Page 115 of Velvet Corruption
“You’re bleeding,” I said.
He glanced down like he’d just noticed, like it was an afterthought, then shrugged. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not,” I shot back.
My ribs didn’t feel so tight anymore.
The words felt raw, scraped out from somewhere deep. “It’s not,” I said again.
He opened his mouth, closed it. There was an uncertainty in the way he stood now, a break in the armor. I stepped toward him before I could second-guess myself, before I could remember that he had just killed a man with his bare hands. His skin was burning under my fingertips. He didn’t pull away.
“You need stitches,” I said.
“It’s not deep.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Let me handle this first,” he said, leaning down and draping the sheet over Russell’s body. “You don’t want to look at his face every time you walk past tonight. Trust me, this is the better option. Why do people even buy these sheets?”
I blinked, once again unsure if I’d heard him right. “They…stay on the mattress better?”
“Yeah, but a leg might pop out. Okay, just…try not to look at this if you have to go up and down the stairs, okay?”
“I—what?”
“There,” he said, wincing as he stood up straight. “Finished. Now at least you can’t see his face.”
His hand instinctively went to his side, which made something in me snap. I didn’t want to look at Russell. There was nothing I could do here…but I might be able to help Kieran.
For the first time since he kicked in my door, it felt like this was something I could control. I grabbed his wrist, ignoring the way he raised an eyebrow, and dragged him toward the kitchen.
“Sit.”
For a moment, I thought he’d argue. But he didn’t. He sank onto the stool like this was nothing more than a minor inconvenience—like he hadn’t just been stabbed. He rolled his neck with a wince and let out a breath through his nose.
“Take your shirt off,” I said.
He arched a brow, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “At least buy me a drink first.”
“Not funny,” I snapped, even though—okay, maybe a little.
“Yes, it was,” he muttered, but the smirk faded as he peeled the bloodied fabric up and over his head.
I bit the inside of my cheek, hard.
There was blood. A lot of it. But not gushing, not pulsing. That was good. I forced myself to breathe as I stepped closer, letting my eyes track over the injury.
The cut was clean but angry—long, shallow,justdeep enough to need stitches. Just enough to leave a scar. Enough to remind us both how close this had been. Russell had sliced him, not stabbed him. A warning. A message. But one that could’ve gone very differently.
My stomach turned.
“You’re lucky,” I said, reaching for a towel. “It’s shallow.”
He didn’t flinch. Just watched me. The whole time. Eyes dark, locked on my face like I was the only thing anchoring him in the room.
I pressed the clean towel to his side. He hissed between his teeth, but didn’t move. His hands braced against his thighs, knuckles pale.
“Jesus,” I muttered. “This is bad.”
