Rogue (Dead Man's Ink, #2)(26)
NINE
SOPHIA
When we get back to the cabin, Rebel puts me in his bed and tells me he’ll be back, and then I watch him through the half open bathroom door as he strips down to his boxers and methodically washes the blood from his body. He’s constructed beautifully, the planes of his muscles twisting and shifting in unison as he moves carefully around the bathroom. I can tell his side is still bothering him. And now he has two angry looking purple bruises planted in the middle of his chest where the prongs of the Taser made contact as well. There’s a lot of grunting and wincing as he cleans himself up. Sloane would tell him to sit his ass down so she could help him, but Rebel…he probably wouldn’t comply. He’s fiercely proud. He’s used to this—I can tell. If I try and interfere, he’ll probably shut down and instead of making progress we’ll be backtracking. I leave him to clean his wound and replace his bandages himself. He throws back what I’m assuming are more pain killers and antibiotics, and then he braces against the counter and stares at himself in the mirror for what feels like a very long time. He doesn’t seem to like what he sees.
When he comes to bed, I’m still intimidated by his performance back at the clubhouse. Intimidated enough that I pretend to be asleep. He sees through the ruse, though, pulling me to him without fear of waking me. He doesn’t say anything. He just strokes his hand over my hair, breathing deeply in the darkness, and I listen to his heart charging underneath his ribcage. He’s running a fever, his skin burning against my cheek as we lay there. I wonder if he’ll be a little better by the morning. Probably not. I mean, it’s going to take longer than a few days to recover from a serious injury like that, especially if he keeps moving around, attacking people with baseball bats and getting shot by DEA agents. I get the impression that tomorrow will be more of the same, somehow.
It doesn’t take long before Rebel’s breathing evens out. I’m chasing sleep myself, but before it can claim me a thought strikes me. An unpleasant one. It takes me a moment to pluck up the courage to speak. When I do, my voice is nothing more than a whisper in the dark. “Rebel?”
“Mmm?
“That DEA agent? You think she’ll come here? You think…you think she’ll recognize me?”
He inhales, then rests his chin against the top of my head, the same way he did this morning when he comforted me. It all feels too familiar. Too safe. Too right. “Yeah,” he whispers back. “She’ll come here. She’ll probably recognize you.”
“And then what? What do I tell her?”
He’s quiet. Too quiet. I already know I’m not going to like his response. “You tell her one of two things, Sophia. You tell her I kidnapped you and you’ve been held against your will for the past few weeks.”
“Or?”
“Or you tell her you left Seattle of your own free will. That this is where you want to be. That this is your home now. Here with us.”
******
It feels late when I wake up. Sunlight pours in through the window above the bed, warming my skin, though I’m cold. I’ve been used to half-surfacing from sleep throughout the night and feeling Rebel’s body kicking out enough heat to warm me in the dead of winter, but now I can tell I’m alone. I don’t open my eyes. I lie very still, listening. Sure enough, the sound of someone moving around at the other end of the room reaches me, confirming that Rebel’s up and about. Slowly, carefully, I turn over and crack my eyelids, searching him out.
He’s still in his boxers, standing in the open doorway of the cabin, with what looks like a notepad and paper in his hands. There’s a small snow globe at his feet—a snow globe of Chicago’s skyline. Back at his father’s house in Alabama there were at least twenty more of them, from different cities all around the world, collected by his mother. The snow globe from Chicago is the only one he has here with him, though. Not for the first time, I wonder what makes that one in particular so special.
“Sleep okay?” Rebel asks. He hasn’t turned around but he’s figured out that I’m awake. I pull the covers up around my body a little closer, fighting the urge to hide completely.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Good.” He pivots and freezes with the sunlight casting him into silhouette as he faces me, pen in one hand, paper in the other. He’s so damn beautiful. Not jock pretty like Matt was. No, Rebel’s body bears a striking similarity to a vase my mother keeps on her side table at home. Sloane and I were playing when we were kids, soccer inside the house, and we’d knocked the vase off the table. It had shattered into a thousand tiny pieces. Mom was devastated. It took Dad a solid three weeks to figure out where each tiny sliver of porcelain belonged and to glue it back into place. I think Mom loved the vase even more once Dad had finished the job. So much painstaking effort had gone into repairing it that it didn’t matter to her if it was riddled with a spider web of fine chips and fractures. I have no idea who has spent so long over fixing all the injuries to Rebel’s body—many people, I’m sure—but his body somehow seems more beautiful for all the scars and imperfections. Matt would whine like a little bitch if he rolled an ankle during football practice. I’m yet to hear Rebel complain once about the fact that his belly was half-ripped open, or that he was shot up with thousands of volts of electricity.