Page 90 of Cold Carnage

Without hesitation, I turned on my heel and made for the side of her house. The photographers tried to follow, but I ducked into the narrow alleyway between houses and sprinted for the back door. Paige stood there waiting, her eyes wide with concern.

"Get in," she urged, holding the door open just enough for me to slip through before closing it behind me.

Inside, the chaos outside seemed distant. She locked the door and turned to face me. For a moment, we just stared ateach other—both of us breathing heavily from different kinds of battles.

"Are you okay?" she finally asked, her voice softening as she took in my appearance.

"I'll live," I replied, wiping more blood from my mouth with the back of my hand.

Her eyes softened with worry as she stepped closer, inspecting the cuts and bruises that marred my face. "You look like hell."

I managed a weak smile despite everything. "Feel like it too."

She sighed and grabbed a first aid kit from a nearby cabinet. "Sit down," she instructed gently but firmly. "Let's get you cleaned up."

I obeyed without argument, sinking into one of her kitchen chairs as she began tending to my wounds with surprising tenderness given our recent arguments.

Paige knelt beside me, her fingers deftly working as she opened the first aid kit. The room felt small, her presence filling it more than the furniture or walls. She pulled out antiseptic wipes, bandages, and gauze, laying them out methodically.

"This might sting," she warned, holding an antiseptic wipe close to a gash on my cheek.

"I've had worse," I muttered, bracing myself.

She dabbed at the wound gently but firmly. The sting bit into my skin, but I kept my eyes on her face. Her brows furrowed in concentration, her lips pressed into a thin line. She worked with a precision that spoke volumes about her character—determined, thorough, caring.

Her touch was soft, almost tender. It contrasted sharply with the brutality of the fight and the chaos that followed. Each swipe of the antiseptic felt like it was cleansing more than just my wounds; it was a balm for the turmoil roiling inside me.

"Why did you come out like that?" she asked quietly, not looking up from her task.

"Brendan ambushed me," I replied, wincing as she pressed a bandage over a particularly deep cut. "Didn't really have a choice."

She sighed and shook her head slightly but didn't say anything else. Her fingers moved to my split lip next, carefully cleaning the dried blood. Her touch sent shivers down my spine, though I tried to ignore it.

"You should've let me handle it," she said after a moment of silence. "Now we've got another PR mess on our hands."

I chuckled bitterly. "I seem to be good at creating those."

Her eyes flicked up to meet mine briefly before returning to her work. "Maybe stop fighting in public places," she suggested dryly.

I couldn't help but smirk at that. "I'll try."

Paige's hands moved to my bruised ribs next, lifting my shirt slightly to inspect the damage. Her fingers brushed against my skin lightly, sending an unexpected jolt through me.

"Does this hurt?" she asked softly.

"Not much," I lied, gritting my teeth against the pain.

She gave me a knowing look but didn't press further. Instead, she applied some ointment to the bruises and then wrapped gauze around my torso carefully.

"There," she said finally, stepping back to survey her work. "That should hold you together for now."

I looked down at myself—patched up but still raw from both the fight and everything it had unearthed within me. "Thanks," I said quietly, meeting her gaze once more.

She nodded slightly but didn't say anything in return. The silence between us felt heavy yet strangely comforting—a temporary truce in our ongoing battle of wills.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked, her voice breaking the thick silence.

I turned to her, my glare sharp enough to cut through steel. What did she expect me to say? I was furious with Brendan, livid that he thought he had any claim over her. Paige had always been mine. Always.

---