King of the Mountain (Witchfire 2)

Chapter 10 - Visiting Hours

Scowling at my bandages, I tried to figure out how I felt about the fact that my injuries were going to scar. On one hand, they'd look badass whenever I donned my shifting leathers; but they'd also show every time I dressed up, an ever-present reminder of the time I had the shit beaten out of me by a girl who was shorter than Roland's temper. I wonder if Sail will still think I'm pretty, I thought, chewing on my bottom lip, feeling unusually insecure. Then I realised how petulant I was being and forced myself out of that pitiful state of mind.

Ethan was ignoring me in favour of his phone, a dent forming between his brows as he typed.

"What are you doing?" I asked, eager for a distraction. I didn't want to think about the way others might perceive me, or how the hell I'd gotten into this hospital gown — really, who undressed me? — or the prickling hypersensitivity that pounded through my body with every beat of my heart, reminding me of all the damage my body had sustained.

"Texting," he said, and then went uncharacteristically quiet for a moment before adding: "I'm not very good at it. Dad never let me have a phone growing up."

"Who are you trying to reach?"

"Piper," Ethan said shortly. "She said to call her as soon as you woke up, but I've always hated phone calls. It feels so weird in front of other people, because they can only hear one half of the conversation."

"Why did you agree to do it, then?" I asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"She paid me twenty bucks," he admitted, thumbs hammering away at the screen. I winced; he was hitting it way too hard. "She must really want to talk to you."

That didn't bode well. Shifting with discomfort, I remembered our time in the arena, and those piercing green eyes; how that knife had felt between my ribs; and how I'd healed the wound that should have killed me. That must be why I'm alive, I concluded, feeling grim. She spared my life so that she can investigate the anomaly of my recovery.

Well, at least I was breathing. That was a plus.

"How long have I been here?" I asked Ethan.

"A couple of hours," he replied, setting his phone down on the table and looking me dead in the eyes. "Watching you sleep is incredibly tedious, by the way. It was like you were dead, except I could see that you were breathing, so it wasn't as exciting as it would have been if you were actually dead."

I didn't even bother trying to wrap my head around that. "That isn't long," I said aloud, feeling a little silly to be so relieved. I couldn't think of anything worse than slipping into a coma and waking up in a world that had learned to live without you.

"Yes it was," Ethan complained. "It was unbelievably long. I've never been so bored in my life."

I rolled my eyes. "I think you're exaggerating."

"No, I'm not," he insisted, leaning forward. "I had enough time to write the word 'loser' on your forehead with a permanent marker, didn't I? And I ate your complimentary chocolate, and I took a heap of selfies of us together — those are on Instagram now, by the way. Oh, and I went through all of your stuff in that bag over there. There wasn't much, but there was one shirt that was pretty cool. It was white and had a unicorn on it that was throwing up a rainbow."

"Tell me you didn't," I pleaded, but the chocolate was gone, and he was describing my favourite shirt!

"Of course he didn't, love."

I whipped around to face the newcomer, much to my immediate regret, for the action pulled at some stitches and sent fire shooting through my nervous system. The curtains around my hospital bed parted, admitting a broad-shouldered boy with hair like burnished gold. He seemed to exude gentleness and positivity, even though he could crush a human head with the strength in his weakest hand if he chose to.

"Sail," I breathed, sincerely hoping he was right.

About the permanent marker part and the photos, to be specific. Ethan had already eaten my chocolate and pawed through my belongings, but I couldn't bear the thought of looking any more dishevelled in front of Sail. The only flaw in his person was his crumpled shirt, suggesting he may have worn it two days in a row, but I was wrapped up and banged up like a piñata, stuck in a backless, spearmint hospital gown that did wonders for my pasty skin. It was utterly mortifying.

I focussed my outrage on Ethan. "You said you were texting Piper."

"No, I said she paid me to text her first. There's a difference."

Sail tousled his hair. "That's my little lawyer."

I watched in amazement as the two enacted a complicated handshake, complete with spirit-fingers and explosion noises. The coordination of the feat was incredible, and I barely refrained from clapping like an excited seal.

Instead, I attempted to channel Piper's no-shit attitude. "What did I just witness?"

Ethan elbowed his partner in the ribs and, in an endearing moment, Sail flinched, even though the action wouldn't have hurt him in the least. "We take calisthenics classes together," the twelve-year-old said. "That's one of our routines."

I couldn't do it. I couldn't stay mad at either of them. "Calisthenics has never looked so good," I said smoothly, and it wasn't a lie. Surely it was illegal to be as hot and charming as Sail was? Even being this close to him made me blush so hard it felt like I was going to combust into flames.

Something delicious flickered in those ocean-blue eyes. Without once taking his eyes off me, Sail pulled a leather wallet from his back pocket and whipped out a fifty-dollar bill. Ethan snatched it up and scampered out of the room without another word. I watched him go, speechless.

And then it hit me I was alone with Sail for the first time. Sail, the sinfully attractive Gamma of the High Pack, and he was looking at me with those eyes, and I wasn't wearing much, and oh Jesus, he was smiling at me...

"Well, this is proving to be an expensive first date," he said.

I felt my heart skip a beat. He was joking, right? Right?

People don't come back from flirting like this.

Sail chuckled. "No, they don't," he said, and I realised with abject horror that I'd spoken the thought aloud. "But that's the plan."

Oh, lord.