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She shrugs. “I have a high pain tolerance. It's fine.”

“Do you want to hold my hand or something?”

“Just do it,” she snaps. Her eyes are wide, her cheeks flushed. “Just get it over with, please.”

I take out the alcohol wipe and clean the wound. She doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Doesn't flinch. I'm the one breathing hard through it.

“You didn't look so concerned,” she says, “when you threatened to take your belt to me.”

“That’s different, and don't think it was a one-time threat. You're getting a little mouthy, aren't you? Do you remember when I tied you to the bed?”

“Vividly.”

“You do know I could also gag you.”

“Kinky.”

“You have no fucking idea.”

I shake my head and open the antibiotic ointment.

“Actually,” she says in a voice I can't read, “I think I do.”

I don't look at her—don't let on how much I want her. I can’t.

“This should help.” I spread the ointment on a bandage and tape it down.

I take the pain relievers, making a show of peeling the seal off the top in front of her. She watches. I tip them into her palm. Her hand is cold on top of mine.

“That's ice-cold, lass. You're freezing. Why didn't you tell me?”

She shrugs. “I got used to being cold.”

I walk to the thermostat and crank up the heat.

“It's strange,” she says, “how you pick and choose when you're going to care about how I feel.”

If she knew why we were here, it wouldn't be strange at all.

My phone buzzes again. And again.

“Why do you spend so much time on your phone?”

“I'm here for a reason. My brothers are working some things out. I'll let you know when I know more.”

She doesn't say anything, just looks toward the window. I opened it a little this morning.

My phone keeps going.

“Now lie back. Stay hydrated. I need to keep an eye on your temperature.” I crook a finger and press my palm to her forehead. She doesn't feel warm. Not yet.

She swallows and averts her gaze.

“What?”

“My mother used to do that,” she says.

“Do what?”