“Go on,” Blaine goads, still lounging like he’s on holiday. “Tell her what’s crawled up your ass. I’d be happy to corroborate.”
Face flushing with a red tinge, Axel ignores the shit-stirring ex-con. “It’s nothing, Em.”
“Sure doesn’t sound like nothing.”
“Well, it is. Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”
Axel steers me from the kitchen without another glance in Blaine’s direction. This only seems to amuse him more, Blaine winking at me as we pass him. I merely glare back.
“Maybe him working with us wasn’t such a good idea.”
“You think?” Axel scoffs. “That psycho’s got a brain full of monkeys. Trust me, it takes one to know one. At least I’m semi-sane.”
Honestly, the pair are probably far more alike than they’d ever admit. No one is happy with Blaine’s presence here, but for whatever reason, Axel seems to have taken particular issue with him.
Leading me towards his bedroom, I’m offered a glimpse of Axel’s private space. Unlike Hyland’s blue-toned cave of dark wood and bookshelves, Axel’s room is bright and lurid—just like him.
The charcoal-painted walls are plastered in movie posters, art prints, humorous postcards and more. It’s a full mosaic of uncontrolled chaos that hits me with sensory overload. Every inch is covered in his madness.
The generous double bed is covered in tie-dyed blue and green sheets with a huge, fluffy blanket messily piled at the foot. While not as basic as Hyland’s space nor as structured as the glimpse I’ve seen of Warner’s militarily organised bedroom, it isn’t untidy.
At the sight of a gnarly, half-destroyed blue rabbit between Axel’s two pillows, I choke on a breath. It’s like he tried to hide the ancient teddy but quickly gave up and nestled it on a throne of pillows.
“Oh my God.”
“What?” Axel’s steps falter.
“You sleep with an old rabbit?”
An adorable red flush creeps over his inked neck. “Uh, no.”
“Then what’s that?” I point towards the ragged stuffy.
“Ah, that’s just… it’s… a… um, mistake.”
Hearing Axel splutter only intensifies my amusement.
“You totally do! You have a comfort bear.”
“Bathroom, Ember!” he snaps, clearly flustered. “Move it.”
Still snickering, I let him tug me into the en-suite. It’s similar to mine—decently sized with a walk-in shower, full of sparkling off-white tiles, decadent brass accessories and scattered toiletries.
Positioning me in front of the sink basin, Axel runs the water then holds his hand underneath to test the temperature. Once it’s warm, he opens the vanity to reveal more products stashed inside.
“Ah,” he hums. “Gotcha.”
I study the tube of antiseptic cream he pulls free. “Isn’t Warner the resident first aider around here? You know, ex-field medic and all.”
“If I went to Warner every time I needed patching up, he’d be sick of the sight of me. More than he already is.”
Ointment placed aside, Axel beckons for my left hand first. I let him take it and run my knuckles beneath the warm water, each droplet aggravating the cuts and abrasions revealed beneath the blood.
Much like Hyland’s paws, my hands are already thick with scar tissue. Six years of constant fighting and training will do that to you. This isn’t the first time I’ve busted my own knuckles by pushing too hard.
“I can’t do this,” I blurt without thinking. “Wait for Tom to be found. I just can’t hold on.”
“You’re gonna have to, Em. No one is letting you hand yourself over.”
