He stretches and Elizabeth watches him, stony gaze never faltering for a second. And he winces, just for show. Nothing hurts and it’s almost like she can feel it (or rather, can’t feel anything) as well.
The bandage scratches at his neck. A nuisance more than anything. Adhesive clinging to his skin, to the tiny hairs on the back of his neck. It tugs every time he moves his neck, and he’s not yet ready to resign himself to bedrest just yet.
“Are all the ladies here nice enough to take on nurse duty?” he asks, back leaning against the headboard, lips curling upward. He bares his teeth in a grin that doesn’t make her eyes sparkle.
Elizabeth says, “You said your name was Quentin,” in a way that’s assured, businesslike. Icy, almost.
He doesn’t let his expression falter as he responds, “Yes.”
“Your wounds have healed.” She speaks slower now, head tilting. Her hands twitch, fingers moving a fraction of an inch. Tiny. No one else would have noticed.
“I must’ve been out for a long time.”
“A day and a half,” she says. She rises and her skirt swings around her ankles as she moves to the window, crouching to peer out of it. The beach awaits; he’s in a room that faces the ocean. It crashes against the rocks. “Strange, when my daughter found you in a puddle of blood.”
Quentin says nothing, tongue swelling in his throat, he swears. Idly (not so) he turns his head away from her. The bandage seems to rip at his skin.