Page 92 of Torin

Coffee sloshes over the rim of one mug.

“It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“Not as—” I hurry across the room and put both mugs on the bedside table. “What the hell happened to you?”

He pushes himself upright, and his face tightens.

Then I see the rest of the damage.

Four raw claw marks rake across his ribs and disappear beneath his arm. Another set crosses his shoulder, surrounded by bruising.

I sit on the edge of the bed. “You look awful.”

A faint smile pulls at his battered mouth. “I heard chicks dig this kind of thing.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

He reaches for his coffee and sucks in a breath.

“Jesus.” I pick up the mug and hand it to him.

“I could’ve got it.”

“Clearly.”

He takes a sip.

“What happened?”

“I had a disagreement.”

“With a threshing machine?”

He laughs, then winces.

I wait.

Apparently, that’s all I’m getting.

“Fine.” I get to my feet.

“Where are you going?”

“To find something to clean you up with.”

“Hannah, you don’t need to⁠—”

A few minutes later, I’m back with a bowl of warm water, a washcloth and the first-aid supplies from the bathroom.

Torin looks at the collection. “You planning to operate?”

“If necessary.”

I sit beside him and reach for the antiseptic.

“Don’t bother. They’re already closed.”