SADIE
I shove Trey’s shoulder with my good hand. "You—"
The pain tearing through my foot cuts me off, and my fingers curl into his shoulder instead as I suck in a breath.
"All out," he says, holding up the two tiny pieces of porcelain.
"That was horrible." I scowl at him. "You tricked me."
"You took it like a good girl."
I pout, but my scowl falters when one corner of his mouth lifts.
I’ve never seen him smirk before, and strangely, it’s the first time I really see the resemblance between him and Ezra. Same mouth. Similar curve.
But Ezra’s smiles always made me wonder what he was thinking. Trey’s makes me want to see it again.
"Let’s get you bandaged up." He reaches into the first-aid box again.
Once my foot is wrapped, Trey checks it one last time and gets to his feet.
"Get dressed. I’m taking you to see a friend."
"A friend?" My stomach tightens. "Trey, I think I need an actual doctor."
"She is one. Massachusetts General."
Oh.
"You think she can tell me what’s happening?"
"That’s the idea."
I don’t need much more convincing than that. I still need to get to the Omega Welfare Center, but figuring out what the hell is happening to my body is a lot more urgent. Dark veins, changing eye color, enough strength to destroy plumbing. What next? Demolishing buildings with a fart?
"Okay." I nod. "Give me a few minutes. I need to brush my teeth and wash my face."
He glances toward the bathroom. "Until that gets fixed, use mine."
I blink. "Your bathroom?"
"The guest shower is still broken. Walker snapped the showerhead off and fucked up the valve too. Water’s shut off in there until it gets fixed."
"Oh." My attention drifts toward the door.
Using his bathroom isn’t the problem. A shower is a shower. It’s getting to it that has heat creeping up my neck.
I’m going to be spending considerably more time in his bedroom than I ever planned to. Morning. Night. Shower. Teeth. That’s a lot of walking through his bedroom in a towel.
"How long do you think it’ll take to fix?" I ask.
"Couple of days." He packs the saline and gauze back into the first-aid box.
A couple of days?
I carefully put my feet down and push myself up, but the moment I put my weight on them, pain bites into both soles. I gasp and drop back onto the mattress.
Trey’s head snaps up. "What are you doing?"
"I was trying to..."
"With those feet?" His expression tightens. "I just spent all that time fixing you up and your first idea is to walk on them?"
"I can’t get ready from here." I rub my forehead. "I need my things."
"What things?"
"Clothes. Toothbrush. Face wash. Everything."
He closes the first-aid box. "Tell me what you need."
"There’s a spare toothbrush in that drawer." I point toward my vanity. "My face wash and towel are in the bathroom."
He gathers the toothbrush, face wash and towel into the small basket on my vanity before bringing it over.
"Thanks." I take it from him. "And can you grab me something to wear? Anything is fine."
He goes through my wardrobe and comes back with a shirt and sweatpants, placing them beside me on the bed.
"Thank you," I repeat.
He steps back. His attention stays on me with an expectant look that makes it obvious he’s waiting for something. I mentally run through what he brought over and come up blank.
I glance at the basket, then the clothes again. "That’s all."
His gaze drops to my cleavage, lingering there just long enough to make my heart stumble. "Underwear?"
This time, I physically feel my intestines jump inside me.
"W-what?"
"Underwear, Sadie. Are you not wearing any?"
"I’m wearing—" My voice nearly leaves my body. "That’s not what—"
"Then where are they?"
For a second, all I can do is stare at him.
Surely, there’s some universally understood boundary here.
Is he emotionally stunted, or does he not know that underwear falls into a category of belongings men generally don’t go digging through for women they aren’t dating?
Even a boyfriend feels like a stretch to me, but maybe that’s just my prudish little brain inventing rules everyone else stopped following years ago.
Trey’s brows draw together the longer I say nothing.
Great. Now he looks annoyed that I haven’t provided directions to my panty collection quickly enough.
"You can’t just grab my underwear," I finally muster.
He squints at me in confusion. "Why not?"
Why not?
"Because they’re private. And personal."
His face stays blank for a second. "I’m not asking to see your tits, Quiz Bowl. They’re clothes."
Well. To him, apparently.
My cheeks are burning so badly I’m fairly certain I’ve turned completely red. Is everyone this open-minded about underwear, or have I somehow made it to twenty-one with a completely outdated idea of what counts as private?
I eventually point toward my dresser. "Second drawer."
He crosses over and opens it, his hand disappearing inside. Before I can reconsider every decision that brought me to this apartment, he pulls out a gray bra and, somehow worse, the matching panties.
Wonderful.
Added to the list of things I never expected to experience in my lifetime: Trey Mercer picking out a matching set for me.
I’m never going to be able to look at this man properly again.
As he comes back toward the bed, I turn my attention firmly elsewhere. The chair. My wardrobe. The wall. Anything that isn’t him.
"Ready?" he asks.
"Uh-huh."
A second later, Trey scoops me into his arms. Being carried earlier while I was bleeding everywhere was one thing. This time, my head is clear enough to notice the arm under my knees, the solid press of his chest against my side, and how little effort it seems to take him.
It also occurs to me that with my feet like this, he’ll probably have to do it again. More than once.
I stare firmly ahead as he carries me into his room, but the moment we enter, I forget why I was doing that.
My eyes wander everywhere at once.
His room is huge, easily twice the size of mine, with enough space that his bed barely seems to take up any of it.
He lowers me onto the bed and reaches for the basket. "Give me your toothbrush."
I pass it to him while taking in the space around me.
Hockey dominates most of it. Banners line the walls, mixed with framed photographs and jerseys, some belonging to players I don’t recognize and others unmistakably Trey’s. There’s enough of it that I can tell hockey isn’t simply something he happens to be good at. He obviously loves it.
What isn’t obvious is everything on the other side of the room.
Butterflies.
My eyes widen.
A large mesh enclosure sits by his window, lush with plants and dotted with butterflies drifting between the leaves. Beside it are smaller clear containers, caterpillars resting on leafy stems, each one marked with a tiny label.
I lean forward a little, forgetting about my feet.
They’re beautiful. Ethereal. Heavenly.
One settles against the mesh, its wings opening slowly, and I’m still watching it when Trey comes back.
I lift my gaze to him, then back to the enclosure.
"The butterflies..." I whisper.
My eyes drift to his hands.
Scarred knuckles tending leaves. Rough fingers carefully moving caterpillars from one stem to another.
"My children." He holds out my toothbrush. "I’ll introduce you later. Go brush."