Page 114 of First Chance

Itrust that Lochlan can take care of himself, but I still don’t want him to get hurt. I’ve paced across his living room floor until the pads of my feet hurt.

Finally, headlights light up the living room window as an army of trucks pull in, and I take off outside with the flannel throw blanket wrapped around my shoulders, faintly aware that I should have put real clothes on while he was gone.

The cool night air skates up my bare legs, fluttering the bottom of my robe as Hayes parks the Bronco right next to the house. Lochlan climbs out of the passenger seat slowly, and I gasp.

He’s covered in blood. Dried patches across the side of his face and across his knuckles, and spots splattered up his forearms.

I meet him midway down the steps at his height, grasping the back of his neck in my hands, examining the damage.

“Who did this?” My eyes roam across his bloody temple and hairline, down his neck, and back up to his face, where I see an amused smirk.

“Worried about me, darlin’?” His hands grip my hips,pulling me closer.

“Of course, I am.”

“I’m alright, promise.”

“Did you get the guy worse?”

“I did.”

“Good,” I say against his lips, feeling him smile again.

“Real cute, love birds, but he needs a butterfly bandage or he’s going to keep bleeding,” Hayes cuts in from behind us.

“Ah, right.” Lochlan starts to pull away from me, but I don’t let him go.

“I’ll do it, show me where it’s at.”

He looks at me like he’s not sure if I’m serious.

“Let me do it,” I whisper, raking my fingers through his hair to cradle the back of his head.

The hands at my hips slide down a few inches just before he hoists me up, wrapping my thighs around his waist. Everyone is outside watching us, but I only look at him as he carries me inside and all the way up the steps.

He maneuvers us into the bathroom and drops down on top of the toilet lid, keeping me firmly in place on his lap. “The first aid kit is in the drawer,” he rumbles, raising goosebumps on my arms.

The drawer in the vanity right next to me houses a small box with gauze, antiseptic, and band-aids of all varieties. There’s even a needle and thread, but I choose to ignore its intended use for the time being.

“Wash it first, try to get some of the blood off,” he instructs softly, nodding to the drawer with the hand rags. It’s a small bathroom, everything is in reach, but even if it weren’t, I think he’d bleed out before letting me go.

I wait until the water is warm before soaking the toweland dabbing it across his cheek, slowly cleaning his skin. It’s dried and sticky, and I’m probably being too gentle, but he doesn’t interfere.

He’s not in a hurry, and I’m determined to take my time.

He doesn’t flinch when I re-wet the towel and dab at his cut, but he does close his eyes until I’m done. It’s my only indication that he’s affected by this at all. He doesn’t seem concussed, though I’m not sure I’m qualified to give an opinion on that besides what I’ve seen on TV.

“Dry it off with the gauze and then do the antiseptic.”

“Okay,” I whisper.

“Thank you,” he says softly against my jaw as I reach for the first aid kit again.

“What happened?”

“Frank.”

“What? I thought he was gone.”

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