Page 41 of Pretty When He Bleeds

“You okay?” he asks, the words cutting through the haze like a blade.

I blink at him, caught between exhaustion and confusion. “What?”

He leans in closer, his forehead nearly brushing mine. “I’m asking if you’re okay, Roman.”

His hand cups my jaw, his thumb brushing lightly over my cheek where the bruises are already forming. He doesn’t say anything, but the tension in his face tells me he’s not just asking about the last forty or so minutes. He’s asking about all of it. I don’t know how to respond. I’m not used to anyone asking me that—at least not like this.

“Yeah,” I finally mutter, my voice rough. “I’m fine.”

He watches me for a moment longer, then leans down and presses a kiss to my forehead, the gesture so unexpected it leaves me stunned. He doesn’t linger, just pulls back and gets to his feet.

“Come on,” he says, holding out a hand.

I stare at it, then up at him. “Where are we going?”

“To the bathroom,” he says matter-of-factly. “You look like you just went ten rounds in a bar fight—which, by the way, you did—and I’m not letting you crash like this.”

I groan, letting my head fall back against the pillows. “I can handle it.”

“Clearly,” Damon deadpans, grabbing my wrist and pulling me up before I can argue.

“Jesus, Ward,” I grumble, stumbling as he drags me toward the bathroom. “You’re bossy as hell.”

“With you, someone has to be,” he shoots back, his tone light but his grip steady.

He flips the switch, and I get a look at the bathroom. The area is small but clean, with black tiles and soft lighting that bounces off the mirror, highlighting both of us in the reflection. I look wrecked—my face bruised, my lip split, and my hair a disaster. But Damon…

Damon looks like sin carved into flesh.

He pulls his shirt off first, tossing it aside, and I can’t help but stare. He’s built, lean but muscular, with broad shoulders and a defined chest that’s covered in ink. Black and gray tattoos swirl across his skin—band logos, a wolf, some Lovecraftian entity, various manga and anime characters, and random numbers.

My gaze drifts lower, tracing the lines of his abs and the deep V-cut of his hips. The happy trail of dark hair below his navel disappears into his waistband, and just above it, on the left side of his pelvis, is a black widow spider tattoo. It’s the size of my palm and detailed, legs curling over that V-line that disappears into a trail of trimmed curls, and for some reason, it’s fucking hypnotic.

“Take your pants off,” he says without looking at me.

“Buy me dinner first,” I mutter, but I comply, leaning against the counter as I toe off my shoes.

He doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he starts the shower, the sound of running water filling the space as steam begins to rise.

“You’re getting in with me?” I ask, arching an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” he says simply. “You’re a mess, and I always take care of my messes.”

I snort, but there’s no real bite to it. “Possessive as fuck.”

He smirks, shoving his jeans down before stepping into the shower. I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the way my gaze drags over him.

And fuck me, I want to look at his cock, but I don’t want to be a fucking perv when he’s looking after me.

I sigh, kicking off my pants and following him in. The hot water hits me like a fucking blessing, washing away the grime and blood and whatever the hell else is clinging to me. I lean against the wall, letting the spray soak into my hair as my body slowly starts to unwind.

Damon turns, his hands immediately finding my shoulders as he steers me under the spray. “Hold still,” he mutters, reaching for a washcloth and soap.

“Are you seriously—”

“Yes,” he cuts me off, lathering up the cloth before pressing it to my chest. “Now shut up and let me do this.”

I grumble under my breath but don’t resist, letting him work in silence. His hands are careful as he cleans the cuts and bruises on my chest and arms, his touch gentle. When he moves to my face, his fingers brush over my jaw and I flinch slightly.

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