp. “Then remember: mercy given in small doses keeps a captive alive—but it also keeps you human. Don’t starve either half, Jayson.”
I swallow. “Is that wisdom or warning?”
“Both.” Her eyes soften a fraction—an eclipse of kindness. “And put a dressing on her ankle. Infection is a coward’s victory.”
She turns, gliding away before I can answer, cane clicking like a metronome counting down my redemption— or my ruin.
Keira’s hunchedon the bench, knees to her chest, blanket clamped so tight her knuckles flash white through the grime. Sweat has dried to salt on her throat; the cut on her cheek’s gone sticky and black. She looks up when the lock snaps. Her pupils flare like an animal cornered in torch-light.
“The shower’s ready.” My voice grinds out of me, low and flinty. I swing the door wide, step inside, haul her to her feet. “Ten minutes. That’s all you get.”
She nods—no back-talk, no glare—but her pulse hammers in the hollow of her throat, a frantic beat counting down to something neither of us can name.
I steer her down the corridor, my hand bracketed around her elbow. Heat jumps skin-to-skin—raw, electric—and every brush of her shoulder sparks through me like exposed wiring. She’s limp-light on the injured ankle, but she never asks me to slow.
Up the narrow service stairs: dust motes spiral in the weak light, each breath clogged with old cedar and tired memories. The house groans overhead, pipes clanking like distant chains. By the time we reach the guest wing, my own heartbeat’s punching bruises behind my ribs.
The bathroom door yawns open, curling steam into the hall—humid, mineral, edged with sandalwood. She stalls on the threshold, eyes flicking from the tiles to the claw-foot tub to the clothes I left folded on the chair. She’s gauging traps; I’m gauging her.
“Clock starts now.” I shut the door behind her, and move away from the door.
Back against the wall, I close my eyes. Water explodes from the showerhead—first a spit, then a hard, rhythmic drum. I picture it beating the mud off her skin, sluicing dirt and grime from the delicate lines of her collarbones. Heat licks under the door, carrying notes of sandalwood soap that hooks in my lungs like smoke.
Loose thread,my father sneers from the grave.Cut it before it strangles you.
Mercy keeps you human,Nina counters, her cane cracking hardwood.
I breathe both voices, let them duel in the dark.
Nine minutes.
Eight.
My palms itch for gunmetal. My chest aches for something I can’t name. I wonder if hot water can scrub terror out of a body—or if the real stain is me, etched under her skin, permanent as gunshot residue.
Five minutes.
Four.
The pipes groan as the water continues to flow, breaking through the silence as it rushes in—thick, chemical, flammable. I count the heartbeats in the space between us, already knowing ten minutes won’t be enough to wash either of us clean.
10
KEIRA
