at the thought of Drew in the infirmary, and I squeeze Four’s arm.
“Good,” I say. My voice sounds tight and fierce. Anger builds inside me, replacing my blood with bitter water and filling me, consuming me. I want to break something, or hit something, but I am afraid to move, so I start crying instead.
Four crouches by the side of the bed, and watches me. I see no sympathy in his eyes. I would have been disappointed if I had. He pulls his wrist free and, to my surprise, rests his hand on the side of my face, his thumb skimming my cheekbone. His fingers are careful.
“I could report this,” he says.
“No,” I reply. “I don’t want them to think I’m scared.”
He nods. He moves his thumb absently over my cheekbone, back and forth. “I figured you would say that.”
“You think it would be a bad idea if I sat up?”
“I’ll help you.”
Four grips my shoulder with one hand and holds my head steady with the other as I push myself up. Pain rushes through my body in sharp bursts, but I try to ignore it, stifling a groan.
He hands me the ice pack. “You can let yourself be in pain,” he says. “It’s just me here.”
I bite down on my lip. There are tears on my face, but neither of us mentions or even acknowledges them.
“I suggest you rely on your transfer friends to protect you from now on,” he says.
“I thought I was,” I say. I feel Al’s hand against my mouth again, and a sob jolts my body forward. I press my hand to my forehead and rock slowly back and forth. “But Al…”
“He wanted you to be the small, quiet girl from Abnegation,” Four says softly. “He hurt you because your strength made him feel weak. No other reason.”
I nod and try to believe him.
“The others won’t be as jealous if you show some vulnerability. Even if it isn’t real.”
“You think I have to pretend to be vulnerable?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes, I do.” He takes the ice pack from me, his fingers brushing mine, and holds it against my head himself. I put my hand down, too eager to relax my arm to object. Four stands up. I stare at the hem of his T-shirt.
Sometimes I see him as just another person, and sometimes I feel the sight of him in my gut, like a deep ache.
“You’re going to want to march into breakfast tomorrow and show your attackers they had no effect on you,” he adds, “but you should let that bruise on your cheek show, and keep your head down.”
The idea nauseates me.
“I don’t think I can do that,” I say hollowly. I lift my eyes to his.
“You have to.”
“I don’t think you get it.” Heat rises into my face. “They touched me.”
His entire body tightens at my words, his hand clenching around the ice pack. “Touched you,” he repeats, his dark eyes cold.
“Not…in the way you’re thinking.” I clear my throat. I didn’t realize when I said it how awkward it would be to talk about. “But…almost.”
I look away.
He is silent and still for so long that eventually, I have to say something.
“What is it?”
“I don’t want to say this,” he says, “but I feel like I have to. It is more important for you to be safe than right, for the time being. Understand?”
His straight eyebrows are drawn low over his eyes. My stomach writhes, partly because I know he makes a good point but I don’t want to admit it, and partly because I want something I don’t know how to express; I want to press against the space between us until it disappears.
I nod.
“But please, when you see an opportunity…” He presses his hand to my cheek, cold and strong, and tilts my head up so I have to look at him. His eyes glint. They look almost predatory. “Ruin them.”
I laugh shakily. “You’re a little scary, Four.”
“Do me a favor,” he says, “and don’t call me that.”
“What should I call you, then?”
“Nothing.” He takes his hand from my face. “Yet.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I DON’T GO back to the dorms that night. Sleeping in the same room as the people who attacked me just to look brave would be stupid. Four sleeps on the floor and I sleep on his bed, on top of the quilt, breathing in the scent of his pillowcase. It smells like detergent and something heavy, sweet, and distinctly male.