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From across the room, Eszter padded over with a blanket she’d stolen from Sparrow’s supply. She handed it to me silently, then looked down at Thomas, her brows tight.
“You’re not allowed to die,” she said.
Thomas blinked at her. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Will won’t stop pacing if you do. I only have one nerve left, and he’s on it.”
That earned a bark of laughter from Egret, who’d been listening all the way in the kitchen.
Sparrow peeked in, a toothy grin splitting her face. “I think she outranks you now.”
Eszter folded her arms and looked back at Thomas. “He worries. That means he loves you. You should try not to scare him so much.”
Then she turned and wandered back to her quiet corner of the safe house without waiting for a response.
Thomas raised an eyebrow. “I’ve been scolded by a thirteen-year-old.”
“She’s not wrong.”
He chuckled. “No, she isn’t.”
We didn’t say anything else after that.
I sat beside him, watched the door, and counted his breaths.
“I’m okay,” he whispered after several minutes. “Promise.”
I squeezed his fingers and bit back tears that had threatened since we fled the mansion. “You’d better be . . . asshole.”
47
Thomas
Iwokeinpieces.
First to the ache. It was dull and hot, like a coal smoldering just beneath the skin.
Then to the throb—a rhythm out of sync with my pulse, hammering its own beat deep in the socket of my shoulder. Every time I breathed, it flared, sharp and wet, like something inside me was tearing again, piece by piece.
The blanket felt too heavy, too hot when I was under it, too cold when thrown off.
My arm didn’t feel like it was my own.
I tried to shift, and the world tilted. Sweat prickled my skin. I gritted my teeth and counted backward from ten, trying to ride the wave instead of drown in it.
Thank God, we had antibiotics.
That would keep me from dying of fever or rot, but there was nothing for the pain, not even aspirin. Sparrow had apologized, but not gently—the way you do when you know an apology won’t help. And Will . . . he hadn’t left my side, which was probably the only reason I hadn’t completely unraveled in the dark. I blinked against the low light of the room.
The safe house was still, but my body was a war zone.
I was still counting my breaths when I felt a shift beside me. The blanket rustled, then stilled again. A warm palm slid across my ribs and up to my chest—tentative and gentle.
Will.
His voice was a whisper. “You’re awake.”
“So are you,” I rasped. My throat felt like sandpaper.