Page 31 of Passion and Payback

“Hunter?” I repeated, stepping closer to him.

“I’ve had a night,” he said, and before I could ask him to clarify, he pulled his hands out of his pockets and pushed his sleeves up.

“Jesus Christ,” I hissed as I saw the streaks of brownish-red on his hands and forearms. It was dried and peeling, but I recognized blood when I saw it. The entire inside of the sleeves were still darkened from the blood. “Holy fuck, we have to get you to the?—”

“No,” he said, looking at his hands and frowning as if it was the first time he’d seen them, and they confused him. “No hospital. I’m…other than the wound on my side, I’m not the one who got…hurt.”

“Fuck, were you attacked? We can go to the station after the?—”

“I saidno fucking hospital!”

The sheer venom and heat in his voice made me stop short. He didn’t appear badly injured, but one of his hands was holdinghis side carefully. It would be better if I just dragged him to the hospital, and I knew any number of people would chew me out if I didn’t immediately do that. There was something else, an instinct inside me that warned of danger, not from Hunter, but it had to do with him.

“Okay, let’s…let me see where you’re hurt, and I’ll tell you what I can do,” I told him after a moment.

His face remained blank, but he nodded, walking past me and heading toward the bathroom. I could see he favored his side as he walked steadily, if slowly. I didn’t know precisely what kind of help he needed, but that instinct told me to fetch the small bag from the guest room I kept for emergencies that basic first aid kits didn’t help with.

By the time I headed toward the bathroom, Hunter had already stripped out of his clothes except for his underwear. In any other context, the sight of him in underwear that clung to his thighs would have been a treat. The problem was, in this context, there was a large gash in his side that was still leaking blood as he sat on the toilet and stared at the opposite wall.

“Are there…any other wounds?” I asked softly, wondering what the hell I was supposed to do.

“No, just that one,” he said, his mouth twitching like he was trying to smile. The attempt looked painful, but probably not nearly as much as the wound on his side.

“This isn’t going to be fun. I’m not exactly the best at this.”

“Do whatever you think needs to be done.”

“Well, I’d prefer we took you into the hospital to have a professional do this…my stitchwork is messy.”

“No.”

“Fine, but when it hurts like hell and looks like shit, that’s on you.”

“I don’t care.”

“Right.”

The first step was to clean the wound and the area around it—something Hunter tolerated with minimal grimacing. The wound was still bleeding, but it looked like the worst of it had passed. I had no idea how long ago he’d been wounded, so I cleaned it as thoroughly as possible, inspecting it to see how bad it was. It was clearly from a knife, the edges were too clean to have been anything else, and I didn’t see fragments of anything like glass.

“This is going to suck,” I said as I opened the bag. There was a whole kit for almost everything you could think of in an emergency. There was also medical-grade thread, the kind that would eventually dissolve.

If Hunter was bothered in the slightest, he never gave any indication as I began the stitch work. Not that I should have been surprised, he was no stranger to pain. A new cut or bruise would appear every other day when we were growing up. He had grown used to the pain and suffering. This was a different kind of wound, but he only flinched once as I stitched.

“We’ll have to keep an eye on that for a few days to make sure it’s not getting infected. And if it does?—”

“Maybe we’ll cross that bridge when we get there…if we get there.”

“Are you sure there’s no other wounds?”

“No. He only got the knife in a little.”

“Who is ‘he,’ and why are you not going to the hospital when he obviously got you?”

His eyes drifted to the clothes he’d left on the floor beside the sink. His gaze was intense, staring down at what I thought might be the hoodie, but he didn’t answer me. After a moment, I grabbed the hoodie, thinking he wanted it. A frown creased my brow when I felt something heavy. Reaching into the front pocket, my fingers felt a thick handle, and I slowly pulled out what I already knew was a knife.

It was a doozy of a knife as well, the edge honed and clear of any knicks or damage. The handle had been recently wrapped with new leather strips, and the grooves at the base of the knife were also clean and maintained. Well, except for the dried blood all over the blade and handle. Too much blood to have come from the wound I’d just sewn shut, and that wasn’t counting the blood I could still see on his hands.

“I should wash up,” he said faintly, standing up and hooking his fingers into his underwear to push them down. I was too busy staring at the knife in shock and horror to wonder why he was suddenly incredibly comfortable being naked around me.

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