Page 77 of A Monster Is Coming

I didn’t know if I should call Peter to ask if he was coming home, or just leave it. I was not in the habit of following up on a guy.

Ten minutes till my lasagna was done. I got to my feet and started to make my way toward the kitchen, only to stop when the main door of the penthouse opened.

Peter stepped inside, and I tried to ignore that little fluttering in my chest at the sight of him. I shouldn’t feel so happy to see him, and yet that was exactly what I was—happy.

“Peter,” I said.

He looked up at me, and that was when I saw the blood on his shirt. I didn’t recoil. I didn’t run away. Instead, I closed the distance and went straight to him. “What happened?”

“I got hit, that’s all,” he said.

“You need to go to the hospital.”

“No.”

“Damn it, Peter, don’t be stubborn.”

“Trust me, Niamh, this is not the first cut or wound I’ve gotten. When I say I don’t need to pay the hospital a visit, trust me, I don’t need to pay the hospital a visit.”

Wow, he was grumpy.

“Fine, you don’t need to pay the hospital a visit, but I’m going to check your wounds.” I helped him to the bathroom.

I wasn’t sure if I helped exactly, but I was standing beside him as we made our way across the hallway toward our bedroom. I had not moved any of my clothes or stuff out of the bedroom.

I knew Ivan wasn’t coming back tonight, but I also hadn’t thought about nighttime. Or maybe I had, and I didn’t want to leave Peter’s bed. I wasn’t exactly sure what I was thinking or feeling, or if I even knew for sure what I was going to do. For now, I just wanted to take care of Peter.

I got him to sit on the toilet seat, which I had put down. “Sit.”

He didn’t argue and sat right down.

I saw a bruise already forming beneath his left eye, and I glanced over his body. His knuckles were cut, and he must have punched several hard things for them to look like that.

He opened his shirt and winced as he moved to take it out from his pants. I moved quickly, not wanting to see him in discomfort.

“Here,” I said. “Let me help.”

I removed his shirt, and then I saw several cuts. All the blood on his shirt wasn’t from him. I knew that much.

I went to the cupboard in the corner and grabbed a first aid kit. Spinning around, I couldn’t help but stop and look at my husband. He had a heavily inked chest, which I had always found fascinating, but now I saw it even more so. There were two slashes on one side of his body, beneath his breast. I sank down to my knees, and then quickly assessed the damage.

“They’re not deep,” he said.

“Do I need to ask if the other guy is in worse condition?” I asked, giving a chuckle.

“The other guy is dead.”

“I was … uh, just joking.”

“I’m not.”

I nodded. “I don’t know if you should be telling me these kinds of things, you know, the less I know and whatnot.”

“I’m not going to keep secrets from my wife,” Peter said, and the way in which he said it sent a thrill down my spine.

Maybe I was going crazy. Peter and I, our … we’re … so complicated. I wanted to hate him and yet, I couldn’t.

Opening the first-aid kit, I found the nonalcoholic wipes and tore into them to begin cleaning his wound. It wasn’t too bad. Once I cleaned some of the blood out of the way, I was able to see it was just a flesh wound. I didn’t know if a nurse would prefer to offer stitches.

---