Page 90 of Code Bound
She presses against me, and I close my eyes as I hold her tight, desperate for this touch, hungry for it. It’s been so long since I’ve wanted someone to touch me, since I’ve yearned for it. Her fingers trace along the ridged scars on my back, caressing them. Somehow, the tight skin there feels better after her fingers pass. My breath grows more shallow as those fingertips explore, my own fingers careful not to move from along her spine in case she stops touching me. When her hand starts to travel lower, lower, lower, her fingers find the large puckered scar on my chest. I can’t stop myself; I flinch.
Her hands stop immediately and she leans back, her eyes searching mine. I expect her to pull away. I want her to. And I don’t want her to. It’s been so long since I’ve been touched by someone I want to be touched by, I don’t want it to end, but it’s also agonizing.
Vesper raises her hand and cups my cheek and I press against her touch, hungry for it. “I’m sorry for your suffering,” she whispers.
I clench my jaw, holding back my emotions. “We all suffer.”
“No,” she urges. Her other hand comes up to cup my other cheek until I’m held between her hands. “Locke, I’m sorry forthisparticular suffering, for the instinct to flinch when you’re touched.”
Those words shouldn’t matter. They shouldn’t spear through my chest and nearly kill me. But they do. I swear I stop breathing. I can’t remember the last time I cried, and I don’t cry now, but if not for the sudden interruption of Svetlana yawning ridiculously loud and appearing from the sleeping bag, I might have.
I’d forgotten about the bug. Again.
I don’t know if I’m thankful for her appearance or annoyed.
“Good morning,Umnitsa,” she declares, and then those large eyes focus on me. “And gnat.”
Rolling my eyes, I realize the moment has passed and it’s probably time to get up and continue our trek to the safehouse. While we survived this night, I’m not sure how many more nights we can survive out in these conditions.
“Good waking, bug,” I grumble as I untangle myself from Vesper and reach for the zipper.
“‘Bug,’” Svetlana repeats. “I’m going to relish gutting you when the time comes.”
“I’d like to see you try,” I grunt. “You’re smaller than my forearm.”
“And I am bigger than Vesper’s,” she fires back. “You should know better than to underestimate my size. Bigger does not equal better. Surely you know that with the size of your?—”
“Enough,” Vesper laughs, moving in the sleeping bag. “We should get dressed.”
“We should,” I agree. “It’s going to be cold once we get out of this sleeping bag, so get dressed fast.” I shuffle around. “I’ll get dressed first so you have more time in the warmth.”
Her eyes watch me carefully at my offer, but I don’t linger. We’ll have to get dressed at some point. Better to grit my teeth and get it done now.
I feel her eyes on me as I slide from the sleeping bag and reach for my pants. Though the frigid cold immediately makes my skin pebble, her eyes keep me warm as I become aware of her gaze tracing over my ass and scarred back. Tugging my shirt over my head, I shiver at the feeling of the cold material against my heated skin. I don’t complain. Instead, I reach for her clothing and move toward her.
“Here,” I say. “It’s better to dress in the sleeping bag if you’re able. Let ’em warm up inside first. They’re cold as fuck.”
She takes her clothing from my hand and shoves them into the sleeping bag, waiting for them to warm up.
Only then do I notice the tips of my fingers.
I hadn’t realized just how little feeling I had in them, not until now. When I’d given Vesper her clothes, I hadn’t felt the brush of material against my fingertips, only on my palms. Now I understand why.
The very tips of my fingers are black, like they’d been dipped in the thickest grease and left uncleaned. I press them against each other and feel nothing. When I try to wipe it off on my shirt, it remains just as black. “Shit. Are your fingers okay?”
She holds her hand out of the sleeping bag and reveals black fingertips just like mine, though the black on her hands travels up higher. As I look more closely at her, I realize there’s a slight black spot on the tip of her nose. I’m afraid to look at my feet. When I wiggle my toes, I feel nothing.
“Cipher said there was something in the loot crate for this,” she reminds me.
My worry eases. I’d completely forgotten about the ointment can still in the loot chest. “You’re right.”
I’d forgotten. In then panic of the night before, I hadn’t remembered the small silver jar.
“Yet another failure of your character,” Cipher says, but it’s clear he doesn’t say it to Vesper. It’s only meant for me.
I don’t bother answering him. I’m never going to win the system over. Every bit of my survival in The Harrow will have to be on my own terms. Shit, I’m certainly not going to level up as much as Vesper each time. I never realized this place would come down to playing favorites, but I should have known.
I’m never the favorite.
