Page 92 of His To Erase
I’ve clearly never looked better.
I have a cracked lip, my ribs are painted in technicolor, and a shoulder that’s pulsing like a fresh kill. One eye’s alreadystarting to bruise, and my cheekbone’s pissed off and swollen. There’s a cut near my hairline, and dried blood is crusted in my lashes like war paint I didn’t ask for.
At least I can say I’ve looked worse. Yet, I’m not sure if that’s comforting or just fucking sad.
I try to yank the shirt off one-handed by hooking my fingers under the hem and pulling it up, but it tugs against the bandage and I flinch, gritting my teeth.
I try again, but it catches on the tape across my ribs and I nearly choke on the sound that escapes me.
Goddammit.
I take a deep breath, trying not to throw up as I shift my weight, trying another angle, and—fuck. The pain in my side explodes again, and it’s blinding. I sag forward, gasping, as my vision swims for a second.
I don’t hear the knock, just the soft click of the door opening.
“Are you?—”
“Out,” I snap, whirling around.
The shirt falls back down as I turn, and that single motion costs me everything. Pain punches through my side, and my shoulder gives as I stagger, catching myself against the counter with a sharp cry.
He freezes in the doorway, looking at me like I’m the problem. His eyes sweep down—over my face, and the fresh blood soaking through the gauze, and now his shirt. He closes the door behind him without a word.
“I said out.”
He just leans against the doorframe. But makes no move to leave. “You’re bleeding again.”
“Gold star.” I shoot him a glare over my shoulder. “Maybe save the obvious for someone who gives a shit.”
He crosses the bathroom in two strides, and his presence is enough to steal all the remaining air I have.
“I heard a noise,” he says. “Thought you passed out again.”
“You wish.”
His gaze drags over me, lingering at the way I’m cradling my bad shoulder. “You can’t even lift your arm.”
“I’m managing.” I lie through my teeth.
“Barely.”
We lock eyes and there’s something sharp in the silence. Yet, his expression is unreadable. I’m starting to realize that unreadable calm is not a comfort.
Then he speaks, and his voice is ice wrapped in velvet. “Let me help you take it off.”
The words shouldn’t send heat flooding under my skin, but they do.
“No.”
Of course he doesn’t listen. His hand grazes the edge of my shirt, and his fingers brush just above my hip bone.
I know what this is. It’s a game. It’s a calculated touch meant to see if I’ll flinch or freeze or melt. I will do no such thing.
“I said no,” I snap—but still don’t move. My hands stay limp at my sides like they don’t believe me either. His eyes don’t leave mine. Not once.
He just stares as his fingers glide higher over skin that should be too bruised to feel anything. But it burns.
“You didn’t say stop.”
