He opened his eyes. “Nothing about not burning like a regular human being is normal,” he said. “But no, I don’t suppose scars should hurt seven years after the fact. I think in some way I always knew there was something . . . off about that. Maybe that’s why I never told anyone.”
“Nobody else knows?” I said quietly.
He shook his head. My eyes traced the scars again as I thought of everything he must have to do daily that would hurt. I let out a breath through pursed lips before leaning back over the sink, trying to find a position where I didn’t have to drape myself across his chest. “Are you okay like this?”
He rested the hand not on my knee on his stomach. “Surprisingly comfortable.”
“I’m going to try to be gentle, but tell me if it hurts.” I worked the blood out of his hair, trying not to pull on the wound itself. I wasn’t sure how well the painkillers were working. After a minute, a small, blissed-out smile came over his face, so I was pretty sure he was okay. I wiped a bead of bloody water off his forehead and gave him a nudge. “You have to stay awake.”
“Feels nice, though,” he murmured. “Feels really nice.”
“Have you never had someone do this?”
His eyes slit open and he quirked a what do you think? eyebrow.
“I fell asleep once getting my hair washed at the salon,” I confessed, trying to keep him conscious. “It was right after one of our moves, and I was really stressed and hardly sleeping. My mom took us to get haircuts and pedicures, and I passed out with my head in the sink and my feet in some lady’s hands. My mom convinced them to let me sleep for an hour. I woke up with the worst crick in my neck.”
Stellan smiled, but I could tell he was fading when his hand dropped from my leg. I tugged on his earlobe. “Hey. Wake up. Let me look at your pupils.”
“Mmm,” he sighed, but he opened his eyes. His pupils didn’t look too dilated, which I was pretty sure was good. He was quiet for a minute, then said, “That guy. The one who—is yours now. With the scar on his cheek.”
I paused, my hands in the floating blond halo of his hair, which, just for a second, reminded me so much of being underwater that my lungs ached. “Scarface. That’s what I call him.”
“He looked like someone, but I couldn’t remember who. And now I do. An Emir Keeper. Rocco. He was terminated two years ago. For—”
“Having a thing with a family member.”
Stellan nodded, and his head bobbed in my hands. “Besides the scar, he looks just like him, and I could have sworn he had an olive branch tattooed under the compass. Did you see that?”
I nodded. “That’s impossible, though, right? That Keeper is dead.”
I didn’t know what it meant, but I didn’t want to think about any of it. The train jolted, splashing a little water out of the sink.
“Sorry to bring it up,” Stellan said, seeing straight through me as always. “We don’t have to talk about it.”
“It’s fine,” I said shortly, but we fell into silence while I kept up the slow task of getting out the blood without making it worse. A short time later, I glanced down to make sure Stellan wasn’t asleep and found him watching me openly.
“What?” I said.
“You’re pretty.”
I rolled my eyes, and not just because right now, with mascara smeared under my eyes and my nose red from crying, I knew I was about as far from pretty as I could get. “Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“You know exactly what.”
“It’s not an offensive thing to say.”
“No, it’s not offensive. It’s just . . .” Something about his disoriented state made me feel more open, too, like in the little bubble of tonight, I could say things I wouldn’t otherwise say. “You realize there’s no reason for you to say stuff like that, right? I get your schtick.”
His face screwed up in confusion. “What’s schtick?”
“It means I know very well that I’m just a prize to everybody in this game, and you’re no different. So yeah, I know you flirt with me for the same reason every Circle family we meet wines and dines me. And it’s not going to work. So . . . stop it.” I felt myself flush.
There was a long beat of silence. His head was clean enough, and I held his hair up and pulled the drain plug.
“I don’t think you know anything,” he mumbled, letting his eyes close again as I turned on the tap and ran warm water over his head. “You always think you’re right. But you’re not. You are not always right.”
My heart gave a strangled twist. We were quiet for a second.
“You know,” he said, “when I first met you . . .” He opened one eye, and the twist spread to my stomach as I remembered Jack, on the Dauphins’ balcony, admitting that he liked me as much as I liked him, all along. It started just like this. Don’t say it, my mind whispered. I’m not sure I can handle this. Don’t—
“When I first met you,” Stellan said again, sleepily, “I thought you were an idiot.”
His eyes slipped back closed, and the breath whooshed out of my lungs.
“Who gets on a plane with a stranger who just pulled a knife on her?” he said. “What is wrong with you? I could have been a serial killer.”
I half sniffed, half laughed, because he was right. He let me move his head back and forth under the faucet stream.
“But that stupid, naive girl I thought you were would have gotten herself killed off a long time ago,” he finally said, his voice fading. “Or at least she would have screamed and run the other way. You’re not that much of an idiot after all.”
I paused, surprised, and turned off the tap. It took me a second to look back down at him, and when I did, he’d fallen asleep.