Chapter 18 · Through the Keyhole

His mouth is right there. Half an inch.

Close enough to smell the black coffee on his breath. Behind us, the clawfoot tub is throwing off cold steam.

"Say it again," I get out.

"You heard me." Owen's thumb digs into the hollow of my hip, wedged right under the damp towel. His palm is hot. Fever hot. "Four-corner interrupted. Nobody closes an artery like that anymore. Not unless they learned it in a war zone and never got around to learning anything else."

Triage kicks in. Count the exits. Count the weapons.

One bathroom door. One deadbolt. One massive bastard blocking both.

"I was an ER nurse," I lie. "Nurses stitch."

"Not like that."

"Then a doctor did it and you're wasting your breath."

A low hum vibrates in his chest. He doesn't buy a single word.

His other hand comes up. I flinch—pure reflex, ugly reflex—but he just hooks his fingers under my jaw, tilting my chin straight up into the light. The bulb above the mirror buzzes. Harsh yellow.