I’m in front of the mirror, adjusting the ill-fitting clothes Moira bought since what I was wearing is now shredded on the floor—something I’ve noticed James loves to do. My eyes flicker to him through the mirror as he stands behind his desk. He’s finally washed the blood off his arms and is now buttoning up his shirt, covering the scars that mar every inch of his torso. My heart twists, wondering how they got there and feeling a heavy sense of purpose, knowing that he let me see.
