Page 52 of Nyx
“Have you seen one like this before?” he asks, and I shake my head as I run my hand over the fabric. “It’s called a sweater, and it’ll keep you warm. You get cold sometimes.” Thick emotion builds in my throat as I nod. Idoget cold often, and he noticed. Of course he noticed. Heat consumes my body, spreading from my chest down my limbs. Everything is warm, from the tips of my toes all the way to my tingling scalp.
I might never be cold again.
Reyes’s face scrunches as he watches me, deep lines forming between his brows and up his forehead. “There are a few pairs of pants and some shorts at the bottom. They’re probably not all a perfect fit, but it was the best I could do.”
My heart pounds as I watch him fret about trivial things like leg length and waist size. Does he not realize he’s given me something I’ve never had before?
Clothes at Ljómur were used for covering nakedness and nothing more. Ragged and worn, and a symbol of our captivity. Ronan and Cameron gave me clothing when they found me, but those things are Cameron’s or they belonged to my captors.
They aren’tmine.
Nothing has ever beenmine.
I try to fill my lungs as I suck in shallow breaths, but everything is warm. My skin is too tight, and my pulsethumps under my ribcage and through my limbs. Reyes stares and stares, and I wonder then.
If these clothes can be mine, couldhereally be mine, too?
Is it asking for too much?
“Nyx?” he asks, so uncertain, and I want to be selfish. I want to be greedy with him, so I am. Iam, and I rush forward and throw myself against him in a way I’ve never touched anyone else. My cheek lands on his shoulder, and my chest presses against his as I whimper his name. Desperate, confused fingers wrap around his back and clutch at his shirt, and he’s stiff. So stiff, and I wonder for a terrifying moment if I’ve done this wrong.
His heavy exhale blows against my ear, and I shiver, my heart slamming against my ribs. “Can I touch you?” His voice shakes, like he’s as scared as I am. “Hug you? That’s all. Just my hands on your back.”
“Please,” I whisper, and his stiffness melts as his arms wrap around my body and hold me against him. It feels safe here, tucked against his neck, where his breath is louder and his pulse pounds beneath his skin. His facial hair scratches faintly against my forehead, and his fingers dance over the small of my back. Something low in my belly swoops, and I feel weightless, like I’m falling. He’s soft. A layer of cushion pads his stomach and arms, one that’s noticeably missing from mine, but our differences line up perfectly.
“God, this feels good. I… I’ve wanted this for so long,” he admits in a breathy whisper, and I nod as my hands tighten in his shirt, pressing my nose into his skin. Soap and rainwater, and the smell that’s uniquely him. It surrounds me, and I soak it in as I fill my lungs with him.
And the horrifying realization hits me.
“D-dirty,” I stutter.
Unbathed. Filthy.
Days of lying in bed, in theforeston the ground, must mean my body is sour. I squirm, pushing away from him before he realizes. He releases me as if his hands are burned, his eyes panicked when I find them. “Shit, I’m sorry. You wanted me to stop, and I told you I would. I just…”
Without his heat to warm me, I shiver again. Pained uncertainty covers his face. I hate that I’m the one who put it there… that I can’t do something as simple as accept a hug.
“I am sorry,” I whisper, wringing my hands as I try to keep them from shaking. “I am sorry, sorry…” Unable to handle looking at him, I turn around, only to be met with the pile of clothes he brought me.
Maybe they are the only things I get to call mine, after all.
“Nyx, you didn’t do anything wrong,” he says from behind me, but I hear it.
I hurt him.
It seems like I’m always hurting him.
“Thank you for the clothes,” I say, crossing my arms. What a useless sentiment—nothing close to what I want to communicate.
They’re the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me.
They make me feel like I’m special.
It hurts in the best way to know you were thinking of me.
No one ever cared like this before.
Instead, I whisper, “They are… a w-wonderful gift.”
