Page 104 of The Blood we Crave

Cashmere.

But he quickly pulls it back from my grasp. “I need to bandage your wounds first.”

I nod. “Okay.”

“Sit.”

I sit.

“Lean back.”

I lean back.

“I’m not a dog.” I bite out, even though I did what he asked.

“You’re not?” He purrs, the edges of his lips tugging up. “Could’ve fooled me.”

A strangled laugh comes from the back of my throat, pain tingling my side from what I assume is a fractured rib. “Did you just make a joke?”

“If that will make you feel better about what I said, then sure. I made a joke.”

The smile on my face is hard to remove, because he’s smirking and not in a wicked way. In this funny, happy sorta way.

“Drop the towel.” He orders, kneeling on the ground in front of me.

“What? Why?”

My heart rate suddenly spiking and thighs locking together. The sight of him on the ground, kneeling, doesn’t seem right. Me, Lyra Abbott making Thatcher Pierson get on his knees, just doesn’t add up in my mind.

“I need to see if you’re still bleeding and if any of your wounds need cleaning. I can’t do that over the towel.” He says it so methodically, like he’s a doctor and I’m a patient in need of care. As if he is clueless about what happens to my body when he is close, let alone close while I’m naked.

“Why can’t I just—I don’t think it’s—”

“Let me see what they did to you, pet.” The rumble at the back of his throat makes me jump. “Show me so that when I track down the one who got away, I’ll make him pay for laying a finger on you. Show me, so that I can make this better.”

I swallow the lump in my throat, dragging the towel. The cold air biting at my nipples, my face turning red as they harden. I let it fall until just above my waist, baring my upper half to him entirely.

“All the way.” He orders.

I bite the inside of my cheek, whispering, “They didn’t touch me down there.”

Thankfully, he doesn’t push that issue.

My eyes spare a look down at my abdomen, wincing at the sight. Several open cuts that are still leaking blood, some deeper than others. They run along my sides, across my belly, one that looks deep enough to scar is torn across my hip bone. My eyebrows furrow in disgust at the nasty, reddish purple bruises that freshly adorn my rib cage.

It looks awful. I look awful. What they did to me was awful.

Tears sting my eyes, forcing me to look away towards the wall so that I don’t have to witness Thatcher’s reaction. The last thing I need is for him to look at me with disgust in his eyes. Repulsed by the sight of me.

I feel his fingers against my skin, cold and still making me jump a little. The pad of his pointer finger skates across my hip bone, drawing a line up my ribs and across my stomach. Just smooth touches.

At first I thought it might be medicine or him cleaning the wounds, but as I chance a look down, it’s just his hand. And he’s staring at me with lightness in his eyes, with a face filled with light.

The kindest I’ve ever seen him. Soft and eyes swimming with something…something. He looks like a child who just discovered the secrets of the universe.

“You have freckles here.”

My breath is caught in my throat, unsure of how to respond or even operate my lungs. His fingers just keep tracing the light brown spots littered across my skin. Compulsively, like he can’t help himself.

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