Page 72 of Devour
“They can’t know,”
I press the wet cloth to his burning skin carefully.
His back arches, and he lets out a grating scream. I flinch away from him, almost certain some kind of creature is going to crawl out of him and attack me. But in only moments, his body relaxes and he is gone from the world.
Still breathing, though. He is still breathing.
The redness is already fading, but I continue pressing the cool cloth to the places his skin is showing. Right now, that mostly means his arms and neck and bits of his chest where the leather has melted.
Melted. I shake my head. I don’t understand this at all. How is he still alive?
I don’t know. I don’t know what any of this means. But I do know, even if he doesn’t deserve it, helping is who I am. If I were to change that for him, he would have taken another part of me.
And so, I do what I can to aid his mysterious ailment.
To soothe my own uncertainty, I begin to sing an old song of dreams and leaving home to find some new adventure. My mother hated this song, but I always loved it.
Now, I find myself longing for home again.
His eyelids flutter before settling back down. He mutters out panicked words I cannot understand.
One spot on his chest is black with streaks spreading out. I touch the edge of the darkness, and it retreats, sinking back toward the center.
Having no idea what it is or if it’s helping, I slowly circle the spot on his chest with the tip of my finger. When he groans this time, I freeze. It was the sound of desperate pleasure.
I swallow, cheeks reddening. Clearly, he’s not enjoying my touch that way, not right now. When I continue to circle, making the black streaks shrink more and more, he makes no new noises. It was just my imagination.
Eventually, the darkness under his skin is just the size of a tiny pin prick.
I back up and sit on the bed, watching his skin continue to transform even without my touch. The red shifts and moves over his body, swirling but shrinking just like the inky black parts did.
Is he healing himself?
Soon, all of the redness is gone.
He coughs first then groans and rolls onto his knees. He stays like that for a few moments before flopping back onto his butt and panting up at the ceiling.
“Why?” I ask him. It comes at a whisper the first time.
He doesn’t move from that place curled over on himself, head hanging low.
I brush my fingers against his knee, thick fabric rough under my skin.
His chest abruptly stops moving. He doesn’t breathe at all.
My stomach sinks. Was that… the wrong thing to do? I pause, considering pulling my hand back. He still isn’t breathing, but he hasn’t moved either. A quiet, pathetic moan escapes him. The kind of cry I’d expect from a dying dog, not a powerful man.
“Haze?” I ask, voice so soft I really feel like the dove he considers me. “Why do you do this? If it hurts you like this?”
His breaths begin anew, this time slow and steady.
When he lifts his head, his black eyes are hooded. He looks at me for only an instant before shifting back to the floor and sticking there long enough I wonder if he’s already decided to reject me. Maybe these will be my last moments under his strange protection.
“I do what I must,” he says, voice steady if a bit quiet.
“But why?—”
He leaps to his feet fast enough that I gasp and scrambling away from him. His lip curls in anger.
