Page 7 of Kortlek

His expression is blank, the pocket knife embedded in his shoulder, blood dripping down his body. It’s likely the adrenaline, because no matter how tough he is, it’s impossible not to feel something piercing his skin that deeply.

“Cove?” I ask, standing in front of him, quickly assessing the wound and how I should treat it. For now, the best choice is to leave the knife inside. Pulling it out with no right equipment to treat the wound could cause his bleeding to worsen, and I can’t have that.

“Are you alright?” My voice is barely above a whisper, worry radiating off me. With trembling hands and on the brink of tears, I cup his face and force him to look down, to meet my eyes.

“Fine,’’ his gruff tone is as usual, though there’s a hint of annoyance behind his eyes.

“Come with me,’’ I take his hand and lead him out of the ring and toward the locker rooms. Arlo remains behind, still dealing with Jackson. It’s not something I want to get involved in, nor is it any of my business.

Jackson is trying to fight back, but it’s futile. Arlo’s overpowering him more with each passing moment and has no intention of stopping before he sees Jackson dead. If Blair isn’t getting involved, it means Arlo’s too angry to even notice anyone.

Jackson made his bed; now he’ll have to lie in it.

Because Arlo De Santis doesn’t fuck around when it comes to people he cares about.

And neither do I.

CHAPTER THREE

The locker room is empty as we step inside. I close the door behind us, and Cove sits on one of the benches, elbows on his knees, his hazel eyes watching my movements carefully. It’s almost as if he’s trying to determine whether to let me handle this or not.

I find the first aid kit, then sit on the tiled floor between his legs. I flicker my eyes upward to meet his, and it’s like all breath is sucked out of my lungs. My heart picks up the pace, and I’m almost afraid he can hear it.

My throat tightens, and I don’t know what to make of his intense gaze.

This is the first time I’m noticing the specific shade of his eyes. The brown shade around his pupils has a couple of specks that are yellow, molding beautifully into the green. His jet-black hair, now damp from the sweat, falls over his forehead. Every single imperfection on his face seems like a perfection to me.

The curve of his cupid’s bow, the small beauty mark right beneath his plump, bottom lip. His thick, long eyelashes, his high cheekbones, and his clenched jaw. His breath hits my face, and neither of us makes an attempt to move.

I’m not sure what this is or how to describe it, but I’m lost in his eyes, in him.

I can’t look away.

His mesmerizing beauty has me captivated like no other, and at this moment, I’m at his mercy. He’s not doing anything, but the intensity of his stare, his sleepy, almost dull, dead eyes only provokes the emotion I’ve been doing my best to suppress.

It’s nerve-wrecking the hold he has on me.

He swallows, my eyes immediately darting toward his Adam's apple. Oh, how I want to just bite that spot and leave my teeth mark around it.

“You’re staring, little bunny,’’ he murmurs, the depth and huskiness of his voice sending a wave of thrill, excitement, and rush straight to my chest. His voice is normally deep and chilling, but this? This is something entirely different. The way he speaks is almost intimate, as if it’s meant for my ears only.

But the words are enough to snap me out of my daze. I clear my throat, knowing damn well my cheeks are flushed, the heat of it spreading all over my face. Cove ignores it, and so do I.

“I’ll need to rip your shirt to see the wound clearly,’’ I mutter, busying myself, looking through the first aid kit for something to get his shirt off, reaching for the scissors as soon as I spot them.

“Alright,’’ he agrees.

Carefully, I start from the bottom, moving the scissors carefully around the place where the knife is plunged into his shoulder. There’s a small piece of fabric around it left, though I’ll take it out once I remove the knife.

The shirt is torn open, falling down on the bench behind him, and it takes all willpower not to lick the sweat off his chest. The crazy bitch inside me is doing her best not to ogle him, knowing there’s a much more pressing matter at hand, but a part of me just wants to stare at the piece of art that he is.

Unlike Arlo, whose body is filled with tattoos, Cove only has one. It’s written in a language I don’t understand, right on his ribcage. I’ve seen him without a shirt on multiple occasions, but not once did I ask about the tattoo. It’s something he got tattooed around two years ago, and it feels too personal for me to ask.

Quickly, I put on a pair of blue latex gloves and rise from the floor, his knee between my legs as I reach for the handle of the knife. I glance at him, silently asking for permission to pull it out. His eyes flicker upward to me, no emotion in sight as he gives me a brief nod.

My hand tightens around the handle, and in a swift motion, I pull it out and toss it far aside. Cove’s body tenses, though he doesn’t make even the smallest noise. He remains stoic, and once the knife is out, his body relaxes yet again.

I turn on the flashlight on my phone, inspecting the wound closely. Luckily, it’s not bleeding, and it’s not too wide to need stitches. Not that I would know; I dropped out of nursing school after a semester and a half.

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