Page 179 of Seasons of War
Where was Brock with a glass of cold water when she needed it most?
He always had to humiliate her, didn't he?
The sight of stitches pinching together his torn skin saved her from the churning inside of her, and she shuddered when she dabbed the wound with ointment. “Sorry if it hurts.”
“It's fine.”
Kira placed the square over the wound and carefully taped it in place, making sure her fingers didn't brush him. He'd already accused her of staring.
“Done,” she said.
He wrapped the bandage around his midsection, and this time she behaved herself by casting her eyes to the ground when curiosity overpowered her.
“I'll rest if you rest,” she said.
Neither of them spoke further. He did her the favor of slipping his shirt on, and she didn't even peek when his arms were above his head and his body stretched taut. She just caught a blurry glimpse from the corner of her eye.
He lowered himself to his stomach on the bed, looking stiff. Either he couldn't hide his exhaustion anymore, or he wasn't trying to mask it, because pain and weakness were etched into his face. That banished her ridiculous thoughts. How many more times would he take the medicinal Pixi? He didn't deserve to suffer.
Keeping up her end of the deal, she hid the way it felt to see him hurt.
“You can lie down,” he said. “Way over there.” A nod at the far end of the king-size bed. “With every pillow and anything else you can find between us to make a wall.”
Kira narrowed her eyes. “That last part was unnecessary.”
A smirk tugged the corner of his mouth, and her heart fluttered at how perfect he looked like that. Too perfect to even look at.
Kira gathered the pillows and stacked them by his side, crawling far away from him to lie against the wall. Though it blocked them from one another, she felt him all the way over here. This was so embarrassing. Why couldn't she get herself together around him?
Quiet fell over them, and that painful tension kept building.
The humiliation faded to longing. The kind that ached deeper than the worst hunger pangs. And it wasn't for what they shared that night they kissed, not entirely, because now her attraction mixed with all she knew of him—all his hurt and sacrifice, all the maddening and wonderful things about him.
Her fingers ached to glide over his skin, and it wasn't just because of how she wanted him, but because she needed—needed—to find her way to him.
Kira yearned to hold him. She'd dangle off the edge of a thousand buildings for just once.
She needed to draw her fingers along each and every scar until he no longer remembered the pain. Mend what never healed with all she could give him—care, and touch, and kisses, and her.
This space between them hurt so badly. Kira had never felt like this before. Never.
The bottomless pit of wanting erupted with rage at every person who ever hurt him. He'd been so young in that tank.
She dug her nails into her skin until it hurt. “You can sleep,” she said, knowing he wouldn't, and hating that she couldn't make him feel the safety and peace he needed to rest around her.
For a long while, Kira lay there awake, afraid of drifting off in case anything happened to him. But he wouldn't truly rest until she did. So she let go and fell into a deep sleep on the other side of their pillow wall.
Hours must have passed before the bed shifted and woke her to heavy breathing.
Kira almost jolted up, afraid something had happened to him, but she caught herself when she saw him sitting on the edge of the bed, back to her. He wasn't seizing or having a heart attack. There was no one in the room. And if she reacted to whatever was going on, he'd panic. Kick her out.
“Kira?” He asked it in a quiet voice, like he wasn't sure she was there to answer.
“I'm here.”
A pause. He still breathed hard. “I feel better. Don't worry about me anymore.”
He didn't sound like he felt better.
