Page 26 of Savage Reins
"You're poking at open wounds." The complaint lacks real heat, more observation than protest.
"I'm trying to keep them from getting infected." I release his chin and reach for more antiseptic.
"They'll heal." He watches me work, green eyes tracking my movements.
I sit back on my heels, studying his face. "Is this what you always do? Pretend you're invincible?"
"I don't pretend anything." His voice carries that familiar edge of challenge.
"Right." I sit back on my heels, studying his battered face. "You just let three men beat you with crowbars and act like it's nothing."
"Two men." The corner of his mouth twitches, almost a smile. "I handled the third one fine."
"Oh, excuse me." I throw the bloodied cloth into the bowl with more force than necessary. "Two men with crowbars. Much better."
"You're mouthy when you're worried." His observation comes with that half-smile that makes my chest tighten.
"I'm not worried." I focus on cleaning another cut, avoiding his knowing look.
"No?" He tilts his head, studying me with those penetrating green eyes.
"I'm annoyed." I dab antiseptic on the wound with perhaps more pressure than necessary. "Someone has to patch you up every time you decide to take on half the Karpin family."
"Just doing my job." He doesn't flinch this time, but his knuckles go white where he grips the edge of the cot.
"Your job is getting yourself killed?" The question comes out sharp, but my body is full of adrenaline after walking in on that post-fight mess. What if he'd been dead and I was next?
"My job is protecting what needs protecting." The words carry weight, and his eyes never leave my face.
I focus on cleaning another cut, trying not to think about what he means. Who he was protecting. Why it mattered enough to take three men alone.
"Next time, don't be such a hero," I say quietly.
"There won't be a next time."
"There's always a next time with you people."
"You people?"
I look up to find his green eyes watching me intently. "You know what I mean."
"Say it."
"Criminals. Killers. Whatever you want to call yourselves."
"And what does that make you?"
The question catches me off guard. "What?"
"You're here. Taking care of me. What does that make you?"
I don't have an answer, don't want to think about what it means that I'm kneeling beside his bed, tending his wounds, worried about his pain. I should hate him, should want him gone, no matter the cost.
Instead, I reach for the roll of bandages.
"Turn sideways," I instruct.
He shifts on the bed, and I begin wrapping the bandage around his ribs. My fingers brush against his skin with each pass, and I try to ignore the way his muscles tense under my touch. And it doesn't help the tension crackling between us that ripens the air to an almost unbreathable temperature.
