Page 46 of Devil

I laugh a little because it’s true, especially when it comes to her. “Does that scare you?”

She doesn’t need long to answer, even with the drugs. “Yes.”

I try not to squeeze her or betray the sudden rhythmic clenching of my lungs when I ask, “Do you want me to drive you back home when you’re feeling better? Call an end to our deal?” I honestly don’t know if I’d be able to honor the escape hatch I gave her. Whenever I think of it, my mind simply…stops. But I’d try, I think.

It takes her a long time to answer, long enough that I think she’s fallen asleep. “No,” she finally says. “You’ve always scared me. I think I’m just finally understanding why.”

21

BIRDIE

Bell textsboth Buddy and Busy from my phone pretending to be me and explaining that my injury means I’m staying home for the week, which would normally be an unbearable ethical breach if my head were clear, but it’s not clear, and all I can feel is a dull kind of gratitude as Bell tucks me into bed, kisses my forehead, and dims the glass so his bedroom is dark enough for sleep.

He’s not getting his money’s worth, I’m able to think, but he doesn’t seem bothered by it as he settles next to me atop the covers with his iPad. Aside from the dark intensity of his worry, he doesn’t seem impatient or frustrated that I’m useless for sex.

I fall asleep to the soft tapping of his tablet pencil on the screen.

I wakeup to fingertips along my cheekbone, warm and possessive. It’s dark. I’m coaxed to sit up and open my mouth for the first of my oral antibiotics and a dose of pain medicine they sent me home with. A glass of cold water is put to my lips to help. I swallow, allow myself to be laid down and tucked back in, and spin dizzyingly back into sleep. Bell smells so good. His bed is so soft.

When I stirthe next day, I have the sense of having slept for a long time—a humiliatingly long time.

I swing my legs out of bed and go to the bathroom, instinctively babying my right leg a little as I brush my teeth and then get dressed. I flinch when I lift my leg to step into my jeans and the fresh stitches pull at my skin, but I don’t let myself pause; I still hurry to get dressed. I’ve wasted enough time as it is.

It’s a Monday, so I’m not sure what to expect when I go downstairs, but I’m also not surprised to see Bell in his home office either. He’s wearing a T-shirt that looks expensive even from a distance and high-waisted trousers, belted and showing off his narrow waist. As I walk closer to the office—quietly, shyly—I notice he’s not wearing shoes, his bare feet strong and lovely looking on the wood floor.

And his hair…he’s washed it. That crown of curls is back, framing his face in gold, a halo to complement those handsome features and to contrast with those pale, intense eyes. The same eyes that lift to meet mine now through the glass of his office wall. I have no idea what emotion is held inside them, but every nerve ending in my body is humming with awareness as he looks at me. The awareness is the bone-deep, eons-old prey response to a predator—it is wariness; it is fear—but the fear doesn’t come alone. The humming along my skin doesn’t limit itself only to the parts of my body that would be useful in a dangerous situation.

He stands up and I take a breath.

I chose this, and I will see it through. For Busy.

If only I could feel less afraid. If only he didn’t look so…so…tormentedas he walks toward me. It would keep the lines between us clearer.

He comes out of his office and meets me. The converted space is big enough that it takes several heartbeats. Even armored with those heartbeats, I jump when he reaches out to touch my face. But he’s only pressing the backs of his fingers to my forehead, replacing them with the inside of his wrist, checking for a fever.

The scent of him is casually seductive—barely there, a whisper of incense and pepper—gone and then back again as he moves.

His eyes move to my nose, and I realize that I’ve been rather obviously trying to breathe him in. The curled corners of his mouth curl up a bit more, but he doesn’t remark on it. Instead, he squats and examines my calf.

“Is it sore?” he asks, lifting my foot to balance it on his thigh while he pushes up the leg of my jeans.

“It hurts a little, but it’s bearable,” I tell him.

He narrows his eyes up at me. “Your definition ofbearableis too irreparably fucked for me to trust, Birdie.”

It’s like being slapped. I don’t have much, I’m not worth much, but this is one thing I can own—I have tried so hard to bear what the Lord has given me to carry. “Because I don’t like to make my discomfort the problem of people around me?”

Presumably satisfied there isn’t a crimson fringe of infection reaching out from under the bandage, Bell rearranges my jeans and sets my foot back down on the floor with care. He stands up again, and it is so easy to forget how tall he is until he’s right in front of me.

“Your discomfort will always be a problem for me, whether you try to hide it or not.” He puts his hands on my shoulders. They’re big and warm in the cool air of the warehouse, and the wary thrumming in my nerves seems to gather underneath his palms, little eddies of alertness under his fingertips. “I want to fix it for you.”

“I thought you wanted to hurt me,” I say quietly. “Isn’t that what you said two days ago in the barn?”

His hands move up to my throat. Goose bumps ripple all over my body, and when I swallow, his eyes track the movement. “Yes,” he says. “I did say that. I do want that.”

“Then what’s the difference?”

His eyes flash up to mine, his lovely mouth twisting with scorn. “What’s the difference between having my handprint on your ass and you being a day away from sepsis? Between me leaving a bite mark on your thigh and you duct-taping torn skin?” His hands curl a little, adding pressure to the nape of my neck. “Is that a real question?”