Page 73 of Ladybirds

After David, she didn’t believe the crack in her heart could widen any further, but she can feel it—deep and splintering—in her chest like a physical wound. She thinks of that moment in the rain when he told her he was hers; the break in his voice when he spoke of trading one Hell for another.

How can it be anything else?

Her eyes burn, jaw aching from holding in the sob that wants to tear itself from her chest. Her grip loosens, fingertips trailing down his arms—his skin shivering beneath her gentle touch—until she finds the crook of his elbow and delivers a coaxing pressure.

He doesn’t want to release her; it’s as clear as the flash of pain in his gaze, but he surrenders—lets his hands lower away from her face. “Sara…”

Her name has never been so heartbreaking; each syllable a blow.

It’s too much.

She steps into the empty space of his arms and hugs him—holds him. Quietly, the tears (one, then two) slips free.

He sucks in a breath, the uninjured side of his chest rising beneath her cheek, before his arms—trembling—wrap around her with near bruising force. One hand tangles in her hair, his face dropping to the crook of her neck with a sound that is half sigh, half sob.

Sara doesn’t let him go.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Injuries keep appearing.

Mostly minor bruising, but the splattering of dime sized wounds across his chest and shoulder looks gruesome and there’s a cut along his ribs that makes her worry the more she looks at it. One of her good friends is an emergency doctor—she should know what to do—but she’s frozen in disbelief as new marks appear across his skin faster than she can process the one before. It’s not until Seth wads up his shirt and presses it over the wound at his side that she remembers the basic first aid lesson Miles gave her when she sliced her finger on a paring knife.

Stop the bleeding. Keep it clean.

“Sit down,” she ushers, relieved when he obeys without argument. With some difficulty (damn that boot), she kneels between his legs and ignores the way his eyes widen.

“What on earth are—” he yelps as her hands cover his, pressing the cloth more firmly against his side.

With his thigh pressing intimately against her ribs, she doesn’t dare meet his eyes. “Pressure, right?”

His breath hisses between his teeth as he leans his head back onto the cushion. Beneath her palms, his hand trembles. The pained grunt would be hard to interpret if not for the sharp nod. “Pressure.”

They fall silent, the only sound Seth’s rasping breaths and the hammering pulse in her ears. “How long?” Her murmur sounds louder than it is, plucking at her nerves like a guitar string.

His thumb strokes the back of her pale knuckles, crimson smearing over her skin, and Sara realizes that she’s trembling too. “A while yet, I’m afraid. Perhaps another ten minutes.”

Jerkily, she nods—tries to swallow down the panic she can still feel clawing at her throat. She can’t stop staring at the blood streaking their hands.

“I must confess, when I dared to imagine it, I envisioned us partaking in much more enjoyable activities,” he jokes, words breathy. His eyes are dark, rimmed with pain, but his lips are turned up into a smile that borders on flirtatious.

Sara knows it’s an act; an attempt to distract her from the anxiety clawing at her chest. She loves and hates that, in some small part, it works. “You’re bleeding all over the couch. Maybe now isn’t the best time to clue me in on your sexual fantasies.”

His grin is wicked. “I was talking about the cake you promised. But, please, do tell.”

Sara’s laugh is breathy, but at the tail end it sours into a sob. She hears her name, a sigh on his lips, and the tears come faster than she can stop them.

“Shh, breathe, Sara. Breathe.”

“You’re hurt. There’s—the blood and the bruises, how can you even—”

“Look at me.” There’s a gentle command in his voice, one that begs for no arguments. When she obeys, his face softens. “I promise you, I’m in no danger. It looks far worse than it is.” Gently, he lifts their hands away from his wound, exposing the cut along his ribs. The bleeding has stopped. “There now, see? Right as rain.”

“There’s nothing right about this,” she snaps, voice hoarse.

He hums. “There are a few aspects I wouldn’t mind repeating, but faced with the overall situation and your temper, I will concede defeat. Also, I’m afraid I need to borrow your shower.”

Shower. Right.

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