Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 57307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 287(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 287(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
Jordan grinned, feeling so relieved he didn’t know what to do with himself. He blinked, trying to get rid of the sudden wetness in his eyes. He was just tired; that was all.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he said, adopting a dry, snarky tone that hopefully didn’t betray how raw he was still feeling. “What you need to be worried about is getting pissed on, because my bladder really didn’t appreciate having two hundred pounds of dead weight on it for hours.”
“It’s two hundred and ten, actually,” Damiano said, and didn’t move.
Jordan would be perfectly content to keep lying like this too, except he wasn’t kidding about his bladder. He had been so stressed that his body’s needs had entirely slipped his mind.
“I’m serious,” Jordan said. “Get off me, you.”
Damiano sighed and rolled off him.
“Careful!” Jordan said, supporting him. “I didn’t play nurse for you for days only to have you ruin my hard work.”
Damiano gave him a long look, but he did move more carefully as he stretched on his stomach on the thin, lumpy bedding. “This is a lot less comfortable,” he grumbled.
“No kidding,” Jordan said, walking to the toilet and unzipping his pants. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
There was a long silence that was only broken by the sound of Jordan relieving his bladder. Fuck, it felt good.
He was zipping his pants when he heard a quiet, “Thanks.”
Jordan blinked at the wall. He had a feeling it wasn’t a word Damiano used often.
Feeling a little off-balance, Jordan did his best to rinse his mouth with water to get rid of the stale morning breath. “You need water,” he said, pouring some into a cup and grabbing the antibiotics. “And you probably need the antibiotics again, though I have no idea how much time has passed since the last time I was able to give you some.”
Damiano hauled himself into a sitting position, his muscles bulging as he did so. Jordan eyed his physique, musing on the unfairness of the genetic lottery. If only everyone could look this good after being tortured and being sick and feverish for days.
“Water,” Damiano said eagerly, and Jordan was suddenly struck by how open and unguarded his face was compared to the arrogant man with an inscrutable expression that he had met. Had it really been just four or five days ago? It felt like it had been in another life.
Jordan helped him drink, brushing the dark hair off Damiano’s sweaty forehead with the other hand.
He froze a little, realizing what he’d just done. He’d become so used to touching Damiano’s hair—touching his everything—while he had been feverish that it came as second nature now.
Jordan cleared his throat a little.
“You need a haircut,” he said, trying to act as though there was nothing unusual about his behavior. “Though you’re totally rocking the Ben Barnes look, it’s not very practical when you get locked up in a dungeon and tortured for days.”
Damiano was looking at him with a strange expression Jordan couldn’t quite read.
Rubbing the back of his neck with his hand, Jordan glanced at the toilet. “Do you need to piss? I can help you.”
Damiano gave him a pinched look. “I’m not an invalid.” He gingerly got to his feet, swayed, and glared at Jordan when he attempted to catch him. “I’m fine. I can take a few steps on my own.”
Rolling his eyes, Jordan flopped back on the bedding. “Suit yourself,” he said, closing his eyes. He still felt tired and sleepy.
He must have dozed off, because he was only distantly aware of the sound of a toilet being flushed, and then Damiano lay down—on top of him.
Jordan grunted but didn’t protest. He knew how uncomfortable it was to lie on one’s stomach on that thin bedding. This felt so much nicer. This was what he’d gotten used to over the past few days.
“I’m glad you aren’t dead,” Jordan mumbled sleepily, his brain-to-mouth filter gone. “Thanks for not dying.”
He felt Damiano go still on top of him.
He didn’t say anything, and Jordan drifted off.
Chapter 12
The following days were some of the most bizarre in Jordan’s life.
The assholes upstairs mostly left them alone after Jordan told them Damiano was still near his deathbed—they only dropped them food and water several times a day.
Jordan was perfectly content with that. In fact, he was pretty content in general, which was… bizarre. His panic attacks were gone. The walls had mostly stopped closing in on him, if he didn’t focus on them. Maybe he’d just gotten used to the cellar.
Or more likely, it had something to do with the fact that he spent practically every waking moment wrapped up in Damiano—sometimes very literally.
Damiano’s back was better now, but he still slept half on top of him, his heavy arm thrown over Jordan’s chest in a manner that seemed… Jordan couldn’t find a word for it. Either way, Jordan couldn’t bring himself to mind. When his world was a dark, tiny room deep underground, it was Damiano’s presence—his body, his hands, his voice—that kept him sane. The only thing to focus on.