Page 139 of Veil of Death and Shadow

“Levi—” a tear fell down my cheek and I pulled my hand back from him to wipe it away.

His brows furrowed, as he cupped my face again.

With a gentleness so at odds with the violence of the hallway, he slid his thumb along my cheek, brushing away my tears. When he pulled it back, his thumb came away covered in blood. “No hospital. Promise.”

I held his eyes, my heart racing against my ribcage.

What the hell was I supposed to do right now?

At the look of sheer desperation on his face, I nodded. “Promise.”

Maybe he was right, maybe he was drunk, and this was just a deep cut, and this all just seemed so much worse because he was wasted—judging from the waft of alcohol on his breath, he might have even started that bottle he’d just finished tonight.

I needed to get a better look.

And I would break that promise if and when it came to it.

His trust wasn’t as important as his life.

Propping him up against my side, his arm draped over my shoulder like a shawl, I helped him through the entryway. We would only draw attention, maybe even the cops. And I had no idea what happened tonight, what led to these injuries, or whether Levi might be involved in a less-than-legal career path—as I was beginning to suspect.

There was no use standing out in the hall, I needed to check his wounds, see what we were working with here.

Surprisingly, he didn’t protest, and he moved better than I would’ve anticipated given the state of him. When I started towards the couch, he redirected us towards my room. My phone was there anyway, so that was probably the better option.

Easing him onto my bed as gently as possible, I stared at the impossible amount of blood coating my hands.

This was no small wound, definitely not a trick of the hallway light or his intoxicated stumbling making this look worse than it was. It was worse than worse.

“Mars,” he said again, grinning as he lingered on the name. Like this was just a regular day in the park and he wasn’t bleeding out in the middle of my bedroom. “Mars?—”

“Levi, stop saying my name and talk to me.” I grabbed a clean shirt and pressed it to his stomach, holding more pressure there. Within seconds, it was coated in red, as if the cotton was draining the blood from him, drinking him dry.

“You mean I can’t call you Mars anymore?” His features scrunched into a pout, like I’d stolen his favorite toy. “That didn’t last very long.”

“No, I mean—you can call me Mars.”

“Good.” He shot me a smug look. “I like the taste of it.”

“Right now, you can call me whatever the hell you want.”

“No,” he said with a sad smile, “I don’t think I can. Mars is a good second option. Definitely better than Rick.”

“But right now,” I continued, ignoring his rambling and the way his dark eyelashes perfectly framed the wildness in his eyes, “I need you?—”

He pressed his finger to my lips. “You can stop the sentence there, you know.”

“To tell me what the hell happened,” I finished. “Levi, please—just tell me what to do, how to help you.”

“Do you know how to sew, Mars?”

“Sew?” I asked, the word more a croak than anything intelligible.

He lifted the wrinkled bag at his side. “I brought supplies.”

“Supplies,” I echoed.

He rifled through the bag, tossing a cheap sewing kit, some rubbing alcohol, and a few packages of bandages on the bed next to him. Then he brought out a second, unopened bottle of whiskey and opened it.

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