Taste a Thousand Deaths (Marionettes of Myth #3)

Chapter Eighteen

Rosette spared a glance away from the mirror mounted to the closet door. Jason sat on the edge of the bed with his elbows to his knees and his foggy eyes aimed at the floor. He wasn't at the level of the other three vampires, which meant he didn't heal quite as quickly, which meant the hospital had kept him hooked up to the morphine longer than the others—and he would still need more help.

A small smile worked its way to her lips as she finished brushing her long, golden hair. Her hair was getting so long. Annoyingly long. When it took her six minutes simply to brush through it dry, it was time to get rid of it.

She set aside the brush on his nightstand and waddled over to join him on the edge of the bed. "Why aren't you laying down yet?"

A moment passed as he gathered his words. "Part of me knows I shouldn't."

"A part of you that you've been indulging too often. Here, let's take this fat pill." She popped open an orange bottle of hardcore painkillers and slid a pill about the size of her thumb into her hand. The pill toppled into his palm and she pressed a glass of water into his other hand.

He stared down at the white morsel. "I can't take this. What if something happens?"

"You're indulging it again." She nailed him with a look of scolding. "You already know nothing will happen, otherwise you wouldn't have made it all the way to bed."

This was why Nekane had made a quick job of fetching Rosette, because she'd known that Jason shouldn't be alone, and because she'd known that he would be. He needed someone to take care of him, a little reminiscent of Cassandra and Ares. But it wasn't the same.

Everyone needed taking care of every now and then.

She smoothed his disheveled hair from his face. Despite all the blood the hospital had pumped into him, he was still so cold to her touch. "You won't protect anyone until you let your body and yourself heal."

He was silent. Of all the things she'd known to be the most wary of when it came to Ares, it was his silence. Jason and Ares were very different, incomparable on most levels, but they had their similarities.

When his eyes finally lifted, he murmured, "I have to beat him."

The morphine and the building exhaustion and the wear and tear of his body had loosened his lips. It also helped that maybe he felt a little safer around her when it came to his real thoughts.

She scooted closer and rested a hand on his knee. "Beat him by resting tonight. He doesn't want you to do that. In fact, he wants to drive you so hard that you fall apart, so don't let him."

His eyes lifted to her and smashed her heart to pieces. There was such pleading in eyes, quiet begging, and she didn't know what he wanted from her, and she was sure even he didn't know what he wanted from her, either. She just knew she didn't like it when he came to this breaking point.

She didn't like it at all.

But he caved when she took the pill and popped it between his lips, and he caved when she pulled back the sheets and helped ease him down. She crawled in beside him and pulled the blankets up to their chins, and she told him, "You're safe here. Let yourself fall asleep."

He might not have wanted it. He might have hated how the struggle in him died down as the pill dissolved and seeped through his system. Sleep took him, and she was afraid to move, afraid to startle him awake, afraid he'd never sleep again, like Ares toward the end.