Page 81 of Crave

It ran diagonally along his side, shallow at the top but ripping deeper as it tracked toward his ribs. Blood pulsed from it in sluggish, heavy beats, sliding over his tattoo as if the snake were slithering through the mess, jaws open, feeding on the spill. He looked like violence given shape. Violence barely holding itself upright on my bathroom tiles. My chest twisted. Panic, fury, something else tender. Because he’d broken into my house like this.

He’d come to me.

I turned to grab towels, but he shoved down his jeans, stumbling into the shower cubicle in his underwear. Water thundered to life. The steam rising quick, fogging the mirror. The first hit of heat made him flinch, then he bowed his head under it. For a moment he looked almost peaceful. Serene. Water streaking down his back, pinked with blood and spiralling into the drain. And despite the bruises, despite it all I stood there watching him. Mesmerised by him. How stunning he was. How brutal and ripped and…

His knees gave out.

“Razor!” I caught him before he hit the tiles, full weight collapsing onto me.

His head fell against my shoulder, breath hot and ragged, skin burning under my hands. Feverish and cold all at once, that awful clammy heat screaming something was wrong.

“Stay with me. Hey…stay…” I eased him down, knees sliding on the slick floor, water soaking through my pyjamas as I pressed a towel to his side.

Blood was everywhere. Too much, too fast. The colour of it hit me first, then the sound. A wet hiss against the drain. His eyes fluttered, lips pale. I needed to call an ambulance. But if I let go, he’d bleed out right there.

So I shouted, “Henry!”

The sound drowned in the shower’s roar. I reached up, fumbling for the knob, twisting it off. The water cut to silence except for the gasping drag of Razor’s breathing.

I yelled again. “Henry!”

Doors opened. Feet hit the landing hard. Then Henry’s voice. Sharp, alert.

“Tris?” He appeared in the doorway a second later, dishevelled, no shirt, eyes wide, trousers open at the fly and clutching a cricket bat. “What the hell—?”

I lifted the towel. “Can you help him?”

Henry blinked. “Who the fuck is this?”

“Can we talk after?”

Henry stepped forward, crouched, and pulled the towel away. His face changed instantly. Doctor mode. “That’s a stab wound.”

“Yeah. I think so.”

“Tris, did you do this? Is he burglar? Are we saving a fucking burglar?”

“No! Can we talk about it after you save him? Put those years of med school to use, yeah?”

He shot me a look. “I’m not even half qualified—”

“Henry, please!”

That did it. He threw the cricket bat away and pressed his hand to the wound, checking pressure, then looked Razor over in quick, clinical sweeps. Pulse, pupils, breathing.

“He’s in shock.” He glanced around. “We need him flat. Lift him…careful, careful…”

Between us, we hauled him out of the shower, a guttural groan breaking from him as Henry guided us into the bedroom. We laid him across the bed, my pristine white sheets instantly blooming crimson beneath his side.

Henry leant over the wound. “Right lower flank,” he said. “Missed anything vital, I think. Lucky bastard.”

“What do you need?”

“First-aid kit. Big one. And vodka. Or antiseptic. Anything clean.”

I bolted. Down the stairs, feet slipping on the wood, heart in my throat. I grabbed the kit from under the sink, snatched the half-empty bottle of vodka from the counter, and tore back up where Zara was in the doorway, wrapped in her silk dressing gown, phone in hand.

“No!” I slapped it away before she could dial. “No ambulance. Not yet.”