Page 82 of Grim Tidings

“Why can’t I be good?” I blink open my eyes and tip my head against the couch cushion, looking up at Gabriel. “Why can’t I help people, too?”

His mouth tilts downward, his hands still hovering over my middle. “You are good.”

I laugh. “You’re such a bad liar.”

His expression grows fierce. “You are,” he repeats. The soft glow in his hands dissipates, and he drops his palms against my hips, squeezing. “You saved Nate today.”

Does a good deed count if it’s motivated by selfish gains? That feels like a shitty loophole, if so.

“I did it for myself,” I whisper.

“He’s still alive because of you. I don’t really care why you did it.”

My bottom lip trembles. “You really think I did good?”

He brushes some hair out of my face. “You fishing for compliments now, trouble?”

“I got hit by a car. If I were to fish for compliments, I’d say now is the time.”

He laughs and it’s better than his magic. It warms me from the inside out. Makes me feel like someone just shoved a candle in the middle of my chest.

“All right. Yeah,” he says. “You did good.”

“Keep going.”

“Nah, that’s enough.” He slips one hand under my knees and the other behind my back, careful not to brush against the still-sensitive skin between my shoulder blades. He lifts me against his chest for the second time, and I get the absolute pleasure of being nestled under his chin while he slowly moves us down the hall.

“No,” I whine. “You’re supposed to give me whatever I want. Flatter me with compliments.”

“I flatter you enough.”

“Oh?” A rasping chuckle creaks out of me. “Sometimes I catch you staring at me like you want to scoop out my eyes with a melon baller. Is that flattery?”

He shakes his head. “That’s not how I stare at you, Darcy.”

He shoulders the door to his bathroom open and carries me inside. It’s a small room. Checkerboard matte tile in cream and ebony. A single vanity with a frameless mirror above it. It’s clean and utilitarian and perfectly Gabriel. The only indulgence is the massive claw foot tub, porcelain white with a brass faucet.

Gabriel sets me on the edge of it, reaching over my lap to fiddle with the taps.

“I can manage from here,” I tell him, still clinging to his neck like a baby koala.

He doesn’t look at me. “I’m sure you can.”

The water creaks on with a groan and Gabriel holds his hand beneath it, testing the temperature. Apparently to his satisfaction, he finds the plug and places it carefully in the drain. I watch the water fill the basin with a dreamy sort of detachment, my exhaustion making me feel drunk.

“This isn’t a shower,” I mumble.

“Technically, it is.” He nods at the mounted showerhead, extending from the spout. “We’re just not using it.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t trust you to stand long enough to get the blood off you, and I don’t want you to follow up getting hit by an SUV with cracking your skull open on the side of a porcelain tub.”

“I’m already dead, Gabriel.”

His sigh brushes against the skin of my neck. “Yeah, and I don’t want to see you hurt. C’mon. Stand up.”

He keeps his hands on my hips as I stand on wobbly legs, making quick work of my jeans. He strips them down my legs efficiently while the tub continues to fill, sparing a quick glance at my legs. He is a series of detached, practical motions. I could be a carton of milk at the grocery. A particularly stubborn knot down at the docks.