Page 214 of Tell Me Something True

Smart.

Under no circumstances should one of them ever be undressing the other.

He nodded once. Stood incredibly, perfectly still, gaze on her unreadable and so freaking intense as she began to peel his shirt up his body, she wanted nothing more than to rip it off as quickly—and with as little contact between them—as possible.

But that wasn’t happening. Not when he was in pain.

And now her hands were trembling.

Easing the material up, the backs of her knuckles accidentally brushed against his lower abs. The muscles twitched and he sucked in a sharp breath, his belly curving inward.

She stilled, her face heating so hard, so fast, she felt sweat bead at her hairline. “Sorry,” she mouthed.

Pulling the material away from those hard muscles and that surprisingly soft skin, keeping her gaze at a point just over his right shoulder, she pulled his shirt up to his chin, stepped back again while he bent forward, allowing her to tug it over his head and down his arms.

Red marks and scrapes and scratches covered his torso and chest, and a huge bruise bloomed along his left side, from the bottom of his ribcage up this chest.

As if he’d been kicked there.

Clutching his dirty shirt like a lifeline, she pressed her lips together, hard, to keep them steady. Blinked rapidly to clear the sudden moisture from her eyes.

“Don’t,” he said, the word more breath than sound, low and harsh with a desperate, pleading edge to it.

As if he wouldn’t be able to handle her crying.

Sucking it up, she nodded. Sniffed. And gently pushed on his shoulders until he perched on the edge of her bed, tense and bloody and way too masculine against the softness of her mattress, the crisp white of her sheets, the femininity of her frilly purple and white quilt.

And she’d thought he looked out of place just standing in her room?

She loved how life just kept right on proving her wrong time and time again.

Dropping his shirt, she picked up a damp cloth, then stepped between his legs. He went rigid, his hands—his poor bruised and bloody hands—clenching her sheets on either side of him as she gently wiped the dried blood from his eyebrow. With it clean, she saw how deep the cut was, the edges of the skin jagged and, more than likely, in need of stitches.

Though she doubted she’d be able to talk him into going to the E.R.

Plus, she wasn’t so sure she wanted him to leave.

Didn’t want someone else taking care of him.

Something to ponder later.

She smoothed antibiotic cream over the cut on his eyebrow, then did her best to close the wound with three butterfly bandages. Wiped the blood from his cheeks. Pressed a clean cloth against his split lip. Trailed her fingertips over his ribs even though she had no idea how to check if they were broken or not.

The entire time he remained silent and still. Watchful. Without so much as a wince or a sharply drawn breath.

As if he was immune to pain.

Or just used to it.

Which made her want to cry again.

She got a clean cloth, lifted his right hand with her left one, and wiped the blood from his knuckles. Still holding his hand, she leaned forward so she could speak directly into his ear.

“Did you start it?” she asked softly, telling herself if he’d started the fight, if he’d provoked someone, she wouldn’t let him stay.

But while she told herself she needed the truth, she kept her gaze down as she eased back.

Afraid to meet his eyes. Afraid of seeing a lie there if he denied it.

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