Page 69 of The Harbinger
I jolted out of my stupor as his deep baritone surrounded me, halting my cries. I sniffled and squinted at his silhouette sitting on the edge of the bathtub.
How long had he been watching me, and why were the lights off? Why didn’t he help me?
“What is?”
I pulled myself to a seated position and leaned against the vanity. A dull throb radiated down to my elbow as I rubbed my forearm.
He leaned over, his elbows on his knees, and clasped his hands before him. “Watching your memories tear you apart from the inside.”
“You’re sick. You need help.” I shook my head, clearing the fog from my mind, then winced as my tongue lashed out against the cut inside my lip.
Sacha’s lips curled into a sly smile. “I’m aware of my condition.” He walked towards me, then sunk down to his haunches. “But that doesn’t stop me from appreciating the beauty of watching you piece your life back together like a puzzle.”
“Why are the lights out?”
I put my nose in the air. There was a strong, heady perfume of delicate florals and musky wood. Citrus, spice, and hints of dark vanilla intermingle with a warm sweetness. My body oil.
“I thought it would be better for the headache.”
“But I don’t have—”
“Not yours. Mine.”
A jagged exhale escaped me as I swiped the tears from my face.
There was a moment when I’d thought he had a compassionate side to him, but then he’d shatter my fragile world with his callous words and shredded my hope like tissue paper.
“Let’s get you cleaned up.” He held out his hand, but I swiped it away.
“Don’t touch me.”
The last time he laid his hands on me, I blacked out on the floor with blood coating my teeth.
“I told you there’d be consequences.” He put his hand back out as if I would accept it after his accusatory tone.
“I’m good.”
I grabbed the vanity and lifted myself off the floor, but my feet slipped out from underneath me, and my butt hit the floor once again.
The floral residue wafted up from between my legs, the oily substance the cause of my fall.
I huffed out an exasperated breath, moving the hairs out of my face as I did. Sacha kept his hand outstretched, waiting for me to take hold.
Accepting help from him was like admitting defeat, and it burned every single part of my belly until my throat stung from the acid. I didn’t want his help. But the question was: did I need it?
I exhaled and slid my hand into his.
He tugged me up as though I weighed nothing, his arm wrapping around me as my feet slipped around like a newborn fawn trying to find its legs. “You must have spilled the body oil when you pulled away from me.”
I took a split-second glance over my shoulder towards the vanity, where the familiar glass bottle with its golden hue and coiled handle sat in its usual spot. Sacha had likely placed it there when I was out cold.
Although his theory didn’t seem possible. It had a funny child safety lock, which I’d found odd for lotion and hadn’t used it today. In fact, I’d only used it once since finding it. Maybe I’d forgotten to give it an extra click?
“I guess I must have.”
Sacha’s fingers clamped onto my waist as he guided me away from the vanity, leaving behind a pool of oil, my feet slipping, forcing him to bring me closer. When we made it to the bed, he sat me down on the edge of the mattress, my tongue rubbing the cut in my mouth as he examined my arm.
He twisted my wrist gently from side to side. “Does this hurt?” I shook my head, and he moved it up and down. “And this?”