The next day when he comes to visit me, I’m already sitting up.
He frowns when he sees me. His eyes look haunted, but at least he’s distracted enough from all that to admonish me. “You should be lying down. You’re not fully recovered yet. If you push it—”
“Come sit by me,” I say, patting the sheet beside me.
Normally he doesn’t sit at all. One time when I asked him to, he sat on the edge of the armchair, looking so freaking uncomfortable I asked for a glass of water just so he’d have an excuse to leave. But this time I’m not going to let him off that easy.
He looks ready to refuse. God, is he actually leaner than before? Like he’s not eating either…
After a long moment he nods and sits on the edge of the bed. My stomach sinks. He really does seem disgusted. “Is something wrong?” I ask softly.
He looks surprised. Then he laughs, a little rusty. “I’m not the one who got shot.”
“Mhmm, but I’m making a full recovery over here. You, on the other hand…”
He shakes his head. “The last thing you need to worry about is me.”
“Do you want me to leave?” My heart gives a pang as I ask the question. I don’t want to leave. But I will, if he wants me to. I haven’t figured out if I can live with him.
But I’m already figuring out I can’t live without him.
“No! Jesus, Honor. You’re way too sick to be moved.”
I frown. “You make it sound like I’m dying.”
“You almost did.” His voice is rough. “I held you in my arms, watching you bleed out. Do you have any idea how much I—You can’t leave. That’s the bottom line. Don’t try to fight me on this.”
I hadn’t wanted to leave at all. But something is still wrong. “Are you—are you grossed out by me? By how I looked when you found me?” Before he can answer, I rush to add, “Because I wouldn’t be offended by that. I mean, it was awful. I hate that you saw me like that.”
He looks away. A muscle in his jaw flexes. His chest rises up and down like he’s forcing himself to be calm. But when he looks at me, he’s anything but calm. There’s fury in his eyes. “What the fuck are you talking about? Gross? You think I think you’re gross?”
He’s saying it like it’s totally ridiculous, but I don’t think it’s ridiculous at all. “Well, I mean…it was pretty gross.”
The marks haven’t healed. I see them every time I shower, though Clara has to help me. She winces just to look at them. I’m guessing a few of the deeper ones will leave scars, but at least eventually they’ll fade into some regular color instead of black-and-blue like now.
He’s just staring at me now. Speechless.
I’m making a mess of this, but I’m not sure how. “Look, I don’t want you to think I expect anything from you. Like a relationship or something. I know that we were just… that you were just… I know what I was,” I finish lamely.
Kip stands up, tension radiating from him. He stalks to the door, and I think he must be leaving. I open my mouth to call him back, to apologize, to beg him to stay, but then he turns on his heel. Even this far away I feel his gaze sear me.
“Let me get this straight,” he says. “According to you, I’m just using you for sex. I think you’re gross because you were hurt. And I want to throw you out in the cold while you’re still recovering. Does that about sum me up?”
My voice is small. “When you put it that way, it sounds kind of bad.”
His eyes are like molten copper, metallic and in motion. He’s panting like a bull about to charge, and suddenly my words seem like red flags.
“No, Honor,” he says, taking a step forward, “I don’t want you to leave. Not ever, if it’s up to me.”
My heart pounds. “Oh,” I say, real quiet. Because oh.
Another step. “And when I looked at you tied to that bed, I wanted to rip apart every man that had helped put you there, every man that had hurt you. I wanted to take your wounds into my own body, feel the pain instead of you. Not once have I thought you were anything but beautiful.”
I swallow hard. “Kip?”
“And as for using you for sex…” He reaches the edge of the bed, but he doesn’t stop. He leans over me, one hand on either side of the headboard, his face just a foot from mine. This close his eyes are pure energy, a vortex that sucks me in and steals the air from the room. “That much is true. I want to use you for sex again and again. I never want there to come a time when I can’t use you for sex, for friendship, for every goddamn thing, because I’m in love with you. Fuck, I love you.”
“I love you too,” I whisper. It feels almost magical, like if I talk too loud, I’ll break the spell. How could he love me after everything? How could I love him? But I do.