Page 38 of Blood Debt

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I slump down with a grunt. The mattress sighs under my weight.

“Fuck,” I mutter, hand to my side. A twinge burns through my ribs. Probably from the chair I kicked earlier. Or maybe it was the bar fight—can’t remember.

I start fumbling with my buttons. My fingers miss twice.

I catch her watching her shoulders tensing like a bowstring pulled too tight.

I scoff. “You’re shy now?”

She doesn’t speak.

“Come,” I say.

She flinches.

My jaw twitches. “Come here.”

My voice cuts louder than I intended. It echoes once, bounces back from the stone wall.

She stops in front of me. Her fingers twitch at her sides. Her mouth is tight, pressed into a line that trembles at the edges.

“Unbutton it.”

She lowers herself to her knees.

Her hands rise, hesitating just beneath my chest before touching the top button of my shirt. Her fingers brush the fabric, feeling the heat beneath.

The first button pops.

She swallows.

The second.

Her breathing changes.

I lean closer. My hands lift.

I touch her face.

Her skin is warm. The pad of my thumb grazes her cheekbone. I feel her flinch just barely under the contact, but she doesn’t pull back.

I study her—up close.

Her eyes are lowered.

I search them anyway.

Please.

Look at me.

See me.

My thumb traces along her jaw, slow.

Her lips part slightly.

Nothing. No flicker. No shift. No spark of memory.

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