Page 56 of Forced Pregnant Bride

The first aid kit was where it always was, tucked in a drawer in the kitchen. When I breezed inside, Serena was by the cooking gas. Her hand paused over the pot, her mouth fell open, and her eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets when she saw me.

I didn’t even bother with the courtesy of a greeting. I didn’t even fucking bother to fully notice how radiantly she wasglowing in yet another yellow dress that stopped high above her knees. Opening the drawer, I yanked out the fucking box with more force than necessary, spilling nearly half its contents onto the counter. Bandages, antiseptic wipes, gauze—they scattered everywhere, and I cursed under my breath.

I wasn’t sure which annoyed the hell out of me more: not being able to recall the last time I needed to use a first aid box or needing to use one at all.

Grabbing what I needed, I stalked into the living room, throwing myself onto the couch. The leather creaked beneath me as I leaned back, wincing when the movement pulled at the torn flesh in my forearm. “Goddammit!”

I looked down; my shirt was ruined, the dark stain spreading across like a black canvas.

With one jerk, I ripped it off, gritting my teeth as the dried blood pulled at the wound. The air hit the raw cut, and I clenched my jaw, my patience thinning with every second. The antiseptic wipe came first. I ripped the packet open with my teeth, dabbing at the wound with a sharp intake of breath as the sting set my nerve on fire.

“Damn it.” Growling, I tossed the used wipe onto the center table.

The bandage was next. A simple strip of adhesive should have been easy, right? Fucking wrong.

My hands, which were usually so steady, were shaking—anger, pain, maybe a mix of both. I peeled the backing off, but the damn thing folded in on itself before I could line it up. I barked out a frustrated laugh, the kind with no humor, and tossed the crumpled bandage aside.

Another one. This time, I held my breath, steadying my hand like I was aiming a gun. I pressed the bandage over the cut, smoothing it down, only for the edges to peel away immediately.

“Son of a—” I leaned back against the couch, glaring at the ceiling like it personally offended me.

Blood trickled from beneath the failed bandage, mocking my efforts. My head dropped back, eyes closing for a second as the frustration boiled over. I’d stitched fucking bullet wounds, broken bones with my bare hands, and taken down men twice my size without breaking a sweat.

And here I was, losing a fight to a goddamn Band-Aid.

“Turns out you’re not Superman.”

I opened my eyes, not surprised to see my wife standing in front of me with a smile on her face.

Offering a dry chuckle, I sat upright. “Ha, really? Here I was thinking we’d already established that.”

“And yet, somehow, you manage to remind me.”

Closely, I watched her. “How long have you been standing there?”

She shrugged, lowering herself to sit beside me on the couch, and the plush cushion pillow dipped under her weight when she adjusted. “Long enough to catch the show of the mighty one ripping his shirt off with his bare hand.”

I grunted, earning a laugh from her. “Must have been quite the show.”

“Yeah, it was. I followed shortly after you stepped out of the kitchen, but I guess you were too immersed in fixing up that bandage that you didn’t notice.”

“And what a great job I’m doing putting it on, right?”

“Fantastic work.” She smiled at the mess I’d made, and her gaze softened when her eyes met mine. “I can help make it more fantastic if you’d like.”

I motioned to the opened box. “Knock yourself out. Not literally, though.” I grumbled the last part.

When she took over the Band-Aid mission, I forced myself to exhale slowly, feeling the tension in my shouldersease when her fingers touched mine. She didn’t linger much; the third bandage finally aligned, and she caressed the edges to make them stay.

“Done.” She was beaming like a marathon runner who’d won the cup. “More fantastic, isn’t it?”

Her joy was almost contagious. Except, somehow, I couldn’t remember the last time Serena was extra with her giddiness. She was usually more reserved, logical, and level-headed.

Twisting to my side, I raised a brow at her. “Should I be concerned that you’re finding this entire thing amusing?”

“Are you ever concerned about anything?”

I narrowed my eyes at her.

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