Page 36 of Pretty When He Bleeds

Roman

Theguy’sfistconnectswith my cheek again and my head snaps to the side, the sharp sting of pain blooming across my face. Blood trickles from my nose, mixing with the taste of copper on my tongue. My lip’s split wide open again and I can feel the heat of the swelling, but I don’t give a shit.

I’m grinning.

Around me, the crowd in the bar is a blur of noise—cheers, jeers, and the occasional holler of someone too drunk to care about what’s actually happening. The guy in front of me, some beefed-up frat dude with anger issues, throws another punch, and I let it land square in my gut.

The wind rushes out of me, and for a second, everything spins, but I stay standing, leaning into the pain like it’s a lifeline.

“Is that all you’ve got?” I rasp, spitting blood onto the floor and wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. My voice is rough, slurred from both the hits and the whiskey burning a hole in my stomach. “Come on, big guy. My fucking grandmother hits harder than you and she’s dead.”

The pain dulls the ache in my chest that’s been there since this afternoon. Since I sawhim.

Damon fucking Ward, looking at me like I was nothing. Like I didn’t even fucking exist. That polite little nod, like he couldn’t give two shits if I was breathing or not. What the fuck did I expect?

So, yeah, maybe I’m reckless. Maybe I’m stupid. But at least I’m feelingsomethingnow.

The frat guy swings, and I brace myself for the hit—

But it never comes.

Instead, there’s a hand on my arm, yanking me backward with enough force to nearly knock me off my feet. The next thing I know, I’m being dragged through the crowd and out the back door, the cool night air hitting my busted face like a slap.

“Jesus Christ, Kill,” I mutter, stumbling as I’m pulled toward the parking lot. “You’ve really gotta stop—”

I’m cut off when I’m shoved hard, my back hitting the ground with a painful thud. I blink up at the figure looming over me, my breath catching in my throat when I see who it is.

Not Killian.

Damon.

He’s standing above me, messy curls hanging in his face and those green eyes blazing with anger like he has any fucking right to be pissed off. His chest is heaving, fists clenched at his sides and, for a second, I think I’m imagining him.

“What the fuck? Damon?” I croak, trying to stand up and failing miserably.

He crouches down in front of me, his eyes raking over me like a predator sizing up its prey. They linger on the blood dripping down my chin and nose, and I see his jaw tighten.

“You’re bleeding,” he says, and I bristle at the accusation in his tone.

“Yeah?” I shoot back, my words slurred with exhaustion and anger, along with the amount of alcohol in my system right now. “What’s it to you?”

Damon smirks, but there’s nothing playful about it. It’s dark, possessive, and sends a chill straight through me. He tilts his head to the side, his gaze cutting like a blade.

“What did I say about bleeding for anyone else but me?”

It feels like ice water has been poured all over my body, and for a second, I forget how to breathe. He’s dead serious—his tone, his posture, the way his eyes are burning into mine. I can’t tell if I want to punch him or kiss him. Maybe both.

“Get over yourself,” I mutter, pushing myself into a sitting position. My head’s spinning, and my body feels like it’s been run over by a steamroller, but I refuse to let him see how wrecked I feel.

But he doesn’t move. He stays crouched, watching me with that same unnerving intensity that makes my skin crawl and my blood heat at the same time.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” he says finally, standing up and brushing off his jeans like this is just another Tuesday.

“Thanks for the life advice,” I snap, glaring up at him. “Real helpful.”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he turns on his heel and stalks toward the edge of the parking lot, where it looks like his bike is parked under a flickering street lamp. I watch him, my stomach twisting as he grabs something off the seat and walks back toward me.

“Here,” he says, holding out a helmet to me.

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