Page 50 of Wallflower

“Thought so,” he snips back. “Just lift them a little, I’ll do the rest.”

His warm shirt moves across my skin, coming down over me and swamping my frame. It’s sporadically stained with both my old and fresh blood, smelling like vanilla, citrus, and the brine of the ocean.

It smells like him.

It smells like Chelsea.

Karson eyes me warily, my vision becoming crystal clear. I swear if this rough-handed motherfucker hurt my sister, I’ll make him regret it. She’s always been so strong, so protective. It’s about time I return the gesture.

My body floods with renewed energy, and I know he feels it as he sweeps me off my feet. “Not now,” he whispers.

I wince as water rips open old wounds. It lashes at my skin, washing away filth and soggy scabs.

“I’m sorry, but this needs to be as clean as possible before you can be stitched up.” Karson’s hands glide gently across my back, loosening up the carnage.

“What’s the point? It’s been so long the wounds have mostly closed,” I retort.

“Yeah, but some are infected. They’ll need to be reopened and cleaned properly before any suturing can be done.”

Dark water runs down my legs, swirling around my toes before heading into the drain. “What colour was your hair before they dyed it?” Karson asks.

“Red…scarlet,” I choke, watching the combination of dyes mix in my cupped hands. Sam did a thorough job, but the redstill peeks through in some spots. I’m sure I look like a walking corpse with a shitty dye job.

“I can’t imagine that’s your natural colour. Are you blonde like your sister?”

His face remains passive, like we’re old friends casually chatting over tea. In reality, he just reawakened my desire to throttle him. Knock him so hard he falls back and cracks his head on the tile. But I won’t get the answers I seek that way.

“No, my hair is brown.”

“Mmm,” he murmurs.

I’m sick of this small talk. He told me to wait. I’ve been patient enough. “Wha?—“

“Do you need help washing your hair?”

Obviously, my wrist doesn’t fucking work and my arms are useless.

“Yes, please.” I reply, not needing it to get back to Maximus that I was ungrateful.

Slowly, he turns and starts unlacing his high-tops. One by one he kicks them off.

Heaving in a deep breath, he schools his features. It’s like he’s amping himself up for something. But what’s so fucking terrible about washing my hair? Of all the things I can imagine he’s had to do, this seems pretty low on the shit list.

Huffing, his hands drop to his belt. Moving quickly, he undoes it, dropping his zipper and pushing his black shorts down his legs.

“Woah—“

“Shhh,” he whisper-snaps.

Fluidly, he moves into the shrinking shower with me. He’s still got his boxer-briefs on, but they leave nothing to the imagination once they’re soaked.

Karson clears his throat, and I die of mortification.

He didnotjust catch me sizing up his package. I’m tired. Delirious. Barely conscious.

“Turn around,” he coos.

What a fucker.