Page 64 of Of Flame and Fury

“Emme, stop. Stop,” Bren growls.

I stomp toward the bathroom, unable to take what’s happening between them. There’s so much pain and hurt, and neither will do a damn thing about it. Yeah, yeah, I went through the same thing with Gemini. But that was different. We were lovers, and Emme and Bren are not. I think. God, at least I hope not.

My determined steps falter when I throw open the door. Bren sits on the edge of a jacuzzi tub large enough for a cozy foursome. Emme’s face is pink with frustration.

I huff. “What’s the problem this time?” I ask.

Bren mutters a few curses. I roll my eyes. “Really, Bren? You’ll have to give me more than that.”

Emme glances down at her hand, spreading her fingers. It’s then I see how raw they appear. Emme is raw from healing? What the absolute hell? Light fills her palms and spreads across her digits when she notices me, notice her hands.

“I’m fine, Taran,” she says.

My gaze bounces from her to Bren. “Not completely, are you?”

She swallows hard. No wonder she ate as much as she did. We’re sapped from battle. Emme is worn out by every soul she touched and saved.

“Just tell me what’s going on,” I press when both fall silent.

“It’s Bren,” Emme says. “He doesn’t want me to heal him.”

I cross my arms when Bren clenches his jaw and all but cracks three molars. “He doesn’t want you healing him, or he doesn’t want you touching him?” Bren narrows his eyes, warning me I’m about to cross a line. I run my mouth anyway. It takes more than dirty looks and lines crossed in the sand to stop me. “Which is it this time? And what has you so worked up?”

“I’m not worked up,” he growls.

“It totally shows,” I quip. I gather my hair around me, allowing the coolness in the bathroom to reach the back of my neck. I could sleep for days, except Johnny Dearest won’t give us that option.

“I’m trying to help,” Bren says. He swipes at his scruffy beard and swears. “She’s bad off. She doesn’t need me making it worse.”

“Okay, now you’re just grasping at straws,” I mutter. “She’s eaten, she’s recovering. Let her help you.”

“No,” he snaps.

“Quit acting like a damn martyr,” I snap back. “Seriously, what’s the big deal about Emme healing you, touching you, or otherwise?”

I frown when I see blood oozing down his leg. I ease forward and lift the edge of his long shorts. “Holy shit,” I say gasping.

I smack his hand away when he tries to shove the fabric back down. “You have a crater in your thigh.”

“I know,” Bren replies.

“No, you don’t. I can practically stick my head through it!”

Emme’s jaw is on the ground. She wasn’t aware of that injury. Like me, I was fixated on the seeping wound just above his knee and the hamburger his calf and ankle have become. Bren swipes at the wound, splattering the white tile with green fluid and tearing the skin that had closed open.

“Jesus Christ, Bren,” I say.

Emme is rendered speechless, her hands clasping her mouth tight.

Regret and a lot more than that splays across Bren’s features, lessening his anger if only for a moment. “Emme needs to keep her strength, in case Celia or anyone else needs her. You saw all the shit we suffered. Not all of us made it, T, and more still might not.”

“I saw,” Emme says. “And it was terrible.”

Something about her soft voice overpowers my yelling and telling Bren how much we need him and everyone else still willing to fight to save Celia.

“I’ve replenished my strength,” Emme insists. “Don’t be afraid to hurt me.”

Bren swallows hard. “Too late for that, kid,” he tells her.