He takes my hand, places my fingers against a thick wad of gauze over the wound, and applies pressure. I hold it there as he walks over to the counter and starts banging drawers open and closed, looking for something.
What does he need?
When he turns around, he’s holding a little white package and a hemostat. I side-eye him, asking him questions with my gaze even though that is totally against all my rules.
He signs something at me—probably Shut the fuck up, Anya. You’re a giant pain in my ass today—and then tears open the little package and pulls out a needle attached to a suture.
Oh, hell no. I stand up, forgetting about the gauze I’m holding and the pressure I’m supposed to be applying, and feel the blood drip down through my hair. He grabs my arm, shakes me, pushes me down to the floor on my knees, and then tells me to bend over the bed.
He’s going to sew that needle through the skin of my head.
He pushes me, further making his point, and so I comply. He sits down on the bed next to me, then pushes my head into his lap.
Hmm. I don’t know what to think about that. It’s not sexual. Like at all.
But it could be.
I snicker a little and he pinches the inside of my arm, making me hiss. Because that fucking hurt! When I look up at him, he’s not messing around. There is no sly smile on his face. That was not a flirt. He’s not amused, or charmed by me in any way. He’s all business.
So when he points to his lap again, I bend my head down and rest my cheek against his thigh.
He dabs the gauze, then without any warning at all, he stabs me with that needle and begins sewing up my head.
Everything about this is gross—the feeling of the needle, the smell of my own blood mixed with the cooking fish across the hall—and for a moment, I think I’m going to puke.
Cort stops. Like he knows this is coming. But he doesn’t pull me up, or hand me a bowl to hurl into, he leans down and growls at me. Daring me to throw up on him.
I stop breathing through my nose and swallow it down, keeping my eyes tightly closed as he continues to sew up my scalp.
Finally, he ties it off, gets up, finds a pair of scissors, and cuts me loose. Literally.
There is no, How are you, Anya? Hanging in there? Feel better now? No, none of that. He simply drops his equipment onto the counter and leaves, walking across the hall to mess with the food.
I start wondering just how out of the ordinary this type of thing is for Cort. Cooking for someone. Taking care of someone. He doesn’t seem like the type. I mean, isn’t that why he has that entourage around him? This morning definitely feels like a Maart job.
I watch him get out a bowl, fill it with rice and the steamed fish, and then he pauses and looks down at it, staring at it for a little bit longer than should be normal.
I furrow my brow, trying to read his mind. What is he thinking about?
He doesn’t want to give you this food, Anya. Isn’t it obvious? There’s not enough to go around. And if he gives you this extra, small, meager meal, it means one of us goes without food later.
I want to be that tough girl. That one who says, You know what? I don’t need that food. I can take care of myself. I’ve always wanted to be that girl. But I’m not that girl, and I am desperate for that bowl of rice and fish, so I’m not even going to pretend.
Cort turns and looks at me. Then one final look at the bowl and he sets it down on the counter.
I sigh. He’s not going to feed me after all. He’s decided I’m not worth it.
But then he grabs another bowl. Scoops more rice into it. More fish too. And then he gets two forks, grabs both bowls, and nods his head to me as he walks down the hallway. Not to the door that leads to the training room, but towards the back of the building where the tub room is.
I get up—still slightly dizzy, my hair sticky with blood and a little bit foamy from the peroxide—and follow him.
We end up in a large open room with couches and maybe a dozen small tables with chairs. Hmm. A dining room? Or a living room? Or something in between?
There’s a long shelf on one end filled with board games and puzzles. Monopoly. Life. Trouble. Even a beaten-up box of Hungry, Hungry Hippos. There are books too, maybe a hundred of them. No War and Peace, no Moby Dick or Wuthering Heights. There are classic editions of Winnie the Pooh and Beatrix Potter. Tattered paperbacks of Goosebumps and Babysitters’ Club.