"R…Ryan."
Her soft voice pulled me back around.
Carmen sat on the edge of the mattress, shoulders tight, both hands gripping the sheets on either side of her hips. Tears still shone on her lashes, but her mouth was set in quiet resolve. The torchlight from the shelf painted her in warm gold and deep shadow. Even pale and shaking, even with blood drying in a dark track down her arm, she looked like something that did not belong in a dying house, high cheekbones, the long crushed-wheat fall of her hair, the soft heavy curve of her breasts under the thin apricot silk, the thick pale thighs pressed together beneath the hem.
I crossed to her.
"You should probably lie down," I said.
