Page 7 of Martyr
“It’s my fault,” I repeat.
The doctor frowns. “Because…”
“I went outside without my damn coat. I went out onto the dock. She tried to bring me back in.”
She just keeps trying to reach me, even when I push her away. Over and over. When am I going to fucking learn?
“Saint?” Her voice drifts past the curtain. “Is he okay?”
A nurse answers, “He?—”
I launch out of the chair and swipe the fabric out of my way. Only her face is visible under the pile of blankets, but she’sawake and trembling like a leaf. I swallow sharply and ball my hands into fists. There’s color back in her lips, although the rest of her face is still scarily pale.
She’s normally golden.
Glowing.
How do I know that?
Her expression softens. “I’m okay.”
Her teeth are chattering.
“I didn’t ask,” I reply quickly.
She winces.
I step closer. “Don’t try to save me, Artemis. It won’t end well.”
I watch her face.
It shifts as my words sink in. But she doesn’t cower—if anything, I only provoke her. She struggles to rise, and if I cared—I don’t care—I’d put my hand to her shoulder and keep her down. But touching her seems dangerous, so I just clench my fists and wait until the blanket has slid down her chest.
Bare chest.
My gaze drops without my consent. First to the tattoo blooming across her collarbone, black ink reaching for the ball of her shoulder.
Scales of justice.
Wildflowers.
It’s my work. I’d recognize my design anywhere, even if I don’t remember doing it. I can almost picture standing in front of her, my hand on her hip?—
She yanks the blanket back up, but not before I also catch the glint of metal in her nipples.
“Your nipples are pierced?” I blurt out.
She rolls her eyes. “Y-y-you’re so f-fucking dumb.”
That stops me.
“You think I haven’t d-done this song and dance with you, Saint?” Her shivering, chattering only seems to be getting worse. “You think anything that comes out of your mouth this time around, you haven’t already said under worse conditions?”
What?
I’ve seen her nipples before?
I must’ve, if I tattooed her…
