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Outside, the cold air rushes against my face and numbs the cut.
I wipe it with the back of my hand.
Rafe catches my wrist before I can smear blood into my eye. “Leave it.”
“I can bleed independently, Rafe.”
“You shouldn’t be bleeding at all.” He fishes out a cotton handkerchief from his inside pocket and presses it to my brow.
“Ow.”
“Good. Means your head’s still attached.” His gaze lingers on the cut. “Get in the car.”
I do because arguing with Rafe when his voice goes that quiet is like picking a fight with a rabid animal.
I drop into the passenger seat with the handkerchief pressed to my brow and blow out a heavy breath. My knuckles ache from how hard I gripped the gun, and my chest is too tight beneath my jacket.
Rafe doesn’t speak as we pull away from the garage with our guys following and drive through the streets.
Eventually, he glances over at me. “You’re not yourself.”
I stare out at a row of shops, noticing a couple walking hand in hand. Bitterness pushes through me. That woman doesn’t have to worry about rival families.
“I got hit in the face. Most people would call that a temporary setback.”
“Even before he clubbed ya with an ashtray,” he points out. “Which you should’ve seen coming, by the way.”
I keep the cloth held to the cut. “I did, and that’s why I don’t need stitches.”
“He got ya good, Sera.”
I keep my gaze outside of the car and roll the window down a little, needing fresh air.
Rafe jabs my arm with a gentle fist. “Your mind went somewhere else in there. Ma thinks you should let things cool with you and Eilish.”
“Ma thinks a lot of dumb things.”
“Sera.”
I close my eyes and let my head fall back against the headrest.
“Maybe she’s right,” he adds. “Because it’s got ya distracted.”
“I wasn’t distracted.”
“Tell that to the cut on your face.”
I roll my eyes. He’s right but for all the wrong reasons.
“I’m just tired,” I lie. “There’s been a lot happening lately.”
“You not sleeping much?”
“A few hours a night.”
“Are ya eating right?”
“God, are you my brother or my mother?”
