Page 27 of Preacher

In the warm light of the bedside lamp, the cut looked uglier than it had in the common room. A diagonal slash across the meat of his shoulder, maybe four inches long. The edges were clean, telling me the blade had been sharp.

I pressed my palms flat against my thighs to stop them from shaking then pushed off the bed.

“Bathroom?”

He nodded toward a door I hadn’t noticed before, tucked into the corner past the closet. “First aid kit’s under the sink. Top shelf above it has gauze and tape. Suture kit’s in the drawer to the right.”

I went and gathered what I needed, mostly because moving gave my hands something to do besides trembling. The bathroom was as neat as the bedroom—dark tile, a thick gray towel folded on a hook, a single toothbrush in a glass. No clutter. No sign of anyone but him.

When I came back out with my arms full, he was sitting on the edge of the bed where I’d been, elbows on his knees, watching the door for me.

“Sit up straight.” I dropped the supplies onto the nightstand. “And don’t move. I’m running on cornbread, terror, and the discovery that my—” I cut myself off. “That you are a wolf. So my hands are not at their steadiest. I’d rather not stab you on accident.”

“Won’t move, bossy pants.” He shifted just enough to square himself with me, his spine straightening and his shoulders rolling back, despite the injury, like it was habit instead of effort.

I stepped between his knees before I’d thought about what that meant. By the time it registered, his thighs were on either side of mine and his face was nearly level with my chest. I was trapped between his legs, feeling the heat coming off his skin.

His knees pressed in a fraction, not pinning me, just there, like he had decided I wasn’t going anywhere and didn’t feel the need to say it out loud.

Focus, Trent.

Pretending I wasn’t affected, I tore open an alcohol wipe and got my first good look at the cut. Not as deep as I’d thought, but still deep enough.

“This is going to sting.”

“I’m a big boy.”

His voice dipped lower, rougher, like the shift had not fully let go of him yet.

Yes you are.

Get your head out of his pants.

I cleaned the wound. He didn’t flinch, didn’t even tense. Preacher just sat there breathing slow and even while I wiped blood away in long, careful strokes. My free hand was braced against the warm slope of his uninjured shoulder. I needed something to hold on to, and his body was the closest available option.

Under my palm, muscles shifted in a controlled, deliberate way. He was not reacting to the pain. He was reacting to me.

“You’ve done this before,” he said quietly.

His breath brushed against my collarbone, warm and steady, and entirely too close for comfort.

“Mike.” I dabbed at a stubborn smear. “He’s not careful with himself. I learned out of necessity.”

“You’re good at it.”

His gaze did not leave my face, not even when I pressed a little harder to clear the blood. He watched me like every movement mattered.

“Don’t compliment me while I’m holding a needle near you.”

I reached for the suture kit, and my fingers brushed his chest for balance when I shifted. His skin was hot under my touch, and I immediately regretted the contact.

Preacher didn’t pull away fast enough, and neither did I.

His mouth twitched while I focused on the threading. The suture kit was a nice one. Better than what I’d had to work with on Mike’s kitchen-table emergencies. The curved needle slid cleanly through skin the first time I pushed it through.

Preacher didn’t make a sound. He just watched, trusting I wouldn’t screw this up.

“You don’t have to be tough about it,” I said, eyes on my hands. “Wince. Curse. Something. You’re freaking me out.”