Page 20 of The Prodigal

Remington cocks a brow and seems to hold back a laugh. “While that sounds appealing, I don’t have the patience for properly disposing of the body.”

He’s always so freaking snarky. I wonder if he ever gets tired of being an ass.

“Oh, good. I’m relieved to hear your laziness will be my salvation.”

Apparently, something in that sentence upsets him because his body goes rigid. “I’m no one’s salvation.”

Jeez. Someone is being way too literal tonight. “I’m sorry. You’re tired, and the cut has probably stopped bleeding by now.” I shake off the tension as his eyes stay locked on mine and step back. “Goodnight, 101.”

I don’t bother thanking him for saving me. He tends to get moody if I point out any good behavior he exhibits.

“Maybe I’ll see you on campus tom—”

Before I realize what’s happening, the front of my shirt is clenched in Remington’s hand, and I’m yanked forward into his room.

“Close the door.” He nearly growls. Clearly, his mood has plummeted.

I can’t understand him. Why help me if it puts him in such a shitty mood?

“Look, you—”

“Close the door!”

I kick the door closed. Remington doesn’t give me a second to process the situation as he basically drags me into the bathroom, turns me around, and then pauses while surveying the space.

“What?”

I look around, confused.

“Please tell me you aren’t looking for your chains.” After all, we are by the toilet. I don’t know if there is a full moon, but I don’t want to tempt fate. I’ve already had a crappy night and would hate to end it by being such a cliché.

“Be quiet,” he grates out.

I should have risked infection and used a paper towel from the bathroom in the lobby. Anything would have been better than enduring the tension in this room as Remington looks at my hands, tugging at the ends of his short, dark hair.

“You’re leaving as soon as I’m finished,” he threatens, never taking his eyes off my hands. “Do you understand?”

I nod, but I’m not sure he even sees it. Something came over him as soon as he saw I was hurt. But it’s not like I asked him to take care of me. I only needed a bandage.

“We are not friends.” His jaw works like every word is a struggle to get out.

I try nodding, but he holds my chin firm. “I understand. You need your beauty rest.”

He doesn’t laugh.

I don’t know why I thought he would.

Instead, he drops his hands to my hips and lifts me onto the countertop as if I weigh nothing. “Wash the wound while I get supplies.” His tone leaves no room for argument. I can tell he was raised around bossy doctors. He’s used to his word being law.

Too bad I challenge everything.

I asked for a Band-Aid, not an angry wannabe physician. I’m perfectly capable of washing my cut in my sink. I don’t even know why I came into his room in the first place. Oh, right. He manhandled me in here. Time to remind Mr. Meanie that I’m no doormat. I can certainly take care of myself—right after he gives me a bandage.

Still clutching my hand, I try easing off the counter a smidge when he enters the bathroom, tossing a bag next to me. “You know, Eve. I think you have a talent for making men murderous.” He puts his hand on my forehead and pushes me back onto the counter. “Let me burst your bubble. Temptation and restraint aren’t my best qualities. Push me far enough, and you’ll regret it.”

“And here I thought I was exaggerating when I called you dramatic.”

He rolls his eyes and snatches my hand, placing it under the faucet. “Move your hand, and you’ll see how dramatic I can be.”

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