Chapter Two: Come home bleeding.

Clarisse hadn't moved. Her hand was still pressed to her chest, heart hammering beneath her palm. The fluorescent kitchen light was unforgiving. It caught every smear of red on Devane's skin, every rise and fall of her breath, every hard line of muscle that the sports bra did nothing to hide.

"You're bleeding," Clarisse managed. Her voice came out hoarse.

Devane glanced at her ribs like she'd forgotten the cut was there. "It's not mine."

"That's supposed to make me feel better?"

"It's not supposed to make you feel anything." Devane popped another chip into her mouth. Chewed. Swallowed. Her eyes never left the screen. "Go back to bed, Bright."

Clarisse didn't move.

She should have. Every rational part of her brain—the part that counted calories and avoided conflict and made herself small—screamed at her to turn around and walk away. But her feet were rooted to the tile. And her eyes kept tracing the blood, the bruises, the dark smudge of soot along Devane's jaw.

Devane must have felt her staring, because she looked up again. Slower this time. The boredom in her expression flickered, replaced by something sharper. Something curious.

"What?" The word was a dare.

Clarisse swallowed. "You're hurt."

"I've been hurt before."

"Not in my kitchen."

Devane's lips twitched. That almost-smile again. She set the bag of chips aside and rose to her feet—uncoiling from her crouch with the slow, deliberate grace of someone who knew exactly how much space her body took up and refused to apologize for it.

She crossed the kitchen in three strides. Stopped close. Too close. The heat of her body hit Clarisse first, then the smell—smoke and copper and something metallic, something alive.

"Your kitchen?" Devane repeated. Her voice dropped. Rougher. Private. "You've been here one night, Bright. Don't start thinking anything in this house is yours."

Clarisse's breath caught.

Devane's eyes dropped to her mouth. Lingered. When she spoke again, it was barely above a whisper.

"Unless you're offering something."

Clarisse's pulse slammed against her throat. She could feel the warmth radiating off Devane's bare skin, inches from her own. The blood. The soot. The danger. It should have repulsed her.

It didn't.

She lifted her chin. Met those ice-blue eyes. "And if I am?"

The almost-smile became a real one. Slow. Predatory. Devane reached past her, arm brushing Clarisse's shoulder, and grabbed a dish towel from the counter. She pressed it against her bleeding ribs without flinching.

"Then you're dumber than you look," she said. But her voice had changed. Softer. Hungrier. "And I don't think you're dumb at all."

She held Clarisse's gaze for a long, burning moment. Then she turned and walked out of the kitchen, leaving bloody footprints on the tile and a half-eaten bag of chips on the floor.

Clarisse stood there, alone in the fluorescent light, heart pounding, skin tingling where Devane's arm had touched her.

She looked down at the chips.

She didn't count them.

The realization hit her a beat later—she hadn't counted them—and the shock of it almost knocked her sideways. Counting was automatic. Counting was survival. She counted grapes, crackers, the number of times she chewed each bite. She counted the ribs she could feel through her skin, the hours since her last meal, the calories in a single almond.

But Devane had touched her arm, and her brain had gone silent.

She didn't know whether to be terrified or grateful.

The bloody footprints on the tile answered for her. Terrified. Definitely terrified.

Clarisse grabbed the dish towel Devane had discarded—now smeared with fresh red—and dropped it in the sink. She picked up the bag of chips and rolled it closed, her fingers moving on autopilot. The kitchen felt smaller now. Warmer. Like Devane's presence had left a residue that couldn't be scrubbed away.

Go back to bed, she'd said.

Clarisse had never been good at doing what she was told.

°°°°°

She found Devane in the downstairs bathroom.

The door was slightly ajar, a sliver of light cutting across the dark hallway. Clarisse could hear water running, the clink of something metal, a low hiss of breath—not quite pain, but close. She pushed the door open without knocking.

Devane was sitting on the closed toilet lid, hunched over her own ribs, pressing a wad of wet paper towels against the cut. The sports bra was now streaked pink where water had mixed with blood. Her hair was damp at the temples. The soot on her shoulders had smeared into grey clouds.

She looked up when Clarisse entered. Her expression flickered—surprise, then annoyance, then something guarded.

"I told you to go to bed."

"And I decided not to listen." Clarisse stepped inside and closed the door behind her. The bathroom was small. Intimate. The mirror was fogged at the edges from the hot water. "You're making a mess."

"I've had worse."

"That's not the point." Clarisse knelt down in front of her, ignoring the way her pulse kicked up at the proximity. Up close, the damage was clearer. The cut along Devane's ribs was shallow but long, still oozing. Bruises dotted her torso like ink blots. There was a small burn on her forearm—cigarette or exhaust pipe, Clarisse couldn't tell. "You need antiseptic. Bandages. Possibly stitches."

Devane raised an eyebrow. "You a doctor now?"

"I'm a ballerina. We know wounds."

Something shifted in Devane's expression. A flicker of respect, maybe. Or curiosity. She leaned back slightly, giving Clarisse better access, and the movement was so casual, so trusting, that it made Clarisse's chest ache.

"The kit's under the sink," Devane said. "Red box."

Clarisse retrieved it. First aid kit, military grade. Well-stocked. Well-used. She tried not to think about how often Devane must need this. She pulled out antiseptic wipes, gauze, medical tape. Her hands were steady. Ballet had taught her that—how to be precise even when your heart was a chaos.

"This is going to sting," she said.

"Get on with it already."

Clarisse huffed and pressed the antiseptic wipe to the cut. Devane didn't flinch, didn't make a sound. But her abdominal muscles tightened, and Clarisse was suddenly, acutely aware of how close her hands were to all that bare skin. The heat of it. The hard ridges of muscle beneath the bruises.

She focused on the wound. Wiped the blood away. Applied the gauze. Taped it down with careful, deliberate pressure.

"There," she said quietly. "Done."

She looked up.

Devane was staring at her. Not the way she'd stared before—not the cold, assessing gaze, not the predator sizing up prey.

This was different. Softer. Confused, almost. Like Clarisse was a puzzle piece that didn't fit anywhere and Devane couldn't stop trying to place her.

"You're good at this," Devane said.

"I told you. Ballerina."

"That's not what I meant."

The air between them thickened. Clarisse was still kneeling between Devane's knees, her hands hovering just above the fresh bandage. Devane's bare stomach rose and fell with each breath. The bathroom was too small, too quiet, too warm.

"You should clean your face too," Clarisse heard herself say. "There's soot on your jaw."

Devane didn't move. "So clean it."

The words hung in the air. A dare. An invitation. A line drawn in sand.

Clarisse should have stood up. Should have laughed it off, left the bathroom, gone back to her empty room and her empty stomach and her safe, controlled, starving life.

Instead, she reached for a clean cloth. Wet it under the tap. Wrung it out.

And brought it to Devane's jaw.

The first touch was feather-light. Clarisse's hand trembled—just slightly—as she wiped the soot away. Devane's skin was warm beneath the grime. Smooth except for the faint roughness of a healing scrape near her chin. Her eyes never left Clarisse's face.

Clarisse wiped along the sharp edge of her jaw. Down the column of her throat. Across her collarbone, where the bruises bloomed darkest.

Devane's breath hitched. Barely audible. But Clarisse heard it.

"Your hands are shaking," Devane murmured.

"I know."

"Why?"

Clarisse stopped. The cloth hovered just above Devane's pulse point. She could see the heartbeat there, fluttering under the skin. Fast. Faster than it should be.

"You scare me," Clarisse whispered. "That's not a good thing."

Devane's hand moved. Slow, so Clarisse could stop her if she wanted. Her fingers closed around Clarisse's wrist—the same wrist Clarisse had been touching earlier, the one that never felt thin enough. Devane's grip was gentle. Contradictory. A woman covered in blood and bruises, holding her like she was made of glass.

"No," Devane agreed. "It's not."

She tugged. Just slightly. Clarisse rose on her knees, drawn upward, closer, until their faces were inches apart. The cloth slipped from her fingers and landed on the tile with a soft, wet sound.

"You cleaned my face," Devane said, her voice barely a breath. "Now what?"

Clarisse's lips parted. Her mind was a storm. Every instinct she had screamed at her to run, to retreat, to protect herself from whatever this was. But her body had stopped listening to her instincts years ago. Her body was a thing she punished, not trusted.

But right now, this close to Devane, her body felt like hers for the first time in years.

"I don't know," she admitted.

Devane's thumb traced a slow circle on the inside of Clarisse's wrist. Right over the pulse. Right over the spot where her own tattoo lived.

"Yes you do," she said.

The moment stretched. Endless. Unbearable.

Then Devane let go.

She leaned back against the toilet tank, the mask sliding back into place—boredom, indifference, the cold gang leader who didn't need anyone. But the cracks were there. Clarisse could see them now. The way Devane's breath was still uneven. The way her fingers curled into a fist, like she was restraining herself.

"You should sleep," Devane said. "Big day tomorrow. Family breakfast. Dad's making pancakes." The word family dripped with sarcasm.

Clarisse stood up. Her knees ached from the tile. Her hand was still warm where Devane had held it.

"You should sleep too," she said.

"I don't sleep much."

Clarisse paused at the door. Looked back over her shoulder. Devane was still sitting on the toilet lid, half-naked and bandaged and bruised, looking like a fallen angel someone had dragged through hell.

"Devane?"

"What."

"Next time you come home bleeding... knock on my door instead."

Devane's eyes widened. Just a fraction. The mask slipped again.

Clarisse didn't wait for an answer. She slipped out of the bathroom and closed the door softly behind her, her heart beating so loud she was sure the whole house could hear it.

°°°°°

In her bedroom, she lay on top of the covers again. The ceiling hadn't changed. The house was still too quiet, too big, too unfamiliar.

But something in her had shifted.

She touched her wrist. The spot where Devane's thumb had traced that slow, burning circle. It still tingled. Like a brand. Like a promise.

She didn't count anything at all.