Page 71 of My Vigilante Valentine

“Never said I was normal.”Almost done.

“Whatever. This istoo much.”

“Then don’t watch.”

“Of course I’m watching!” she hissed. “What if you mess up?”

Snorting, I shook my head as I finished the last stitch. “I won’t.”

And finally, it was done.

I cut the thread, then sat back slightly, going for the gauze again.

She snatched it out of my hand. “I’ll do that part. Stop helping me help you.”

I held up my hands to let her do her thing, trying to ignore the ridiculous fondness in her expression as she did.

“You’ve done that before,” she mumbled as she secured the gauze over the now stitched-up wound.

She taped up the dressing, and I was fascinated by the way her usual chaos had settled into hyperfocus. Her bottom lip was between her teeth, and her brow was furrowed in concentration. The combo was more frightening than I cared to admit.

“Yeah, a few times,” I finally replied.

She groaned quietly as she straightened again, tossing the tape back into the kit. “I hate that for you.”

Then, before I knew what was happening, her hands were on my face. Soft fingers traced along my jaw before smoothing over my cheek, like she needed to physically confirm that I was okay.

“You’re kind of ridiculous,” she whispered.

And then I was officially done for.

I leaned in?—

But she dropped her hands, taking a step back to scan me from head to toe. “Okay, no offense, but you are covered in blood, and I feel like this is a biohazard.”

I looked down. When she was right, she was right. I was a mess.

Probably for the best. I was about to tell her goodnight so I could shower it off, but she grabbed my arm—avoiding the blood—and dragged me toward the kitchen sink.

“Wash up.”

I arched a brow. “Bossy much?”

“You’re one to talk.” She scowled. “Wash.”

I chuckled but obeyed, turning on the water and scrubbing the blood off my hands and chest. It wasn’t just a mess—it was a massacre.

Luna grabbed a dish towel, wetting it before stepping forward to help wipe the rest of the blood from my arms and side. The cleaner I got—the less evidence remained from this terrible night, the more relaxed she got.

We didn’t speak as we finished up, and I had to admit, getting a knife wound wasn’t as bad now that I had someone around to help me take care of it.

Her continued compliments, her unchecked attraction—it was all wrapped in her brand of humor, and now that I knew there was also genuine care?

This woman was slowly destroying me.

She did torturous things to my insides that had nothing to do with my injury and everything to do with how badly I wanted to pull her closer.

“Can’t believe I’m saying this,” she muttered, scanning for anything we’d missed, “but this gives a whole new meaning toyou clean up nice.”

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