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I wiped a shaking hand across my face, shoving the hair from my eyes. The car began to slow, and I peered out the window to find Grayson was pulling into a long driveway. Gravel pinged against the undercarriage and large, dark masses crowded against the glass on either side, but I had no idea whether it was a wall or something softer like a hedge.
“Where are we?” I asked, careful to make sure my teeth weren’t chattering too loudly.
“Our clan’s safehouse. Oranmore.” He glanced at me over his shoulder quickly, then back. “Shit.” Braking heavily, he raced from the driver’s seat and popped open my door. Grayson took one look at my face and cursed again. “Where are you bleeding?”
“Bleeding?” I asked. Ididfeel lightheaded. Was that because of blood loss, or was that from the shock or surviving a car bomb?
Hauling me into his arms, he kicked shut the door, then marched up to the entrance of the imposing building. I caught a brief glimpse of an ancient-looking flagstone floor almost completely covered by large modern area rugs to keep the chill out of the room.
“What happened?” someone asked.
“Bomb,” Grayson replied through gritted teeth. “Is her room ready?”
“Second door on the right,” the person replied, then Grayson was powering up the old oak staircase. Like the man, Grayson’s gait was rock-steady as he walked down a hallway that was covered in the same dark paneling as the staircase. Portraits hung from the walls, many of which were surrounded by bulky, aged-gilt frames.
Nudging open a door, he stepped into the room and closed us in. Across the vast distance was the bathroom, where he settled me onto the closed lid of the toilet. Dropping into a crouch, he touched my forehead, the pads of his fingers coming back red.
“Fuck, lass.” He searched for the wound at my hairline, his face twisting into fierce concentration as he scraped back my hair. “Where does it hurt?”
“Nowhere,” I replied, coughing.
“Then where has the fucking blood come from?” he demanded.
I shook my head and wrapped my arms around me. My right hand slipped off though, and I blinked down at the red smear that had been left behind on my bicep.
Grayson pounced on the injury, gripping my hand and spreading my fingers wide. The stretch across my palm made me suck in a hissed breath, and I tried to pull away, but he kept his grip firm.
“There’s glass in there,” he announced, then stood to open one of the under-sink cupboards. He pulled out a first-aid kit and ripped open the zipper. Bandages, saline tubes, and alcohol swabs burst out onto the marble floor. He rummaged through until he found a pair of tweezers still in their sterile packaging and ripped them open.
Clutching my hand, he began to pull the glass free from the wound, dropping it onto the marble.
Four pieces of glass—three slivers and one about the size of a dime—sat in a puddle of blood.
Snipping the end off the saline tube, Grayson led me to the sink and flushed the wound before putting on a non-stick dressing and securing it in place.
“How does it feel?” he asked in a rasping voice.
“I can’t feel it.”
He grunted. “That’ll change in the morning.” His face had yet to lose that stern concentration as he eyed the bloody smears on my forehead. “Take a seat in the shower.”
I turned to see that there was a step built into the stall. “Why?”
He gestured to the mirror behind him, and I got the first look at myself. My face was white—ghostly pale. That was what struck me first. Then it was the blood that stood out in stark contrast, smeared all over my forehead and ear from where I shoved my loose hair.
“I’m going to put you to bed, but I need to clean you off first.”
“Why do I need to be in the shower, then?”
“I think you might fall over any moment now, and I need an easy clean-up.” He took me by the arm. “Come on. I’ll help you.”
Shuffling with him, I stepped into the stall and sat. His hand felt incredibly warm against my cold skin, and I whimpered a little when he released his hold.
He frowned. “You’re ice-cold.” Turning, he pushed the showerhead back to avoid soaking us completely and started the water. Taking a face cloth from the niche in the wall, he wet it thoroughly, then turned around, crouching in front of me.
The water—despite being turned away from us—was creeping along the tile, soaking the knees of his slacks. That was when I noticed my feet were bare. My shoes must’ve come off when Grayson was getting me out of the restaurant.
“Your clothes are getting wet,” I pointed out, my gaze flickering back to his concerned face.
