30. Imogen

30

IMOGEN

N ora slinks into the living room well past sunset.

She pauses in the doorway, gaze tracking between Josie and me nursing our teas on the velvet lounger. Her throat bobs in the silence. Then she continues deeper into the room, dumping a medical kit onto the side table next to the loveseat.

Nora passes us, headed straight to the bar cart. Pouring herself a dram of whiskey, she throws it back, refilling the glass before bringing it—and the whole decanter—to the armchair next to us. She slouches into the leather, placing the bottle next to the med kit.

"Stop giving me that look," Nora snaps, and I realize she and Josie must be having another one of their silent conversations.

Josie stands with her mug, placing a gentle squeeze on my shoulder.

"I think it's time I head to bed," she says. She shoots me a soft smile. "Goodnight, Imogen."

"Goodnight," I murmur back over another sip of my tea.

It's lukewarm now, my sips too slow to catch the heat when Josie first brought it up for me. She'd moved me to Nora's couch after my breakdown, both of us needing a change of scenery. A puzzle sits half-finished on the coffee table; we gave up thirty minutes ago, our brains too zapped from the day.

"Be nice," I hear Josie whisper to Nora as she leaves the room.

And then we're alone.

Nora doesn't meet my eye as she downs her second glass of liquor. She hisses and shakes her head as it goes down. Without saying a word, she discards her empty glass and takes the med kit into her lap. Opening the metal tin, she rifles through the materials, taking out gauze pads, bandage tape, a small pot of salve, and a bottle of antiseptic.

"Come here." She beckons me closer, still not quite meeting my eye.

The healing tonic Wes gave me only healed my bullet wound. The doctor said that it took all the magic in the tonic to repair whatever damage lingered from the blood loss, because I'm still covered in small scrapes on my face and hands. He already cleaned the wounds, pulled out shards of glass and washed the dirt from my palms, but I would need to change the bandages soon.

I slide across the couch, my knees bumping up against Nora's. I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel a pinch of relief that she doesn't shy away from the point of contact.

"Hands," she demands, holding out hers.

I place one in her grasp, and she carefully unravels the bandages there. The soft crackle of the fireplace fills the silence between us as Nora reveals the raw red scratches. She wets a piece of gauze with antiseptic.

"This may burn," she warns before pressing the damp gauze to my skin, pulling a hiss from between my teeth.

I bite down on my bottom lip as she quickly wipes off the dried blood and puss the wound expelled. With gentle fingers, she applies a salve to the cuts. She covers it with a fresh gauze pad and tapes over the edges so there's a tight seal against the outside world.

She takes her time, is methodical in her care.

My eyes droop as she repeats her work on my other hand, and when she stops, my body mourns the loss of her touch.

"These shouldn't scar. But make sure to change the bandages and reapply a salve twice a day. I'll send you home with a jar and some extra gauze pads," she says, lithe hands quickly placing each item back into its rightful spot in the little metal tin.

I place a hand over hers, trapping it against her thigh.

"Why don't you keep it? That way I have an excuse to come over every day."

Nora finally looks up, and I'm struck by how sad her eyes are. The deep green has darkened to moss, dulled by guilt.

"You don't need an excuse to come over." She almost sounds defeated, a tone I've never heard from her before. She clears her throat. "I'm sorry. For tonight."

"For which part?" I ask. "For blowing up at Josie or storming out?"

"Both?" She grimaces.

"Why did you leave?" I ask, my throat tightening for the umpteenth time today. I try to swallow the reaction back. I'm tired of the emotional whiplash the past twelve hours have given me. "I needed you and you left me."

"Because I had nothing good to say, and I didn't know how to comfort you," Nora admits. "When I get like that…" She shakes her head, face contorting into a pained expression. "It's overwhelming. Like an avalanche inside my body that I can't stop. I need to let it run its course."

"And how did that go?"

"I ruined about five practice targets at a gun range, so," she huffs. "I know it probably doesn't make sense. It's hard to explain what goes on in here."

She points to her heart.

"You don't have to," I whisper. "I understand."

"Do you?" It's more of a plea than a question—a hope, a wish.

"I might not understand the mechanics of it, how it exactly feels inside of you. But I know what it's like to be scared."

She shakes her head, face shuttering. "I wasn't scared. I was furious."

"No, Nora. You were furious because you were scared."

The firewood pops, spitting red embers into the air.

"The thought of losing you…" She doesn't finish the sentence, but I know how it ends.

"I don't want to lose you either," I say. "But it sounds as if you're set on running headfirst into a conflict with this Virtue anyway."

"I can't be killed that easily."

I smack her arm, and Nora yelps, dropping the med kit onto the rug at our feet.

"Apparently, neither can I. But you are forgetting that neither of us is invincible. You might not be as fragile as a human, but you're not a god. Bullets can kill as easily as magic."

My hand goes to my side on instinct. While the wound has healed, phantom pains still shoot through me; the memory of the slick blood coating my skin lingers.

"You dish out hard truths, love," she says, and my heart skips a beat at the moniker.

"Promise you won't run away next time," I say. "I don't need to be protected from what goes on in here." I reach forward, placing a hand over her chest. Her heartbeat flows through my fingertips, in time with mine. "I just want you . Including the parts that are scared."

"I promise," she says. Nora stares down at my hand and I at her. Neither of us knows where to go from here, but neither of us is bold enough to break the connection thrumming between us. Then, as if she can hear my indecisive thoughts, she blinks from her stupor, pulling my hand from her chest. "We're both a mess. Let's get cleaned up."

I watch as she stands and saunters across the apartment, heading to the bathroom. I follow.

The light flicks on in the bathroom, fluorescent bulbs humming as they backlight Nora; her silhouette is a shadow dancing against the tile. The bathwater runs, and steam billows around the clawfoot tub. Lavender and eucalyptus salts fill the room with a calming perfume and cloud the water a pretty lilac.

I stand in the doorway, watching as Nora swirls the water with her fingertips, testing the temperature and adjusting the faucets accordingly.

"Can we cuddle tonight?" I ask.

The question comes to the tip of my tongue on instinct. Nora's brows are furrowed when she looks up from her perch on the porcelain tub.

"Of course," she says, her voice a brush of cashmere across my skin. "Tonight, I only want to take care of you, however you need me to."

I nod, warmth spreading through my chest.

"And we can stay in bed all morning?"

Her gaze melts. "Yes, Imogen, we can do that."

"Good," I say.

"Good," she says, a soft smile on her lips. "Now, come here. Before the bath runs cold."

We spend nearly two days in Nora's bed, not even doing anything; we simply exist. Together. And it's perfect.

She lets me snuggle against her as much as I want; when she gets fidgety from the constant contact, she tells me about it rather than pulling away. And then I tell her how much I appreciate her honesty and let her have some space.

We spend hours finishing the puzzle Josie and I started—getting frustrated when we lose a single piece to the ether. We play stupid card games, most of which I lose, and recall terrible stories of our youth over home-cooked meals that Wes's nan sends up for us.

When she found out what happened, she took it upon herself to aid in my recovery. She even whipped up a special dish that had Nora cursing the old lady for how infrequently she makes it; it was a bowl of minuscule pieces of pasta, creamy with butter and parmesan.

I let Nora have a spoonful and her resulting moan had us tumbling into bed, all thoughts of the outside world cast away.

There's soft laughter, and even softer touches, and by the time our little bubble of paradise pops—a single knock on the door calling Nora away until the Sins meeting—my heart is sufficiently full.