Page 47 of Moth
I inhale sharply and fish a bottle of cleaner from underneath my sink, along with a bucket. Then I fetch my mop from the gap between my fridge and the wall.
It takes me nearly ten minutes to wipe every trace of blood from the hallway. My heart pounds, but the overwhelming need to justcleanerases even the fear that someone might stumble upon me. With single-minded determination, I follow the blood trail until it ends just near the entryway. By the time I finally return to my apartment, Rafe is already on his feet, hobbling across the living room.
“You’ll rip your stitches open,” I tell him while resting the mop and bucket against the wall. For some reason, my fingers don’t want to let go of that bottle of cleaner, and I clutch it like a child might cling to a teddy bear. “Sit down!”
“You’ve proven lucky, rabbit,” he says hoarsely, though he doesn’t sound very happy about that. “If I were a betting man, I’d assume you’d let me die.”
“You will, if you bleed out all over my floor,” I reply. Common sense orshould havesorwhat-ifsdon’t matter anymore. Everything I’ve ever known about myself is falling to pieces as I cross over to my bedroom door and hold it open.
“Just…you’ve got to lie down.” I swallow hard and manage to regain some control over my voice. “I need to clean up the blood.”
I nod in the general direction of my bed, but he doesn’t budge.
“No can do, rabbit.” His eyes dare me to challenge him, and the smart thing to do would benotto. Any other day, letting him go would have been an easy concession to make, but for some reason, I really don’t want him to bleed out in my living room.
I don’t want to descend the stairs in the morning to find his lifeless body at the bottom of them. I don’t know why. I can’t explain it…
I just don’t.
“You’ve lost a lot of blood.” I try reasoning with him, but my voice cracks, negating the effect.
He shrugs. “It’s fine.” The stubbornness in his gaze only intensifies as he draws himself upright. “I’ll live.”
He takes a step forward as if he means to blow past me for the door. He nearly makes it halfway before he staggers into my coffee table and knocks it off balance. I’m beside him in a heartbeat, and I throw one of my arms around his back, guiding him across the room while bearing most of his weight.
He lets me take him all the way to my bedroom door before he realizes just where we’re headed.
“No.” He tries to pull away, but for once, I’m stronger. It’s easy to drag him inside and over to my bed, considering he seems incapable of holding himself upright. Somehow, I manage to get him close to the edge of the mattress before his legs give out completely, and he falls across it widthwise.
What to do, Hannah. What to do…
He groans. Swears. Somehow, he manages to seem more threatening while pale and sweating than he does at full strength. He tries to sit up but falls back down. With every attempt, his voice thickens until I can’t tell if he’s even still speaking English.
All I know for damn certain is that I can’t let him leave in this state. And there is that illogical trace of concern once again, forcing me to care about what might happen to him if I even call the police.
My bed frame creaks, and I glance up to find that he’s succeeded in shifting his weight to the end of the bed in an attempt to stand again.
“Lie down,” I command while crossing over to him.
“No.” He uses my support to stand, but then I surprise him by shifting him sideways and letting him fall. His head lands on my pillows, and I reach for his feet before he can push me away.
Grunting with the effort, I lift his legs so that his boots dangle over the edge of the mattress. His uninjured leg, I leave flat. The injured one—which I’m alarmed to find is still bleeding through the stitches—I prop on my pillow.
He’s glaring when I finish. The dark irises of his eyes swallow me up, mirroring the snarling creature on his back. “You Florence Nightheart or some shit?” he snaps.
“Florence Nightingale,” I correct, backing away while he flails over my bedspread, seemingly too drained to stand this time. “Keep moving, and you’ll bleed out faster.”
That seems to reach him. He gives in with a sigh, letting his head fall back against my pillows, his body limp. Those dark eyes blaze, however, seeking out mine. “You meant it, didn’t you?” he says, his voice hollow again.
“Meant what?” I reply, crossing my arms as if the act alone can erase the insanity of this moment of him in my bed.
“That you weren’t attracted to me.” He chuckles brokenly while I just stare. Of everything that should be on his mind right now, my rejection isn’t it. “But youareattracted to me, bunny. You just don’t want to admit it.”
“Why would I be attracted to someone like you?” I whisper. Why I choose to argue with him at all, I have no idea. Maybe it’s the noise. His voice melds with the typical cacophony of honking cars drifting in through my window, creating a false sense of normalcy. Almost.
“Why? Cuz I’m sexy as hell.” He chuckles again only to grunt, reaching for his thigh. “Shit…” He looks up, but his smile fades, leaving behind an expression so serious it transforms him into another man. Someone I can’t dismiss so easily. “You want me for the same reason I want you,” he tells me. “I’m the only one who sees you for what you are, bunny rabbit.”
I turn away, fidgeting with the stained skirt of my dress. Poor Mara won’t ever want it back.
