Sonata (North Security 3)

She turns to the sink at the small countertop, carefully emptying the bag and rinsing her purchases. Soaking the bottom of the tote bag to clean the egg away. It’s startingly domestic, her bare feet on the laminate, the stream of water running over her fingers.

I stand to join her and I’m aware of a warm trickle down my side. The wound must have opened. It probably happened on that last jump between buildings. My breath catches. Barely a movement of molecules in the air. She hears it, of course.

Her dark eyes flash with something like anger. It reminds me that I’m not the only one pissed off about this situation. Neither of us knows where to put these feelings. She’s the obedient one, the good girl. I’m the one full of restraint and ignoble desires. Who are we if not those old people? Both of us locked in four hundred square feet, a prison of our own making.

“You’re supposed to rest,” she says, her voice moderated enough to be bland. She doesn’t say, you’re doing this to hurt me, but the words drift in the air between us.

I’m not doing this to hurt her. I’m doing this to hurt myself, and it’s just her terrible luck that she’s grown to care about someone like me. “And you’re supposed to stay in the apartment.”

She’s not listening to me. Instead she’s rummaging in the box that contains our first aid materials. It takes her too long to sort through the bandages and lotions. Long enough to get her emotions under control. “Take off your shirt.”

My body has the predictable response to those words, even though she says them cold enough to freeze any normal man. I’m not a normal man. She could hate me, probably does hate me, and I’d still want inside her so bad it aches. I pull the blood-stained T-shirt over my head. Bright red spreads over a white bandage. “You don’t have to look at it,” I say, my voice low. She’s inches away from me now, head bent so I can’t see her expression.

“Stay still.” Gentle hands remove the bandage. She doesn’t flinch at the way the skin has blackened around the edges of the wound. I know I’m not taking care of it well enough. I’d tear down a soldier under my command who let it fester. Your body is your most important weapon, I’d say. You wouldn’t leave your gun outside to rust, would you? Part of me wants this wound—a physical manifestation of fear, a reminder of how close I came to losing her.

Antiseptic sharpens the air. She holds a dry washcloth beneath the wound. Then she tips the bottle of rubbing alcohol towards my abs, letting the burn wash over me.

Pain blinds me, flashing white hot behind my eyes.

I hiss a breath that turns into an unsteady laugh. Usually I dampen the washcloth with alcohol and apply it that way. Instead she’s using it to catch the excess. She wanted to hurt me, and damned if I don’t want to applaud her for it. “Looks like the kitten grew claws.”

Her only response to my taunt is to keep pouring. She must want to empty the whole bottle. Some of the alcohol seeps through the washcloth, cool against the denim of my jeans. Sharp agony lances my side, as if it’s pulling from deep inside me—my gut, my balls. Every part of me tight and hard.

I grasp her wrist to make her stop. The bottle falls, landing on the hardwood floor with a hollow sound, a swell of alcohol from its mouth. Finally, finally, she looks up at me.

Her eyes glisten with tears. My heart stops. She’s crying. For me?

“I’m not worth the tears. Find something else to cry about. Someone who didn’t have one foot in hell before he even saw you, sweetheart.” I’m still holding her wrist, and I can’t make myself let go. Now that I’m touching her soft skin, now that I’m feeling her pulse in my palm—it feels like gulping down air after an eternity spent underwater. Salt breeze touches my lips. The same salt that touches hers.

“Stop it.” Tear tracks glisten on her cheeks, but she doesn’t sound sad. She sounds furious. “You want to kill yourself? Then do it, but don’t you dare do it protecting me, understand?”

I drag her close—close enough that I feel her body heat. Another centimeter and I’ll seep fresh blood onto her white lace shirt. “So I’m not allowed to make sacrifices, but you are?”

“That’s different.”

“Do you dream about it?” I search her eyes for the grief she must feel, but I find only heat and resentment. She doesn’t want to want me. That makes two of us. I dip my mouth close to hers. “The violin? The shape of it in your hands? The scent?”

“No.”

I walk her back toward the wall, empty between two open windows, one of which I used to enter the apartment moments before she arrived. “Little liar. You probably lie awake at night wanting it, moving your hands beneath the sheets to the music in your head. It doesn’t give you a moment of rest, does it?”

She shakes her head, slow and melodic, her gaze never leaving mine. “I’m fine.” Her whisper breaks, because she’s lying to me. “I don’t need the violin.”

“Such a brave girl,” I murmur, pulling her flush against me. The heat makes me groan. The pain makes it sweeter. “You gave up your violin for me. Except you know I would never approve of that. I’d never have let you do it if I were conscious.”

Her lower lip trembles. “I know you’re mad about that, but—”

“Mad? Yes, that seems to be something we missed during our days of guardian and ward. The part where you break the rules and I have to punish you. Should I send you to bed without dinner?”

“But you have to agree it was the safest thing to do.”

“Maybe I should turn you over my knee and spank you.”

That takes her aback. “You wouldn’t dare.”

She should know better than to tempt me. I drop my head. Her lips cushion my own. Her scent invades me, climbing so deep it’ll never leave.

My palm cups her head, cradling her, turning her so I can slip my tongue between her lips. Her body stiffens. She’s thinking of pushing me away.