Page 38 of UNAwere

Blood.

His blood.

‘Jeepers.’ I go to him, not thinking. ‘Briggsy?’

I’m bending over his chair, my hands on his chest, trying to feel my way across his shirt to find the source of the smell, when I feel him grip my hips. His fingers sink into the fleshy parts of my thighs, and I gasp, my hands stilling against him.

‘What are you doing?’ he asks, voice quiet and deadly.

‘I can smell blood on you. You’re injured.’ I’m still bent over him, my hair hanging between us, his fingers still applying a bruising pressure to my hips.

‘I’m fine. I patched myself up last night.’

My hands slowly move across his chest, towards his side, and when they feel wetness, I let out a soft breath.

‘Are you sure? You’re bleeding through your shirt.’

He grunts. Turns his face towards his side, as if he doesn’t believe me, and only cops a face full of my hair. I hear him breathe deep, his fingers digging in tighter, until I’m gritting my teeth against that feeling again. My entire body lights up. The hairs on my arms and the back of my neck rise. Warmth floods my system. I bite back a moan and quickly step away from him, sucking in a deep breath that grates against my dry throat.

His hands fall to his lap, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

‘Let me patch you up,’ I quickly say.

Briggs just sits there, his eyes on the dark blotch of blood seeping through his shirt. It’s almost like he’s surprised it’s there.

‘What happened?’ I ask as I gather the first-aid kit from the bed. I bring it over, kneeling down in front of where he sits in the chair.

His eyes shoot to me, and he adjusts himself in his seat, leaning forward, as if about to get up. I grab him, keeping him still.

‘Let me do this,’ I say, a hard edge to my voice.

I have no idea what’s happening or why he’s acting so oddly. But I need to fix him up, so I have something to do. So I can distract myself from the reality of the past few days.

‘Are you okay?’ he asks, instead of answering my question.

I nod, lifting his shirt to get better access to his wound. He flinches, and I raise my eyes to his.

‘Are you going to let me help you?’ I murmur.

He stares at me. Considering. It’s like it takes all of his will to finally nod his head.

‘Take off your shirt,’ I instruct, setting the first-aid kit on his lap. I go through it, pretending to get things ready, as he sits up straighter and eases his shirt over his head. When I next look up, he’s bare-chested, and without his shirt on, he somehow looks bigger, the width of him taking up the chair. His chest is still rising and falling a little too rapidly, but I ignore it, getting to work.

He lifts his arm for me and turns slightly, not saying anything. I’m robotic as I instruct him, and he’s robotic as he obeys. It’s like we’re both treading a line that’s invisible to us, afraid of stepping off, of making any slight movements that might make us trip. I focus my attention on the wound – two long slashes across his ribs. They’re not deep enough to require stitches, but they are deep enough to need cleaning and bandaging.

Briggs is breathing in short bursts again. His scent is strong, with him being so close, with his skin bare to me, his blood fresh. I don’t acknowledge the fact that it smells good. I don’t acknowledge the fact that, for the first time in my life, I want to Turn and tear at his throat again. Taste him again. Run my tongue along his skin.

‘What happened?’ I ask.

I need to be speaking, so I can cover up the crazy notions in my head with noise. Normality.

‘Karvers,’ he says, voice gravelly.

‘That old woman.’ I swallow thickly. ‘She’s the alpha?’

‘Lucia. She got away.’

‘She’s kind of evil.’