The wound.

Focus on the wound.

“Just cut off my shirt,” he demands, his jaw clenching. “It’s ruined anyway.”

“Okay,” I agree gently. “I’ll be right back.”

Using the hair tie around my wrist, I throw my long hair back into a ponytail as I hurry into the kitchen to fish a pair of scissors from the drawer. It isn’t until now that I realize the sleeve of my sweater is drenched in blood from my wound, but I need to focus.

Ineedorganization.

As I return to the bathroom, I perch on my knees in front of him. His legs splay out further as I position myself between them, sliding the scissors up the flimsy fabric of his shirt as I cut it.

My heart is on the verge of violent palpitations from the proximity, and even more so as his bare torso comes into view. The blood trailing from his gash is a stark contrast to his bronze skin. His chest is muscular, and his stomach is rippled down his happy trail to his waistline. From my point of view, on my knees, he looms over me like some Greek God, an Adonis himself.

What is wrong with me?

The oxygen constricts in my throat as I clear it, grabbing the kit from the sink and setting it next to me on the floor while I avoid his gaze. His heavy,heavygaze. I meticulously pick out some gauze with my slender fingers, purposely focusing on the supplies in front of me and not on the fact that I can hardly breathe under his stare.

Bringing the gauze up to the wound, I bite down on my lip nervously before applying pressure to the gash. He growls loudly, and I wince.

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing.”

“Well, Iamsorry,” I mumble. “What happened back there? Why are you bleeding?”

“Stop asking questions.”

Perfect. Ofcourse,the ridiculously hot guy is an absolute ass.

“Stop beingrude,” I say.

Keeping one hand on the gauze, I lean to grab the bandages, tearing them open with my teeth before shakily wrapping them around his abdomen. My cheek brushes against his chest every time I twirl the wrap around his back to secure it tightly, making me flush. I don’t even want to know how prominent my pink cheeks are. They’re probably a flaming red signal on my pale skin, sayinghey! Look at me!

Taping the bandage in place, I flinch as he hisses loudly.

“Ow.”

He grips the edge of the sink as he grits his teeth.

“Is this the part where you murder me?” I ask quietly, wetting a washcloth at the sink before dabbing at his blood-stained nose.

It doesn’t surprise me at all when he doesn’t answer.

“Are you a bad person?” I try again.

“Keep asking me questions, and you’ll find out.”

A shudder rolls down my spine at his words, and it reminds me that he could quite literally kill me if he wanted to. Another statistic. Another story on one of those true crime shows. I’m the dumb girl who let a stranger into her house without hardly an argument.

“It depends on who you ask.” He clears his throat as he answers again. His voice is less grumpy this time, still low but calmer.

“Is that why you won’t go to the hospital?”

He remains silent as I clean his skin. I can feel his dark eyes on me as I focus on the task at hand, refusing to meet his stare. If the air doesn’t start to flow into my lungs again soon, I might pass out.Thatwould be great—falling into his lap and embarrassing myself.

He’s a stranger, Finn.