Goddamn it.
Over at the closet, she opened the paneled doors, ditched her johnny, and changed into some scrubs - which, of course, were not her size, but male-sized. And wasn't that a metaphor. As she struggled to dress with one hand, she cursed John, the Brotherhood, the role of shellans, females in general. . . and especially the shirt and pants, as she struggled to one-handedly roll up the bottoms that pooled around her feet.
As she marched for the door, she studiously ignored the fact that she was looking for her mate, and instead focused on the songs going through her head, little a cappella versions of such happy Top 40 hits as "What Gave Him the Right to Call Her Out on the Field," "How in the Hell Could He Have Left Her Down Here Alone," and the ever-popular standby "All Males are Morons. "
Doo-dah, doo-dah.
Tearing open the door, she -
Across the corridor, John was sitting on the hard floor, knees peaked like tent poles, arms crossed around his chest. His eyes met hers the instant she made an appearance - not because he looked her way, but because he had been focused on the space she would fill long before she had actually come out.
The ranting in her brain silenced: He looked like he had been through hell and had carried the flames of the devil's living room back in his bare hands.
Unwrapping his arms, he signed, I thought you might like your privacy.
Well, shit. There he went, ruining her bad temper.
Shuffling over, she eased herself down beside him. He didn't help her, and she knew he was doing that on purpose - as a way to honor her independence.
"Guess this was our first fight," she said.
He nodded. I hated it. The whole thing. And I'm sorry - I just. . . I can't explain what came over me, but when I saw you injured, I snapped.
Her exhale was long and slow. "You were okay with me fighting. Right before we were mated, you said you were cool with it. "
I know. And I still am.
"You sure about that. "
After a moment, he nodded again. I love you.
"Me, too. I mean, you. You know. "
But he hadn't really answered her, had he. And she didn't have the energy to follow up any further. The pair of them just sat on that floor in silence until eventually she reached out and took his hand.
"I need to feed," she said roughly. "Will you. . . "
His eyes shot to hers and his head bobbed. Always, he mouthed.
She got to her feet without his aid and extended her free hand to him. When he took her palm, she summoned her strength and pulled him up. Then she led him into the recovery room, and locked the doors with her mind as he sat down on the bed.
He was rubbing his palms on his leathers as if he were nervous, and before she could go over to him, he jumped up. I need to shower. I can't get close to you like this - I'm covered in blood.
God, she hadn't even noticed he was still in his fighting clothes. "Okay. "
They traded places, she heading for the edge of the mattress, he going for the bathroom to turn on the hot water. He left the door open. . . so as he stripped off his muscle shirt, she watched his shoulders bunch and twist.
Her name, Xhexania, was not just tattooed, but carved in beautiful symbols across his back.
As he bent down to draw off his leathers, his ass made a stupendous appearance, his heavy thighs flexing as he shucked one leg and then the other. When he got in the shower, he went out of eyeshot, but he returned soon thereafter.
He was not aroused, she realized.
First time for that. Especially as she was about to feed.
John wrapped a towel around his hips and tucked the end in at his waist. As he turned to her, his grave eyes made her sad. Would you like me to put on a robe?
What the hell had happened to them? she thought. And for fuck's sake, they had been through too much just to get to what should be the good stuff only to screw it up.