Page 18 of Killaney Blood
The men stop. They turn toward the noise.
I immediately look at the men and of course every head turns.
Including Mr. Sexy Tattooed Back.
And in that moment, my stomach drops through the floor.
It's him. Those green eyes. That face.
Declan Killaney.
Our eyes lock across the distance. Recognition flares in his expression.
Jesus Christ. The universe really does hate me.
My eyes drop, I don't know, right to his stupidly chiseled chest and those defined abs.
Oh, fuck me.
Heat floods my face. Partly embarrassment at being caught staring, partly residual attraction that now feels like betrayal to myself. I'd been admiring a man who once held a gun to my head.
I snatch up the bag and move quickly toward my room, like hell itself is on my heels. I refuse to look back, even as I feel like his eyes are burning into me.
Inside, I slam the door harder than necessary and drop the bags.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I say, pressing my palms against my eyes.
I need to focus. I start unpacking immediately. Gauze, butterfly closures, antibiotic ointment, suture kits, lidocaine.
I count rolls of tape, even though I know exactly how many there are. I do anything to stop thinking about him.
But it doesn't work. It's like my mind is saying don't think about him, to only think about him.
Because I keep seeing him. The curve of his spine. The definition of muscle. The way his sweat made him...
Stop.
I shouldn't have watched him.
But I didn't know it was him.
But you liked it.
I shake the thought loose and open the cabinet. My palms feel sweaty. I swipe them on my jeans and start stacking antiseptic bottles.
And now those images of him out there become tangled with older ones, him covered in his cousin's blood, his face twisted in grief and rage, screaming at me to save a life I wasn't permitted to touch.
Why is he here anyway? Is he fighting? No. Training someone maybe? And why did he just stare at me? Even the others turned away when they saw who made the noise.
And it's not just the way he looks at me that bothers me. Okay, maybe it is. Just a little.
But it's more the way he sees me. The way he looked at me the other day when I wrapped the cuts on his hands. When he asked, "Do you think I'm going to hurt you?"
I'm not scared, but I feel unsettled around him. I've spent years mastering the art of invisibility, but he just looks right through it all.
Even if his eyes are filled with blame, and he sees me like a target or maybe his redemption, at least he fucking sees me. It's something. More than I've gotten in years.
That must be why my body reacted to him, why I feel something. I haven't let that happen in years, if ever.
