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Trust Issues

Warm steam filled the air around Becca, faintly scented with fake apples from her shampoo. The hot water pattered down on her back, turn her skin red and, in theory, soothing away her tension. Of course, that would have been more easily facilitated had she not been in the midst of performing the contortions necessary to get her legs shaved, but she’d feel better once she was done. Probably. 

Up, rinse, up, rinse; she scraped the blossom-pink razor over her pale legs, shaking it out in the main stream of the shower water at the top of each stroke. Steam billowed up in her face as she curled over her leg, warm against her cheeks and the inside of her nose. 

There. Nearly done. 

Honestly, the whole thing was an exercise in pointless futility. It wasn’t like the wolf was going to be staring at her legs. And if he did, so what? Why did she care what he thought? 

She didn’t, that’s what. Jaw clenching, Becca pressed shower water from her eye with the tips of her fingers. 

One last stroke. 

Becca inhaled sharply as the razor sliced the sensitive skin over her Achilles heel, removing a good slice of flesh and making the water run momentarily red. She grabbed at her ankle with her free hand, trying to stem the bleeding with her thumb, and nearly slipped on the wet tiles. Her elbow smacked the bottles of hair products that lined the shower’s shelf—and the shelf itself—and she hopped madly, trying to regain her balance. Her weight fell against the cold glass of the shower screen—and the door screaked open, dumping her unceremoniously on the mat. 

“Ow.” That was going to bruise her butt. 

Disgusted, Becca threw the razor back into the shower and scrambled to her feet. She reached in and turned the water off, realising as she did that her right elbow was about as tender as her butt would be in the morning. She flung her dark blonde, wet hair out of her eyes. So much for getting pretty. 

Stupid date. Stupid wolf. 

Red streaks on the mat caught her eye as she snagged her white towel off the rail: her heel, still dripping blood. 

Bloody hell. 

Literally.

She gathered her wet hair to one side, picking it off her shoulders and neck, wrapped the towel around herself, and hobbled to the vanity. Somewhere in there, lost amid cobwebbed piles of lotions, powders and unused potions, was a packet of bandaids. 

Becca crouched awkwardly, stretching into the back of the cupboard that stank of bleach and toothpaste—and jumped as her sore elbow connected with something cold: a festering bottle of nail polish that was only too happy to jump off the shelf and smash on the floor, bleeding its awful browny-coral innards all over the second bath mat. 

The chemical scent of the polish hit her nostrils. Urgh. Someone remind me why I am doing this? Perching on the edge of the bath, Becca applied the bandaid, a giant strip wider than two of her fingers, its ‘flesh’ tones doing nothing to blend in with the complexion her grandmother had liked to call porcelain. “Bloody Irish,” she muttered. She smoothed the plaster down, snatched up the bloodied bathmat and took it to the laundry, then stalked back to her room to dress. 

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