Page 21 of Inflame Me
Princess laughs. “You have no idea, sister.”
Sister?Did she really just call me that? Warmth comes to my heart. I’ve never had a sister before, and just being called that is … well, awesome.
“Sister?” I question.
“Around here, us ol’ ladies or kids of brothers, we’re family. We call each other sisters. It’s an endearment between us.”
I smile at that. I have only ever had my mom. I had a couple of good friends, but they are long gone, living their lives. I haven’t talked to them in ages. Sure, I have my co-workers, but that’s exactly what they are—people I work with. I wouldn’t exactly call them friends.
I always wondered what it would be like to have an actual family, one you would spend holidays with or have big meals with. Don’t get me wrong, my mom did the best she could, and I do not begrudge her one bit for that. It is merely something that I have never experienced before, and I gotta admit I like it, maybe even more than I should. I’m also confounded because I don’t exactly know how to act with it.
“I’d better go check on my mom.” I hop off the stool and begin my way to Dagger’s room.
Mom’s been pretty out of it, and I know Dagger wants to talk to her, but that just hasn’t been an option yet. Hell, I would like some answers, too.
I’ve been sleeping with Mom, so I’m grateful to Blaze for getting those clean sheets. I even scrubbed Dagger’s bathroom yesterday, too scared to sit on it to pee.
“Fuck!” is yelled through one of the doors as I make my way down. I stop at the semi tortured sound. “Son of a motherfucker.” This time, it’s growled in pure pain. Rhys.
Should I knock? Should I keep on walking? Shit. He may have something up his ass, but I know the guy who talked to me yesterday is in there.
I knock softly and push open the door, poking my head in. “Rhys?”
His eyes snap to mine, fury pulsing off his body in waves so thick I’m surprised I’m still upright and not falling on my ass.
“Did I say you could come in?” he barks, and I jump at his unexpected words.
“I—”
“No. I didn’t fucking say you could come in here.”
I’m so stunned by his harsh tone that I don’t know what to do. My feet are stuck to the floor. Do I stay? Do I go? I’m not sure which. And why in the hell is he so pissed off?
“I heard you yelling and thought I could help. Sorry.” I start to shut the door, realizing I need to get the hell out of here. Thankfully, my feet are finally listening to my brain.
“Stop,” he barks, and once again, my body listens, halting in its tracks. “Shut the door and come here.”
Before I can think, I’m standing in front of him by his desk where he sits with his bloodied hand wrapped in a towel, the redness seeping through the fabric.
“Can you get the glass out?” he asks me.
Again, I don’t even think, only move on instinct, grabbing the small tweezers on the desk and pulling the lamp closer to his hand to see better.
“You gonna move the towel?” I ask, ready to examine his hand.
He grunts, setting it to the side.
The gash from the glass is deep, red, and a bit puffy. The blood has slowed to only a trickle since he held the towel for compression. However, small shards of glass reflect in the light.
Rhys says nothing, but grabs a bottle of amber liquid from the floor beneath him, taking a hard pull on it then setting it back down.
Carefully, I remove each small piece I see while Rhys doesn’t even flinch or move an inch. This has to hurt in some way. Even when I pull out a larger chunk of glass, no reaction comes from him. He sits there stoically, unmoving, unyielding. I can’t help being impressed by his strength.
“Does it hurt?” I ask carefully, trying to gauge how he’s feeling and not doing a great job of it.
“Doesn’t feel good,” he remarks, picking up the bottle and taking another swig.
I pull out the last shard and look up at him. “You should really get it cleaned out and stitched up.”
