Cursed: Out of Ash and Flame by E.C. Farrell (epub e ink reader .txt) 📕

Me: Complicated mission is complicated.

Hank: What happened?

Me: Beat up by female version of u. At motel, halfway to check point.

Those dots bounce, then stop, then bounce again.

Hank: Need me to come?”

Max appears again next to the window, arms wrapped around the ice bucket, and a slight smile on his face. “I scored us some extra bags. Give me a sec to put a few ice packs together.” He marches into the bathroom.

Lips pressed together, I look back down at my cell.

Me: Thanks Hank. Rt. now I’m in pretty good hands. Check into something for me, will u?

Hank: Hit me.

I tap the phone screen with my thumb nails. Fear rotates in my chest like a cyclone. Part of me doesn’t want to know if Max’s theory is right. Better not to live in fear that my next death will be my last. Then again, if my lives are limited, I’ll need to be more careful...

Me: See if u can’t find out whether or not the curse has an end date. As in, I can only die so many times b4 I can’t come back at all anymore.

Those dots bounce a few times before Hank finally sends a thumbs up emoji. Either work has distracted him, or the question is as jarring to him as it is to me. Whatever the case, I know if I can count on anyone, it’s Hank.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Max has me wrapped up in blankets, and packed in ice like a hunk of meat after a fae wild hunt. Shivering and propped against the headboard with every pillow in the room save one, I clutch a cup of coffee to try and keep warm. It’s not helping much. Either in terms of heat or making my brain function more clearly.

A solution tickles the back of my mind, but it’s faint, unreachable through the mental fog from my injuries.

Max bends over me, one knee propped on a chair as he dabs the cuts and bruises on my face with a damp washcloth. He rests a hand on the wall above my head to get a better angle. My gaze traces up his neck, drawn along by the smooth skin there, and my fingers twitch with the impulse to follow the band of muscle standing out.

It tempts my imagination to dangerous realms, to tangled limbs, and shared warmth.

Then he hits a particularly sensitive spot on my eyebrow, and I suck in a sharp breath. “Sorry,” he says. “Almost done.”

“Maybe I like it a little rough. You don’t know.”

Max grins. “Eh, I bet you’re the cuddling type who pretends not to enjoy chick flicks because she wants guys to think she’s not like other girls.”

I giggle faintly. “I’ll have you know, my favorite movies are a very weird mix of Hallmark Christmas stories, violent war retellings, and heartwarming Claymation.”

Letting out a loud laugh, Max drops the red-tinged washcloth onto the edge of a cup half-full of murky water, and swaggers back toward the bathroom. “I’m here for that kind of movie night. Maybe if that cell Hank brought you has the right app, we could find a good one to stream. Depending on the level of production value, sometimes they’re free.”

Curious, I unlock my screen, and scroll through the options as Max rinses the washcloth and cup. A knock at the door nearly has me jumping out of my ice packs. Max jogs across the room — somehow managing to make even this look fluid — and peers through the peephole. Tossing me a grin, he slides the security chain free, and turns the knob.

“Soup’s up.” He signs for our Chinese takeout, then carries the bags to the table in the corner.

As he digs into the bag and unpacks the boxes, I can’t help but watch, mesmerized by his movements. Even numb with cold, or maybe because of it, my skin remembers the warmth of his touch. Bounty brain scolds it. Yaritza’s mantra repeats in my head.

Preserve the contract.

Fraternizing with the mark isn’t exactly against the rules, but it’s definitely frowned upon. Entanglements leave you vulnerable. Create blind spots. With everything he’s done so far, with everything he’s said, the last thing I need is to stir up any more emotions toward him. I need to steel my nerves.

My resolve to do that shakes when Max turns that grin on me. The memory of him glowing with sunlight fills my mind. It’s so brilliant it’s difficult to think of much else, not even about his water spirit magic.

Boxes in hand, Max carries them over to the side table, and takes my coffee cup. He then lays the final pillow on my lap, and steadies one of the containers on it with a fork sticking out of the rice and chicken.

“Think you can balance okay, or do you need me to feed you?”

“If kicking you wouldn’t risk spilling this orange chicken...” I glare, but can’t quite keep the grin from coming, or a cough from nearly toppling the container.

Chuckling, Max steadies it, then sits cross-legged next to my feet with his own food. “We definitely wouldn’t want that.” He breaks his chopsticks apart and rubs them together to smooth the sides. “Have you ... ever done that before? Killed yourself because of an injury?”

Nose wriggling with a grimace, I take a bite of orange chicken before I answer. It takes a little extra effort to gnaw through some of the more rubbery edges, which gives me time to measure my words, even out my emotions. I stare at my socked feet. Max took my shoes off for me before packing me with ice.

Keeping my emotions in check isn’t going to be easy. Not with the way he’s taken care of me in spite of everything. Knowing it’s probably a manipulation doesn’t help much either. The faster we can get to Breaux Bridge, the better. Until then, I’ll have to put up every barrier possible to protect myself from his charms, his