Page 137 of Crave
Click.
The fact Gabe hadn’t rushed in to help me spoke volumes.
The moment Jude wrestled me into the bathroom, dropping my ass onto the edge of the massive bath, I felt it.
The shift of attention, that crawling along my spine.
In that moment my pain took a backseat to something darker as she stepped toward me. I lifted my gaze to her, fixing on her tousled hair and wide, unblinking eyes. The same eyes that fixed on mine as I fucked her mere hours before.
Theo stormed to the sink, wrenching open the cabinet with so much force it nearly ripped the door off its hinges. The sharp snap of wood cracked through the room as he yanked out a bottle of antiseptic and a thick packet of gauze…he was going to need more than what we’ve got.
“You should’ve called,” Gabe muttered, stepping inside the doorway and pressed his back against the wall. “You don’t have to be the hero all the goddamn time.”
“Fuckyou,” I croaked as Theo grabbed the gauze and headed toward me.
They had no fucking idea what it meant to lead this family.
Not a goddamn clue.
“Fucking move.” Theo snarled and pushed our sister aside.
I forced my head up, locking my gaze on her. The movement took too much effort, but I refused to show it. I refused to let her see how weak I was.
She looked like she was about to shatter.
Good.
I dragged in a slow, ragged breath.
“You’re the one who did this,” I rasped.“So fix it.”
The words landed like a slap.
Her lips parted, but no sound came.
Theo glanced from me to her, one brow rising as he took in the unspoken war that raged between us, then in an instant he lifted his hand, holding out the supplies to her.
I could see she was hurting, that lying brain of hers kicking into overdrive.
She knew.
She fucking knew.
Because she had to.
Our sister swallowed hard, stepped forward, grabbing the bottle of antiseptic then dropped to her knees in front of me.
And the real war began.
She was too close.
Too fucking close.
She knelt between my legs, the space so suffocatingly tight that every breath I took brought the scent of her in—floral and wrong, like it taunted me.
Her hands trembled as they hovered over my ribs, the torn fabric of my shirt barely clinging to my skin. I could feel the warmth of her breath, the soft hitch of air when she lifted what was left of the tattered mess and saw the deep gash from the machete underneath and stared.
The hesitation made my blood boil.
