Page 39 of Ronan

Thankful that he’s not awake for the pain, I douse the cut with alcohol. Infection is the biggest concern, so it has to be done, but I shiver as I imagine the sting. My hands shake only slightly as I sterilize the sewing kit, and I take a steadying breath before pushing the needle through his skin.

Even unconscious, he whimpers as I pierce the skin, and I cringe as I work along the opening. “It’s not pretty,” I mutter, talking to him even though he can’t hear, “but it won’t be exposed. And hey, it matches all the others you have.” Once I weave the last stitch and tie it off, I douse the wound with alcohol again before I wrap it, careful not to get the bandage too tight.

More confident in my abilities from here, I clean his face and disinfect the cuts. The one on his cheek only needs to be cleaned, shallow enough that a bandage will besufficient. A clumsy attempt at stitching it would cause more harm than good, and he doesn’t need to look like Frankenstein’s monster on my account.

My fingers trace the contours of his skin, inspecting the bruises on his ribs and biceps, but until he’s awake, I can’t determine if anything’s broken. Sweat beads on my skin when I’m done, and I remove his boots as I arrange him into a comfortable position, lifting his head and placing a balled-up blanket underneath it.

His hair sticks to his forehead and cheeks, and I rake it back, taking in his still, serene appearance. Asleep, he looks so innocent, nothing like the bloodthirsty warrior that fought to protect me earlier. Even with his injuries, his eyes and mouth are relaxed, lacking the tension of the scowl he normally wears.

Red remnants of the fight cover my clothes, both from Ronan and the officer I stabbed. He was the first man I’ve killed outright, the finality of his death hitting me as I step outside, but as I dig in my soul, I find no remorse for ending his life.

I’d do it a hundred times over to keep Ronan safe, although I’m not examining that too closely right now.

The sun hasn’t set, so I switch on my selective vision and pretend there aren’t two dead bodies decorating the lawn. Bypassing them, I head towards my laundry area. I step into the small creek to scrub the blood and dirt from my body, thankful for the warm evening as I dunk my hair under the water to wash it as well. My skin is damp and my hair dripping as I get dressed, and the clean clothes help to erase some of the day’s trauma.

Laundry flaps in the breeze, the calm scent of sunbaked cotton out of place with the chaotic day. I gatherthe clothes to carry them inside, barely able to hold my eyes open.

Exhausted, I drop onto the ground beside the couch where Ronan sleeps peacefully, his breathing steady. Picking up my book, I read a few pages before my eyes get heavy and my head droops. The last thing I hear is the smack of the paperback hitting the floor as my need for sleep overrules everything else.

Pitch black night surrounds me when I jerk awake with a gasp, pushing my glasses into place as a quiet groan rumbles from behind me. My hands spider around, searching for the lantern and matches until I feel them under my fingers. Light flares in the darkness, then the gentle glow of the flame shines bright enough for my eyes to adjust.

I climb to my knees and twist to look over Ronan’s frame, stretched out on the couch before me. Every contour of his body catches the light, and I leisurely scan his torso, my gaze lingering on his abs before drifting lower. It’s criminal how well his thighs fill the legs of his pants, and my breath snags at the noticeable swell between them.

“Like what you see, mo’sziv?” Ronan’s rough, gravelly voice breaks through the silence, and I jump, my guilty eyes snapping up to find him watching me. The corners of his mouth tug back, and I’m captivated by the lazy, relaxed way he grins at me.

It’s soft and honey-sweet, and makes my pulse race.

His spine arches in a stretch, and my traitorous eyes are dragged back to his stomach as his hips flex. They drop lower to the bulge pushing against his pants, and I bite my lip as I try to ignore the ache in my core.

Seeing him this way is dangerous.

He just woke up… it’s natural… means nothing.My brain misfires, and I force a swallow, dragging my eyes to his highly amused face, bottom lip caught between his teeth and his tiny fang shining in the light.

“How are you feeling?” I ask, disappointed when his expression tightens.

He groans as he twists and plants his bare feet on the ground, the effort of sitting visible in his strained posture. His hand scrubs over his face then suddenly pulls back, a pinch to his brows as he stares at the bandages covering his forearm. Curious eyes move from his arm to his naked torso, then finally to me.

“You took care of me.”

I shrug, cheeks heating from the scrutiny. “The fight left you barely conscious, in case you’ve forgotten.”

He glances away with a wince. “Oh, trust me, I haven’t forgotten a thing.”

“You lost a ton of blood and couldn’t walk straight. Someone had to take care of you.” I hand him a bottle of water, and his eyes flicker to mine briefly as he accepts it.

“You had every right to leave me. After what I did, I wouldn’t have blamed you.”

Really, I can’t help it as I roll my eyes. “Sure, because that’s how you thank the person who saved your life. Who needs a gift basket when you could just leave them to bleed to death to show your appreciation?”

Irritated, he scoffs and crosses his arms, drawing my gaze to the dark, swollen bruise marring his biceps. “You wouldn’t have been in danger if it wasn’t for me.”

“Oh, my gods,” I groan, dragging the words out as his eyes snap up to mine. “Why didn’t anyone warn me you’re a giant drama queen?”

“I am…not.” He seems to have to think about it for a split second, hesitating in the middle of his argument.

“Uh, let’s just tick through a few pieces of information here…uh-uh.” I wag my finger at him, tutting when he tries to interrupt me. “Number one… it’s the fucking apocalypse and you’ve got that long ass silky hair. There’s no way you don’t spend too much time conditioning. Drama queen.”

His eyes widen, lips separating in indignation, but I keep going, raising a second finger. “Two… you snapped a man’s neck with your bare hands then wedged your blade so deep in another’s throat, I’m not sure we’ll be able to get it free. Shit might be stuck in there like King Arthur’s sword. Drama queen.”

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