Page 18 of Scattered Glitter

“Hey.” I grab her shoulders, giving her a firm but gentle shake. “Hey,it’s a little blood. I promise it’s nothing serious. Look at me. I’mokay.”

Her eyes keep darting from my lip to the blood on the ground, then back to my face. She’s fighting to regain control while I let my thumbs stroke over her collarbones, mixing the glitter with the guy’s blood, which is still all over my hands.

Slowly, her breathing starts to even out, and she blinks, coming back to herself, just as the distant sound of sirens pierces the night air.

“We need to get you out of here. I have a first-aid kit at home. I can clean it up. If you don’t want to go to a hospital, I-I can help.”

The sirens are getting closer, the wail echoing down thestreet. I could go home and have Alaric have a look at it if it is worse than I thought, but damn if I say no to spending more time with her.

“All right,” I agree quickly, realizing we need to move if I don’t want to end up arrested and having to wake a grumpy Ezra to bail me out. “Let’s go.”

She rattles off her address while I grab my helmet and place it on her head, using the chin strap to pull her close, then fastening it securely.

“Safety first,” I mutter, more to myself than her.

For a second, our eyes lock and the urgency fades away until the sirens grow louder, almost upon us now. Without wasting another moment, I lift her effortlessly and set her on the back of my matte-black Yamaha R1, her thighs gripping the bike as I get on in front of her.

She doesn’t need to be told to hold on tight. Her arms wrap around my waist instinctively, her body pressing against mine, every curve fitting perfectly. The feeling is enough to light a fire under my skin, but I force myself to stay focused, my grip tightening on the handlebars. The roar of the engine fills the space between us, drowning out the temptation to get lost in the way she feels against me.

The road demands my attention. I can’t afford to let my mind wander—not with her safety in my hands. But every so often, as the neon lights of Las Vegas blur into streaks of color around us, I catch the soft pressure of her chest resting against my back, the way her fingers grip me just a little tighter with each turn. It’s grounding and distracting all at once.

When we pull up to her apartment building, I cut the engine and help her off the bike, steadying her as she finds her footing on those impossibly high heels. She pulls off the helmet, letting her hair spill out in a wild, sexy mess, and I set it onthe bike before she grabs my hand, her grip firm, tugging me into her world and guiding me through dimly lit hallways that smell faintly of old carpet and stale perfume.

Her apartment door swings open to reveal a small living room with a bright pink couch and a television that appears to have seen better days. The cramped kitchen off to the side is cluttered and messy. Dishes are piled everywhere, and the counter is covered with trinkets and mismatched mugs. Little jewels are scattered all over the floor, couch, and table, like somebody shook a fairy too hard over them.

There’s a comforting, lived-in feel to the place unlike the polished surfaces of my own home.

“Come on.” Sparkle pulls me into a small bathroom, where she washes her hands thoroughly while I watch, then she towels them off and points to the sink. “Wash your hands. Get rid of the blood.”

I nod like a good boy and turn on the faucet, scrubbing my bruised knuckles under the warm water, watching the blood swirl down the drain and breathing in the scent of the sweet soap. She kneels beside me, rummaging through a small cabinet under the sink, clattering bottles and boxes as she searches. Finally, she emerges with a first-aid kit, a look of triumph briefly flashing across her face as if she didn’t quite believe it would be there.

When I’m done, she grabs a new towel and runs it under the warm water. “Hold still.” She’s about to dab at my face, but I take it from her.

“Let me first,” I murmur and carefully press the towel against her collarbone, wiping away the dried blood I smeared there earlier.

I don’t want anything of that guy on her.

She shudders slightly at the touch, and my eyes find hers briefly before they’re drawn again to the trail of skinrevealed beneath the glitter and redness, fascinated by the way her skin glows under the light.

The towel quickly becomes a bloody, glittery mess, but I continue, lost in the task,lost in her, until she stops me with a hand on my wrist while I’m gliding the towel to her right shoulder.

“Let’s check your lip,” she whispers, and I hand her the soaked towel, my focus shifting back to her collarbones, now sparkling with only a few stubborn flecks of glitter.

When I look up and find her watching me, her pupils are dilated, the fear that had gripped her earlier now replaced with something softer, more vulnerable as she takes the clean side of the towel and reaches up to tap it against my chin.

“Thank you,” she whispers. “For stepping in.”

As I lean down to make it easier for her, she rises on her tiptoes and cups my cheek, gently dabbing at the cut on my lip. Suddenly, I become acutely aware of how close we’re standing.

“Always. But let’s be honest, you had it covered. I think you broke his nose,” I tease, watching her closely and taking in the concentration on her face. Her lips are pressed together in a thin line, brows furrowed in focus. “Where’d you learn to throw a punch like that?”

Her form had been fucking perfect.

She shrugs, still focused on my lip. “You pick up a thing or two growing up in rough neighborhoods.”

Soulmate.

The word flashes through my mind so fast that I almost don’t register it, but it leaves an echo behind I can’t ignore.

---