Page 10

"Look," I sigh, rubbing my temples. "I'll let you walk me home. But only because I have a first-aid kit in my apartment and you're going to let me take a look at that cut."

He stares at me for a long, quiet second, assessing me. Then he gives a single, sharp nod. "Deal."

God, I am so stupid.

I turn around and start walking toward my building again, hearing the steady weight of his boots right behind me. But as I move through the dark streets with a monster at my back, a strange realization washes over me.

I'm not afraid. Not even a little bit.

We reach the front steps of my modest house, the rusted porch light casting a weak yellow circle over the worn wooden boards.

Before my foot hits the first step, I stop, spin around, and press a single finger firmly against my lips.

"Shh," I whisper sharply.

He tilts his head down at me, an arched eyebrow raised in silent questioning as he looms on the narrow landing. I don't give him an explanation. I just fish my keys out of my bag, my heart doing a quick, nervous flutter against my ribs.

Every sensible bone in my body is screaming that bringing a towering, blood-knuckled stranger through my front door is absolute madness, but I turn the key in the lock anyway.

The door glides open with a faint click, and I slip inside, waving him in behind me.

We step into the small foyer, keeping our movements ghost quiet. The last thing I need is my grandmother waking up, wandering down the hall in her robe, and finding a wall of dangerous muscle standing in her living room.

I ease the front door shut, turn the deadbolt, and turn around to catch him casually scanning the space. His sharp hazel eyes take in the framed family photos, the floral couch, and the old, knitted throw blankets with calculating speed.

I flick on the dim hallway lamp and point a warning finger at his chest. "Wait right here."

He doesn't move a muscle. I creep down the carpeted hallway, pushing open the cracked door to Milly's bedroom just enough to peer inside. The soft sound of her faint snoring fills the warm air. She’s fast asleep.

Relief washes over me. I back away quietly, head back to the foyer, and gesture for him to follow me down the hall into my bedroom.

He glides behind me so effortlessly that I don't even hear his shoes touch the floorboards. As I close my bedroom door behind us, I briefly wonder how a man that massive can move with the silent stealth of a phantom.

"Sit," I say, pointing to the edge of my mattress.

He sits quietly, the bed dipping under his frame, though his eyes never stop tracking my movements. I cross over to the closet, open the top shelf, and fish out the white plastic first-aid kit.

I turn back around, setting the box on the nightstand, and cross my arms over my chest.

"Take off your shirt," I say.

He lets out a sigh, rolling his eyes as if letting me tend to his bloody wound is the single biggest waste of his time. Grabbing under the hem, he grips the fabric and peels the shirt up over his head in one fluid motion, tossing it onto the bed.

My breath catches right in the middle of my throat.

I try—heck, I try so hard—not to stare at the ridiculous expanse of skin laid out in front of me. Chiseled, razor-sharp abs, broad shoulders that seem to block out half the room, and thick bands of dark, intricate ink trailing up his ribs and across his collarbones.

But since I actually have to step closer to inspect the jagged, bloody slice near his waist, ignoring his body is completely impossible.

As I reach for the bottle of rubbing alcohol, a pack of sterile gauze pads, and the tube of antibiotic ointment, I glance up at him.

"This is going to sting," I warn, unscrewing the cap.

He scoffs, a low, arrogant sound in his throat, not bothering to brace himself at all.

I soak a fresh cotton pad in alcohol and press it gently to the jagged slice near his waist. As I carefully wipe away the smeared blood, my eyes naturally roam across the broad canvas of his torso.

Beneath the intricate dark ink, I catch the faint, silver lines of old scars—knifepoint nicks, gunshot grazes, jagged remnants of a lifetime spent in violent shadows. The tattoos cover most of them, but not entirely. He looks rough, ruthless, and terrifyingly unsalvageable.