"Yes, he isn't" I agree with him.
He is irritated, and frowns which is very rare for him.
"Why?" I slur the question in his face and answer him. "Because he is hot?"
Jeremy's glare sharpens, cutting through my fever haze, before he turns and without a word, vaults effortlessly off the balcony.
"Oh! Wait... Jealous?" The words slip out too late, and I'm left staring at the empty space where he stood. "He's not that hot," I mutter to myself, collapsing back onto the bed.
The cool silk of my nightgown brushes against my skin, unfamiliar yet oddly comforting. I don't remember changing into it—or anyone helping me—but the scent of herbs and lavender clings to the fabric, unmistakably Aunt Ves's doing. It's too clean, too soft, like it doesn't belong to the same me that arrived blood-soaked and battered.
I don't know how long has it been, but some time has gone.
